Since that day in the auto so many weeks ago, he hadn’t tried to kiss her again. In fact, he hadn’t done more than brush her shoulder in passing. Was he regretting his hasty declaration of wanting to move forward with her? Without the stresses of wartime binding them together, was he regretting their marriage? Was that the change he was hiding from her? An ache filled her chest as the fragile foundation they’d built continued its shift.
“I’m certain this party is just the thing to lift his spirits. Think of how much money you’ll raise tonight for the training center,” Marina continued. How blessed was youth without adult worries to tint its optimistic view. “I can’t wait to help with the nursing courses. If there’s one good thing that came from that wretched influenza, it’s knowing we need more nurses on hand. Do you think they’ll let me qualify early?”
“Hospitals have their age requirements, but don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll still need nurses when you turn eighteen.”
“What good is having a top surgeon for a brother-in-law if he can’t bend the rules a little?” Marina grumbled.
“Patience, kotyonok. Your time will come.”
“Time for what? Cats?” Wynn materialized as if summoned. His hair, customarily waved and loose in opposition to the dictates of fashion, was slicked to the side with a sheen that darkened it to brown, with his eyes following suit.
“Kitten,” Marina corrected with a giggle as she eyed Wynn’s knee-baring ensemble. “More important, what is that?”
“A kilt. It’s traditional Highland dress for formal gatherings.”
Svetlana frowned. “We are in the Lowlands, are we not? Perhaps I do not understand the boundaries of your country as well as I presumed.”
“No, you’re correct.” Wynn adjusted the thick material pleating over his shoulder. “Traditionally, Lowlanders follow English standards of dress, but a few decades back, when King George became the first monarch to visit Scotland in nearly two centuries, organized by Sir Walter Scott, I might add, his regal vision was assaulted by tartan pageantry. The visit was a roaring success, blurring the lines between Highland and Lowland and declaring the plaid and kilt part of Scotland’s national identity. It’s a grievous sin now not to wear one. Thus, I am the tartan-draped man before you.”
He wasn’t the only man wearing one, but he certainly outshone all the others with his air of captured ruggedness. He tugged on the finely cut black jacket with its shining gold buttons, setting off the crisp white shirt and black waistcoat beneath. Svetlana had glimpsed the national garb worn by his ancestors—with great swaths of material looped over their shoulders and long eagle feathers blooming from their caps—in the portraits hung along the upstairs corridors. Seeing it in person was a thrill she could not anticipate. Men wore nothing like this in Russia. If they did, they would most certainly freeze. Hardy indeed were the men of Scotland. And this one was hers.
“I haven’t worn this rig in ages and now I remember why, but it befits a duke, I suppose.” A cloud passed over his face. It lasted but a second yet long enough to show the varying facets of his inner struggles.
Not knowing how else to show her support, Svetlana took a step closer and brushed her arm against his. “Very handsome.”
At her touch his expression softened as he looked at her. “And very bonny, as we say here in Scotland. The MacCallan colors suit you.”
A blush rose to Svetlana’s cheeks as she smoothed a hand over the shoulder sash woven in blue-and-green tartan pinned to her purple dress of half-mourning. “Your mother suggested it. As befitting the Duchess of Kilbride.”
“She was right.” His gaze warmed over her face. Butterflies pirouetted through Svetlana’s stomach. He’d looked at her this way before, but each time deepened the degree of intimacy, as if each time he unlocked a new part of her for his eyes only.
“Ahem. People are starting to stare.” Marina cleared her throat, effectively clearing Svetlana’s light-headedness. “Little wonder. You look stunningly perfect together.”
An old familiar grin crossed Wynn’s face. “You’re right. My wife is stunning. What say we shame all the other couples on the dance floor as well?”
Taking Svetlana’s hand, Wynn led her across the Stone Hall and into the Grand Hall with its polished dance floor and mirrored walls. The vaulted ceiling provided the perfect canopy to catch the orchestra’s swelling notes and float them back down to the dancing couples. Wynn swept her into his arms and around the floor to a minuet in A-flat. The last time she’d danced to this was with a Bayushevy prince from Moscow. He’d lumbered like a bear in the middle of hibernation. Wynn wasn’t the lightest on his feet, but her body moved as one with his as if it had been waiting for his direction all along.
The composition moved to Tchaikovsky’s waltz from The Sleeping Beauty. With no addition of brass, the strings and harp awoke from their slumber to unearth soaring melodies of longing and love’s first blush.
“I danced to this at my first ball,” Svetlana said as the hem of her gown floated around her ankles like flower petals on water, drifting her away to another time and place where memories misted with romance.
“You were enchanting.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be. Your beauty needs no bearing of witness for me to know the spell you wove.” He angled his head so his mouth brushed her ear. “If I’m not careful, your magical feet will carry me right out of here.”
His soft breath feathered along her ear and down her neck, encouraging her to brush her cheek against his, but it was his voice, low and raw, that spiraled through her insides until she hummed with every word.
The music bounced in the background as other dancers blurred around them. Her hand tightened on Wynn’s shoulder. “Carry you to where?”
“Let’s find out.”
He whirled her off the dance floor. Holding hands, they slipped between guests, who cast curious looks after them. Svetlana kept her expression serenely neutral despite the urge in her feet to take flight, to leave behind these people tethered to the earth and dance among the stardust with Wynn.
“Wynn. There you are.” Constance’s voice snagged them as they turned from the Stone Hall. Dressed in an ethereal half-mourning gown of mauve chiffon, she glided from the library with a rotund man on her gloved arm. “This is Mr. Dixon. He’s on the administrative board at Edinburgh Hospital and heard a great many things about you while serving in the African campaign during the war. Mr. Dixon, allow me to present my son and his wife, the Duke and Duchess of Kilbride.”
“My dear Duke and Duchess. An honor.” Voice booming as if he were still in the war and trying to overcome gunfire, Mr. Dixon swept a low bow, or as low as he could, considering his protruding belly. With round, red cheeks and whiskers sweeping down his jaw, he resembled a Dickens character. “Fought in the war, did you?”
Svetlana tried to tug her hand back and stand in a more proper position, but Wynn held tight. “No, sir. I served as a noncombatant doctor in Paris. My brother, Hugh, fought.”
“Ah, yes. I recall reading about him in the paper. Wretched shame that. Too many fine losses. My condolences.”
Wynn’s mouth pressed tight for a second, a telltale of the sadness prickling him. “Thank you.”
Mr. Dixon sipped his port and waited a polite beat of silence. “Would have liked to have been in Paris myself, but the army sent me where they needed me. Hot, dry, and unintelligible languages thrown at me from all sides. Last time I put on an army uniform.” He laughed, straining the buttons down his waistcoat. It was a wonder he’d been able to don the uniform to begin with. “Then again, we medical men go where care is needed most. Am I right, Your Grace?”