Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callum
I can never stop thinking about it. I can never stop thinking about it.
Those words circle my mind like overenthusiastic vultures the next day.
I know a lot about vultures from my brief obsession with birds of prey. It turns out circling vultures are not waiting for their food to die. They are simply using the thermal currents in the air to help them save energy by not having to flap their wings.
My brain has apparently decided to save energy by not letting any other thoughts besides Oliver in.
I’m late to breakfast, and I have a weird mixture of disappointment and relief when I learn Oliver’s already left with Gran this morning to go hiking to the Balmoral Cairns.
Space from Oliver is probably a good thing right now.
Amelia looks up from her book and gives me a distracted smile as I sit at the table.
Aunt Alice and Frederick are also there, but their greetings are icier than the wind coming off the moors. They’re leaving after breakfast because Gran doesn’t think it’s appropriate for them to attend the Ghillies Ball tonight.
“You’re looking for some inspiration, Amelia?” Frederick smirks.
My confusion lifts when I read the title of Amelia’s book: Rebel Princesses.
Amelia raises her gaze to meet Frederick’s levelly. “I’m actually reading about Somali’s Queen Arawelo. During her reign, she banished gender roles and used to hang male rapists and prisoners by their testicles.”
I hide a smile as Frederick involuntarily flinches.
I’m just leaving the dining room and psyching myself up for a long, contemplative walk along the River Dee, where I’ll attempt to wrestle with that age-old conundrum—how do you get over someone you want but can’t have—when an unexpected figure in the entranceway stops me short.
“Raymond,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I flew up for the Ghillies Ball. I realized you won’t know how to do the traditional dances, so I’ll need to coach you.”
I blink. “Oh. Okay.”
The thought of Raymond teaching me to dance has me wincing. I get the feeling this will not be a pleasant experience for either of us.
At least concentrating on something far beyond my natural skill set will hopefully scare off the Oliver vultures in my mind.
Sure enough, for the next few hours, there’s no room for anything to enter my brain but Scottish dance steps.
Raymond drills me like the very fate of the monarchy depends on my ability to carry out the steps of the Eightsome Reel.
Unfortunately, my right foot has always had an independent streak and enjoys doing its own thing with no regard to what my left foot is doing.
Who knew Scottish dancing was an extreme sport? There’s a chance I might need a helmet tonight. Or perhaps everyone else around me will require safety gear.
Raymond’s mustache goes through various stages of frustration, fear, and eventually, a small quirk of hope as I finally start to get the hang of some of the steps.
“Right. I think that’s about as good as we can hope for,” Raymond finally says, which might not be a ringing endorsement of my dancing skills, but I’ll happily take it.
I collapse onto a chair at the edge of the room, and Raymond settles in opposite me.
He gets out a folder and starts shuffling through some papers.
“There’s not a theory side to Scottish dancing, is there?” I ask, slightly terrified.
“No. I’ve got something else to show you.” He spreads some papers out on the table between us.
“There are going to be some interesting people here tonight. I’ve put together photos and brief information on some of the guests so you know who is who.”
My suspicion mounts as I stare at the photos. “Why are all the guests you want me to be aware of single females between the ages of twenty and thirty? What is this, blind dating, royal style?”
Raymond doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “We’ve talked about this, Callum. One of your key duties as heir is to carry on the bloodline.”
The bloodline. Like I’m some kind of pedigree dog or horse.
I stare at the photos Raymond has printed out and take a deep breath.
So tonight will not only involve me trying to remember the complicated steps of Scottish dancing but also fending off Raymonds’ matchmaking skills while trying not to pine for Oliver.
Fun times.
That night, I’m faced with a major dilemma I never expected.
What do you wear under a kilt?
Without Herbert here, I turn to Google. A quick search tells me that fifty-five percent wear dark underwear while thirty-eight percent go commando and seven percent wear shorts or tights.
Dark underwear it is.
I put on my suit jacket and tie my bow tie, trying to keep my fingers from shaking.
I’m nervous about the dancing, but most of all, I’m nervous about spending an entire evening in the same room as Oliver.
I meant what I said to him—I’ve never felt this way about someone.
I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want him.
I descend the stairs to find Amelia alone in the drawing room. She’s wearing a cream-colored ballgown with a tartan sash draped across it, held in place with a Celtic brooch.
“You look beautiful.” I lean down to kiss her cheek, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume.
“Thank you.”
Gran and Nicholas enter the room then, and after mutual appreciation of our outfits, we head into the ballroom, which falls silent for our entrance. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to commanding the attention of a room when I walk into it.
The grand room is lit by chandeliers and a band perches on the balcony like a flock of melodious plaid-clad pigeons.
Noise quickly returns to the room after our entrance, and it becomes a whirlwind of tartan and infectious laughter.
But I don’t spend too much time dwelling on anyone else because in front of me is one of the finest sights I’ve ever had the privilege to lay my eyes on.
Oliver in a kilt.
I thought a top hat magnified Oliver’s handsomeness, but it turns out it has nothing on a kilt. The ancient Scots really knew what they were doing in the fashion stakes.
How can the sight of someone else’s knees turn my own wobbly? There’s a knee conundrum in there somewhere.
Despite my best intentions, I’m drawn to him like a bee to honey. Like iron filings to a magnet. Like a child to a muddy puddle.
Oliver’s dark eyes regard me warily as I approach.
“Did you know that the term Ghillies is both Gaelic for gamekeeper and also the name of the shoe used for dancing?” I ask.
“I’m impressed with your knowledge of Gaelic.”
“You really should just be impressed with my ability to Google,” I reply.
He smiles at me, one lip quirking up. My breath leaves my body.
How can a smile be a weapon? How can it be a knife straight through me?
But it’s worse when Amelia comes over to us, and he smiles at her. It’s not the same type he gave me, it’s his more standard generic smile, but I still feel bereft.
I want all of Oliver’s smiles. If I can’t have him properly, if I can’t have him the way I want him, then I at least want the bits I can have all to myself.
“Callum.” Raymond glides over to me, followed by a willowy blonde in a deep-red dress. “I would like you to meet Calista Podmore.”
Could anything be more agonizing than being set up with a woman in front of the guy you have feelings for?
“Calista, it’s nice to meet you.”
She’s beautiful with a heart-shaped face and large warm brown eyes.
She gives a small dip of a curtsy. “It’s lovely to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”
“You too. This is Oliver Hartwell.”
She smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Prime Minister.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Oliver says.
“And this is my sister, Amelia.”
“I think I know your sister, Penelope,” Amelia says. “We went to school together.”
Amelia and Calista start the British public school hobby of comparing who they know in common while Oliver retreats.
Panic overwhelms me.
I have to clamp my arms to my sides to stop myself from grabbing him and forcing him to stay by my side.
Amelia and Calista’s conversation moves on to their outfits, and Amelia tells Calista about how her brooch represents Boudica, an ancient tribal leader who tried to revolt against the patriarchal Roman empire.
I’d normally be interested in discussing Boudica because she’s a fascinating historical figure, but I don’t pay much attention as I watch Oliver’s progress across the ballroom.
He stops to talk to people, his forehead creasing in concentration as he listens, then smoothing into a polite smile.
A lump forms in my throat.
It’s like I’m drowning in this want for Oliver, and if I’m not careful, it will consume me.
“Time to get out on the dancefloor,” Raymond says as he sidles up to me.
I force myself to tear my attention away from Oliver. But it’s a physical pain to try to keep my attention somewhere that’s not him.
I focus instead on the challenge of dancing, managing to stay upright, and remembering most of the steps. I only step on two people’s toes, which is a total win.
Through Raymond’s special form of magic, I somehow always end up in the same dancing group as Calista.
She’s an accomplished dancer, and every time we stop for a break, she’s interesting to chat with. It turns out she’s just traveled through South America, and she regales me with funny stories from her travels.
“So we were dancing, and suddenly, something touched my shoulder. I look over, and the parrot had landed there. And then the parrot started bobbing its head along to the music!”
“That’s really funny,” I say.
But even as I’m laughing at her stories, I can’t help sliding a look across the room to where Oliver is leaning against the far wall in all his kilted glory.
Our eyes meet. The brooding, handsome prime minister is watching me.
And the truth engulfs me.
There’s a very simple reason why I will never be interested in Calista.
She’s not Oliver.