Page 2 of The Duchess’s Absolutely Delightful Dream (The Notorious Briarwoods #14)

Scotland

“G o ask my sister to dance.”

Octavian took a look at the six-foot-four Scotsman, arched a brow, and said, “Are you daft, you mad Highlander?”

The mad Highlander in question arched a fiery brow, grinned, and said, with a surprisingly English accent, “Of course I am. Go ask.”

It had been a shock to find that most of the aristocrats in Scotland had little to no Scottish accent at all.

His mad Highland friend occasionally used a Scottish word, but that was it.

Octavian had found it strange but had come to realize it was part of Scotland having lost the war in the last century.

Most of the leaders had had to leave much of the Highland way of life behind or be utterly crushed under the boot of England.

Octavian shifted on his perfectly polished black Hessians. He did feel rather odd standing in an English military uniform in the Highlands, but it was what he was supposed to be wearing.

It felt even stranger standing next to who some might call his new best friend, aside from his family.

Usually Briarwoods did not need many friends because they had so many cousins, but when a man had been at war for as long as Octavian had, often away from said family, well, one acquired new friends, and Teague MacMurrow, Duke of Rossbrea, was such a friend.

“I don’t think I should do that,” he said softly.

“And why is that?” the duke demanded grandly. “Are you planning on ruining her?”

He ground his teeth. “No, of course not, but it does seem odd that you’re asking me to ask your sister to dance. Generally speaking, I find that most men don’t ask me to ask their sisters to dance.”

Teague’s eyes shone, and he laughed. The sound was rich, full, and bright. It was the sort of laugh everyone loved to hear, for it inherently lifted the spirits of the listener.

They had met on campaign that year.

The duke, of course, was not a soldier, but he had been going through the Continent, meeting up with several friends, conducting operations and missions that Octavian did not know the full scope of.

Octavian did not need to, but the two had hit it off one night while playing cards, and they had a shared sense of humor that Teague insisted most Englishmen did not.

Octavian had taken it as a compliment, and when the duke had insisted that he come and spend at least a week in the Highlands when he could, Octavian had agreed. And not only had he agreed, he had brought just about his entire family, as the good duke had also insisted upon that.

And Octavian knew, from having an uncle who was a duke, and other dukes in his family, that one didn’t really tell dukes no.

His uncle, the duke, was not in attendance at this house party. But his mother and father were dancing happily on the ballroom floor, a sight he dearly loved to see, and his grandmother was surrounded by several other members of the Briarwood family.

The Duke of Rossbrea sobered, and he let out a sigh before he ventured, “The truth is, nobody has the courage to go and ask her to dance. And I thought you might.”

“Why? Is she a Gorgon?” he found himself teasing.

Teague’s lips pursed as he surveyed the packed ballroom. “My sister a Gorgon? Perhaps a bit. Though that’s quite the wrong word. I would say a fiery witch, perhaps.”

“A fiery witch,” he echoed. “Just the thing for me while I’m trying to take my ease.”

The duke cleared his throat. “It would be a favor.”

Octavian’s brow furrowed, wondering what the devil he was getting into. “A favor? Why does no one wish to dance with your sister?”

“It’s not as dramatic as you might think,” the duke said, folding his hands behind his broad back. “It’s actually rather sad.”

“Oh,” he said. “Can you explain?”

“Look. I can, but then you’ll feel sorry for her, and it’s her story, not mine. Suffice it to say, she had quite a tragic experience about a year ago.”

A mixture of emotions flooded through Octavian. He wanted to help, but this sounded fraught with potential difficulty. “You want me to go cheer her up? Is that it?”

Rossbrea snorted. “Och no, man. She’s perfectly capable of being cheerful on her own, but she’s just gotten out of mourning.

She hasn’t been allowed to dance because of mourning, you see.

And no one is lining up to dance with her.

So if you just went over and asked, I’m sure it would break the dam, so to speak. ”

Mourning. No doubt the Scot was referring to his father’s death about a year ago.

He drew in a breath, understanding. “A willing victim is what you are looking for. To show it’s all right to ask her, and that they won’t incur your wrath for doing so?”

“Exactly,” the duke said, beaming. “I’m glad you can follow my line of reasoning.”

“All right,” Octavian said and then peered at the duke, suspicious. “Is this the entire reason you brought me to Scotland?”

“Och, of course,” the duke said before he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I brought you because you’re the only tolerable Englishman I’ve known in a decade.”

Octavian inclined his head in a dramatic bow, then said, “Point her out to me, will you?”

“She’s standing over there in the corner.”

The ballroom was massive, full to the brim with local lairds and ladies, and those who had traveled some distance to bask in the attention of one of Scotland’s most powerful lairds.

The corner was far away, and he looked, trying to find some wallflower who was blending into, well, the wallpaper. “Where?” he asked, unable to spot her.

“Over there,” the duke said, unwilling to point, lest he draw notice to them, but with a jerk of his rather intimidating jaw.

He frowned. “I don’t see anyone who… Not her?” he suddenly blurted.

His friend elbowed him slightly in the middle, then laughed. “Yes, her.”

The woman in question was shockingly beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. Her curly, lush hair was beautiful. Her eyes. Her skin. Her lips. Her statuesque form, with a gown skimming it like a caress. All beautiful.

Not just beautiful. She was a goddess amongst mere mortals, worthy of any portrait. Reynolds would have died to put her likeness down on canvas.

“Why wouldn’t anyone ask her to dance?” Octavian breathed as he shot a look at the duke. “This feels like an ambush.”

“Och, well,” the duke began, his voice a low rumble, “perhaps it is, but I’ve asked you up here. Now it’s time to sing for your supper. Go and ask my sister to dance.”

Octavian fought a groan.

He was very familiar with the concept of singing for one’s supper. His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, was notorious for making people do such a thing when they came to visit. At Heron House, she usually made visitors recite Shakespeare or some such.

This felt much odder.

Luckily, the music just beginning was not a waltz.

He decided that there was really nothing for it. He would do what he was asked to do and get it over with.

The duke clapped him on the back. “Good luck, my friend.”

Did he need it? Regardless, years of battle had taught him one thing. Indecision was death.

Without hesitation, Octavian crossed the room quickly. In a few strides, he stood before the lady in question. She cocked her head to the side and looked at him with eyes that were clear and shone with intelligence.

Her lips turned into a slow, merry smile of amusement. “You, sir, are wearing quite an interesting costume for the location.”

“I am aware of it,” he said brightly. “I am here to ask you to dance.”

“Are you?” she asked easily, as her eyes danced.

“I hear you like to dance.”

“I do like to dance,” she replied.

“So do I. Shall we do it then?”

He expected her to tell him to go to the devil, or to look at him with gratitude or, well, he didn’t really know what because the situation was so odd. But he was rather surprised that she suddenly grinned at him, held her hand out, grabbed his, and hauled him onto the floor.

“I never thought anyone was going to ask. Thank you,” she exclaimed.

With those words hanging between them, the music of a reel began to lilt around the ballroom.

Much to his shock, Octavian felt completely off-kilter. She was not some sort of wallflower, and she did not look as if she needed to be saved. She was absolutely delighted to be asked to dance, and yet it didn’t feel as if he was doing her a favor.

Somehow, actually, it felt as if it was he who…

No, he shook the thought away. He would keep his mind on simple things.

He liked to dance a reel as well.

So, as soon as the music hit a certain bar, he took his stance, then she took hers, and off they went, bouncing up and down to the sprightly gait of the music.

Her cheeks were bright, her eyes shone, and she looked happier than anyone he had ever seen, and well, that was doing things to him that quite surprised his entire form.

He had not come to the Highlands looking for anyone to be intrigued by. Certainly not the sister of a duke, but he did his part, bouncing and twirling, turning her under his arm, joining in a small formation when they were expected to do so, and then the music came to a halt.

She smiled at him. Again. She was very good at smiling.

They hadn’t spoken a word during the whole dance, as if she felt conversation was extraneous to such joyful movement.

She curtsied. He bowed.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Now fetch me a glass of lemonade.”

“Fetch indeed,” he returned, amused. “I would be happy to do so. Will you accompany me so I might know a little bit more about the dictator of this ballroom?”

She laughed. “Well said, sir. I’m indeed a dictator over lemonade. And in life, when I can be. I know what I want. Sometimes I can’t get it.”

As they made their way through the crush, eyes followed them as they weaved, and she continued, “I must thank you for assisting me in getting a good dance. I haven’t had one for the longest time.”

“Oh really?” he said softly, for he didn’t want to betray what her brother had said. “Why? Injury?”

She swung him a strange glance. “You really don’t know?”