Page 94 of The Unlikely Heir
At least concentrating on something far beyond my natural skill set will hopefully scare off the Oliver vultures in my mind.
Sure enough, for the next few hours, there’s no room for anything to enter my brain but Scottish dance steps.
Raymond drills me like the very fate of the monarchy depends on my ability to carry out the steps of the Eightsome Reel.
Unfortunately, my right foot has always had an independent streak and enjoys doing its own thing with no regard to what my left foot is doing.
Who knew Scottish dancing was an extreme sport? There’s a chance I might need a helmet tonight. Or perhaps everyone else around me will require safety gear.
Raymond’s mustache goes through various stages of frustration, fear, and eventually, a small quirk of hope as I finally start to get the hang of some of the steps.
“Right. I think that’s about as good as we can hope for,” Raymond finally says, which might not be a ringing endorsement of my dancing skills, but I’ll happily take it.
I collapse onto a chair at the edge of the room, and Raymond settles in opposite me.
He gets out a folder and starts shuffling through some papers.
“There’s not a theory side to Scottish dancing, is there?” I ask, slightly terrified.
“No. I’ve got something else to show you.” He spreads some papers out on the table between us.
“There are going to be some interesting people here tonight. I’ve put together photos and brief information on some of the guests so you know who is who.”
My suspicion mounts as I stare at the photos. “Why are all the guests you want me to be aware of single females between the ages of twenty and thirty? What is this, blind dating, royal style?”
Raymond doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “We’ve talked about this, Callum. One of your key duties as heir is to carry on the bloodline.”
The bloodline. Like I’m some kind of pedigree dog or horse.
I stare at the photos Raymond has printed out and take a deep breath.
So tonight will not only involve me trying to remember the complicated steps of Scottish dancing but also fending off Raymonds’ matchmaking skills while trying not to pine for Oliver.
Fun times.
* * *
That night, I’m faced with a major dilemma I never expected.
What do you wear under a kilt?
Without Herbert here, I turn to Google. A quick search tells me that fifty-five percent wear dark underwear while thirty-eight percent go commando and seven percent wear shorts or tights.
Dark underwear it is.
I put on my suit jacket and tie my bow tie, trying to keep my fingers from shaking. I’m nervous about the dancing, but most of all, I’m nervous about spending an entire evening in the same room as Oliver. I meant what I said to him—I’ve never felt this way about someone. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want him.
I descend the stairs to find Amelia alone in the drawing room. She’s wearing a cream-colored ballgown with a tartan sash draped across it, held in place with a Celtic brooch.
“You look beautiful.” I lean down to kiss her cheek, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume.
“Thank you.”
Gran and Nicholas enter the room then, and after mutual appreciation of our outfits, we head into the ballroom, which falls silent for our entrance. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to commanding the attention of a room when I walk into it.
The grand room is lit by chandeliers and a band perches on the balcony like a flock of melodious plaid-clad pigeons.
Noise quickly returns to the room after our entrance, and it becomes a whirlwind of tartan and infectious laughter.
