Page 22 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
He was clad in plain black evening wear, his face a pale mask. Harriet’s eyes widened slightly as she looked at him. The black of his clothes only served to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the darkness of his hair formed a stark contrast to the pale face. For the first time, Harriet noticed the chiseled angles of his jaw.
As hesitant as she was to marry the man, Harriet could not deny that he was indeed a rather striking figure.
“Lady Harriet,” he greeted in a deep timbre and he bowed low over her gloved hand. “Ye look lovely this evening.”
Despite herself, Harriet could not help the blush that rose to her cheeks and she curtsied - hoping beyond all else that the dim light masked the crimson of her cheeks. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly. “You cut a rather dashing figure too.”
Hugh’s lips twitched with a shadow of a smirk. “Thank ye, me lady,” he said and dared to wink at her. “Shall ye do me the honor of a dance?”
Harriet’s breath stuck in her throat. This was far sooner than she had thought it to be and she drew a shuddering breath before laying her fingers on his sleeve and allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. She glanced around furtively at the other couples around them.
“They are staring,” she whispered as she looked up at Hugh. His hand tightened ever so slightly around hers.
“Let them.”
It was all he said before the music filled the room and Harriet allowed a curious calmness to settle over her. This was familiar - she had danced this particular dance countless times before. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to meet Hugh’s gaze.
The dance suddenly felt different when their eyes met and she very nearly stumbled - Hugh’s hands moving quickly to help her settle back on her feet.
For someone who was insistent on refraining from theton’ssocial life as far as possible, the dour Scot was a more than adept partner. He moved with surprising grace for a man of his size, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back as they glided over the dance floor.
Harriet was determined not to let him best her - she did not care in the slightest for this man whose gaze set her heart aflutter. With a spark of mischief growing within her, she threw herself into the dance with unbridled enthusiasm. Her steps were just a touch too quick, her spins a shade too energetic as she whirled and twirled with reckless abandon. Hugh’s brows climbed higher with each exuberant flourish of a movement. He flashed her a grin, a glint of amused admiration lighting his eyes as he moved to keep pace with her lively tempo.
Harriet was almost certain she could hear a faint whisper that sounded suspiciously like ‘do not think ye can best me, lass’, but she could not be entirely certain.
By the time the final notes of the song faded away, Harriet was breathless - her hair coming loose from its pins to frame her face in wispy tendrils.
Hugh, on the other hand, looked infuriatingly unruled - not a strand out of place, not a drop of sweat on his pale face.
“Well,” he drawled, a crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was quite the invigorating dance. I daenae think I’ve ever seen a lass attack a dance floor with such... enthusiasm.”
Harriet laughed. The rush of the dance had her feeling almost giddy. Feeling rather brave, she took a step forward and looked up at him. “Did I not warn you, Your Grace? When I commit to something... I commit fully.”
Hugh chuckled at that and he shook his head. “I must say, lass, I’m rather impressed by yer stamina. Ye nearly ran me ragged out there.”
Harriet shook her head at this and wiped the tendrils that had escaped from her updo from her face.
“Please - you look like you are hardly affected.”
Hugh merely lifted a brow and the pair shared a conspiratorial grin as he led her from the dance floor. As they moved, Harriet was very aware of the whispers and speculative glances following him. Yet, with Hugh’s imposing form so close to hers, she soon found that it bothered her far less than it normally would.
In fact, she could scarcely bring herself to care about the gossip - she felt strangely buoyant, almost giddy from the sheer audacity of their display.
Hugh’s brave ‘let them’ rang through her mind.
As they reached the other end of the ballroom, Hugh paused - then glanced towards the veranda with a thin frown between his brows. “If ye’ll excuse me for a moment, lass. I think I might step out for a wee bit of air.”
Harriet nodded, watching - almost forlorn - as he slipped through the French doors and disappeared into the night. Strangely, without him by her side, she was far more aware of the glances and gossips.
A sudden, reckless impulse took hold of her and without as much as a second thought, she made her way outside too.
Harriet nodded, watching as he slipped through the French doors and disappeared into the night. A sudden, reckless impulse seized her and before she could second-guess herself, she found her feet carrying her after him.
The veranda was a cool haven after the suffocating heat of the ballroom - the distant strains of music and chatter faded to a muted hum here. Hugh stood at the far end, his back to her as he puffed on a cheroot - the glowing ember casting an orange light upon his chiseled features.
Harriet glanced around and breathed a sigh of relief. A few other guests stood around on the veranda - smoking or chatting and unlike the women inside, they hardly paid her any mind. She approached slowly, her heels clicking against the stone of the veranda. Hugh turned when she approached and one brow jumped to his hairline as he looked at her.
Harriet shrugged with a wry grin. “I couldn’t resist the lure of a bit of fresh air either,” she said with a playful grin and Hugh laughed softly.
