I could see where this line of thought was going. “And penniless, I’m afraid,” I said.

“No problem.” She waved her hand. “I have enough money to do what I want. But I do not understand. He tells me there is already a lady he admire.”

Irrationally a great surge of hope rose in my heart. Then, of course, I wondered if I was the lady to whom he was referring. Obviously not, judging by the way he had treated me in London. The men soon joined us, or at least some of them did. Mr. Simpson was nowhere in evidence. The Prince of Wales headed straight for the arm of Wallis Simpson’s chair when she patted it as if summoning a dog. Dancing was suggested. The rugs were rolled back in the great hall, someone set up the gramophone and we started, as always, with the Gay Gordons. I don’t suppose the person who suggested the dancing had realized what she was in for. Lachan came to claim me and I was delighted to be able to shine for once. Scottish dances are one thing I do know how to do well.

After that Lachan grabbed Ronny to join us for the Dashing White Sergeant, which requires one man and two women. Murdoch attempted to drag Belinda and Fig onto the floor but most of the others looked on this time, Highland dances being unfamiliar to them. I was conscious of Darcy watching me from the shadows. Was I the lady he was talking about, I wondered, or had he just said that to dissuade the affectionate Señorita Conchita? From what I had seen, he hadn’t been pushing her away too hard. Did I want him to like me? I wondered. He was in every way unsuitable husband material. I’d probably not even be allowed to marry him, since he was Catholic—forbidden to those in line to the throne of England.

The dance ended. A Paul Jones was suggested and everyone was urged onto the floor. We ladies moved in a clockwise direction while the men circled around us counterclockwise. The music stopped and I found myself with Lachan again. This time it was a waltz. He held me tightly. Darcy passed us, dancing with Conchita who was flirting shamelessly. I looked up at Lachan and gave him an encouraging smile. His grip on me tightened, almost crushing me.

“You’ve turned out quite nicely, Cousin Georgie. A nice trim wee waist, good sturdy limbs and not a bad figure. And you’re not my first cousin, are you?”

“No, our grandfathers were brothers, I believe, which would make me a second cousin.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” He spun me around dizzily.

“I believe you judge women like heifers,” I said, and he laughed loudly.