Page 83 of The Virtues of Christmas

Down they went, though Megan landed on His Grace, an agreeably solid and warm place to find herself. His sporran had twisted itself to his hip, and his arms remained about her.

“Miss Megan,” Lady Edana cried. “Are you all right? Hamish turn loose of her, for pity’s sake, you’ll wrinkle her skirts, and break her bones, and tramp on her hems, andget up, you can’t simply lie there, a great lummoxing lump of a brother.”

“Get up now,” Lady Rhona chorused. “Oh, please do get up, and promise you’ll never attempt to waltz in public again. Wellington might be at her grace’s ball, or the king. Oh, Ham,get up.”

His Grace could not get up as long as Megan luxuriated in the novel pleasure of lying atop him.

“I’m fine,” she said, kneeling back after enjoying two more instants of Murdoch’s abundant warmth and muscle. Westhaven hauled her to her feet by virtue of a hand under each elbow, glowering at her as if she’d purposely yanked fifteen stone of Scottish duke to the floor.

St. Just extended a hand to Murdoch and pulled him upright, but not fast enough to hide a flash of muscular thigh from Megan’s view, not fast enough by half.

The duke righted his sporran, bowed, and came up…smiling. “Miss Meggie, my apologies for hauling you top over teakettle. You speak the Gaelic.”

All the rainbows in Wales, all the Christmas punch brewed at the Windham family seat, couldn’t approach His Grace’s smile for sheer, charming glee. That smile dazzled, intrigued, promised… oh, that smile was quite the weapon against a woman’s dignity.

Megan fired off a shy, answering volley of the same artillery. “My mother is Welsh, and I enjoy languages. Welsh and Gaelic aren’t that different to the ear.”

“Nobody speaks the Gaelic in an English ballroom,” Murdoch said. “Not since the Forty-Five, probably not ever.” He made it sound like a great feat of courage, not a simple courtesy to a newcomer.

St. Just and Westhaven watched this exchange like a pair of oversized pantry mousers placing bets on the fate of a fugitive canary.

Bother the glowering pair of them.

Nobody smiled at Megan Windham the way Murdoch was smiling. Even without her glasses, she could see the warmth and approval in his eyes, see all the acceptance and admiration a woman could endure from one man.

“Nobody ends the waltz by falling on his partner,” Westhaven snapped. “Lord Valentine, if you would oblige. The duke is in want of practice, assuming Cousin Megan is none the worse for her tumble.”

Megan had tumbled hopelessly, right into a pair of bottomless blue eyes, a pair of strong arms, and… those thighs. Ye manly waltzing gods.

“I’m fine,” Megan said, putting her hand on Murdoch’s shoulder. She was apparently becoming a proficient liar, because having seen his great, beaming benevolence of a smile, she might never be fine again….