She heard Arran’s full laugh as she allowed the young man to lead her off the dais.

Gavin led Margot to the center of the room with great élan. When they reached the line for dancers, he bowed low, his hand nearly scraping the floor.

“You are very polished, sir,” Margot said admiringly. “You bring to mind the French court.”

His eyes shone with pleasure. “Thank you. Indeed I have learned from the French,” he said proudly.

Interesting, that. She wondered what had taken this young man to France. But before Margot could inquire, the music began, and Gavin linked his arm with hers and twirled her around in a circle, then let go of her. “Let your feet do as they might, milady!” he cried. Someone else grabbed her arm, and as quick as that, she was being hurled about from one waiting arm to the next.

It was apparent to her and, sadly, everyone else that Margot was a horrible Scotch dancer. She had not miraculously acquired any sense of rhythm and couldn’t keep up. She kicked the poor gentleman next to her at least twice, and Gavin repeatedly, as she was always one or two beats behind. Her breasts were dangerously close to being freed from the prison of their bodice, and her hair, so artfully put together by Nell, was coming down in big auburn loops.

As the dance continued, she could feel perspiration sliding between her breasts. Her feet, encased in gorgeous and very expensive slippers that were no match for all this hopping about, had begun to cramp. And yet the most extraordinary thing happened. No one looked at her askance. No one seemed appalled by her. They all laughed; they all called out strange words to one another, and some or other person would grab her hand or arm and fling her along with them. It was mad, it was chaotic, it was merry. It was the most diverting dance Margot had ever experienced. She felt alive, exhilarated. She felt as if this was the sort of dancing she should have been doing all her life.

When it at last ended, an exuberant Gavin escorted her back to the dais. “Well done, milady!” he said.

She laughed. “I am a wretched dancer!” she proclaimed. “But you, sir, are an expert at dance. You must have been formally trained.”

“Aye, that I was. My mother married a Frenchman when my father died. Monsieur Devanault saw to it that my siblings and I were instructed in what he called courtly arts.” His smile was infectious—she could imagine him a few short years from now, wooing debutantes with his handsome face and fine dancing skills.

They had reached the dais, and he tried to hand her up, but Margot held on to his arm.

“Wherever did Monsieur Devanault find dance instructors in Scotland?”