Page 61 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
A brazen strumpet!
A jezebel in the making!
She was also an utter idiot. Because the kiss hadn’t meant anything; none of it had.
When they’d come up for air, he’d gasped, “I don’t think we should—” and then the female contingent of his family had squawked into the room.
Fortunately, at least, it seemed her floozy-like display had gone unwitnessed. If the countess had an inkling of Ursula’s carnal proclivities, wouldn’t she be thrown out on her ear? As it was, she’d merely summoned Ursula to the gramophone and asked her to get it going again, so that Rye might show them all he’d been learning.
All he’d been learning!
She’d been forced to stand and watch while his five cousins took him for a spin and, clearly, Ursula wasn’t alone in harbouring shameless tendencies. Hers were not the only eyes admiring Lord Balmore’s buttocks as he executed his turns. The women were like cats licking their chops over a particularly juicy bit of fillet.
Declaring herself delighted, the countess had promised they’d assemble again the following morning to teach him some cèilidh dances—those Scottish jigs in which you swapped partners at every corner and most of the places in between.
Rye had gone along with it all, and she could hardly blame him. He’d told her all about his idea of duty—of his intention to live up to his family’s expectations and marry as they directed. It was only a waiting game.
Her lips—and other tender parts—had been nothing more than anhors d'oeuvre.
Come the afternoon, young Cameron had returned and whisked Rye off to discuss some new treatment for removing ticks from cattle—or something equally revolting—leaving Ursula to her own devices.
Retiring to her room, she’d brooded in maidenly frustration, wondering for the forty-seventh time what she was doing at Castle Dunrannoch. Even settling to a book seemed troublesome. What would Miss Abernathy have advised? To have her fun before the clock chimed midnight, or to pull herself together and behave with dignity?
She pulled out the little book again—TheLady’s Guide to All Things Useful. It had some queerly titled chapters, broaching subjects she would hardly have expected.
Flicking through, Ursula alighted on something about husbands, then seduction. Did the two go together? Surely, you didn’t need to worry about seducing your own husband? There was some old wives’ rubbish on aphrodisiacs and how to prevent pregnancy. Ursula gave a snort of derision but, on further consideration, made a small fold at the corner.
She scanned down the pages and her eye alighted on the word “lust”. That was more like it. What was one supposed to do when in the throes of some unreasonable passion? Take up cold baths and knitting? Pray for guidance?
To lust is to desire without rational limit. It is a headstrong, galloping beast which marks not the rein. A craving of the blood for the forbidden. A darkness most alluring when the stakes are high. To lust is to lose oneself, but to find something, too—that part of us which wishes to tear at life and devour it. Without passion, what are we?
All things in moderation, as the adage goes—including moderation itself. There is a time for recklessness and the unbridling of desire. Only choose well the object of your cravings, and remember that bright flames are apt to quickest burn.
Well, that was a surprise. Ursula read the section a second time. These sorts of books didn’t generally encourage one to give in to anything sinful.
Perhaps, with her time at Castle Dunrannoch being so short, she’d better get started on a little of that devouring, before Lord Balmore was permanently apportioned to someone else’s plate.
The notion of normalcy had departed when she’d boarded the Caledonian Express, so she might as well embrace it and behave like a true adventuress.
As a starting point, she needed to dress for dinner. She’d been so irked the previous evening that she’d pleaded a bad head and taken a tray in her room, but the countess was adamant she join them tonight, and the gong wouldn’t be far off.
Ursula only hoped she’d remember everyone’s names correctly, and how they were all related. There were so many generations and stepchildren…and how many Lady Balmores were there? It was tricky keeping it all straight. She’d quizzed the maid who’d brought her hot water, but there were still some gaps in her understanding.
Taking a piece of writing paper, she began jotting down all she could remember. She’d pop the mnemonic in her reticule and could take a peep if things got too confusing.
Certainly, there were no difficulties in choosing what to wear, for the restrictions of her luggage had permitted Ursula to pack only one change of skirt and jacket, three shirtwaists, and a single evening gown—one of dark blue silk with a low-scooped neck, embellished finely with midnight lace. She’d been confident that Daphne would lend her anything else she needed.
Still, the dress was flattering. She might sit at the Dalreagh table without feeling too humble.
Having contorted herself with the rear buttons, Ursula had begun pinning her hair—sighing for the absence of Tilly to help her—when there was a scratching at the door.
She pulled it open a crack and heard a faint feline mewl. A small but determined paw pushed the door wider and McTavish manoeuvred himself inside. Brushing past Ursula’s legs, he made a leap for the bed, stalking over the nightgown she’d laid out for warming, and settling himself bottom-first against her pillow.
She noticed then that he’d something in his mouth.
Something limp and scrawny, and very much dead.
With a satisfied air, McTavish deposited it on the coverlet.
