— A tragic strategy for a newlywed, he comments, scanning the already crowded room. Especially when said newlywed defended his wife’s honor against a discount Hollywood actornot long ago. Your husband-of-the-year stock is at an all-time high—why not enjoy it?
I grimace at the memory of the confrontation with Ryan Fowler.
— I was just playing my role, Ewan.
He arches a skeptical brow.
— A role? Really? You looked ready to rearrange his face with your bare hands, and God knows you’re not exactly a fan of physical violence.
— It was a logical reaction, I attempt.
— Of course. And I’m the reincarnation of Robert Burns.
Ewan raises his glass in a mocking toast.
— To professional indignation, then.
We’re interrupted by my grandmother’s arrival, resplendent in a deep violet velvet gown that must date back to the Victorian era—but somehow suits her perfectly.
— Callum, my boy! she exclaims, inspecting me from head to toe. You look magnificent in your kilt. A true McGregor. Your father would be proud.
I incline my head slightly, knowing she appreciates these small displays of formal respect.
— Thank you, Grandmother. The hall looks stunning.
That’s an understatement. The castle’s grand ballroom, rarely used these days, has been transformed into something worthy of a nineteenth-century Scottish ball. Hundreds of candles flicker, clan-colored draperies cascade from the walls, and floral arrangements fill the air with intoxicating scents… Maggie McGregor never does anything halfway.
— Where is your charming wife? she asks, scanning the crowd. I hope she hasn’t fled the castle the way you did the morning after your wedding.
I suppress a grimace. My grandmother hasn’t forgiven my little escape to Edinburgh and never misses a chance to remind me.
— Jane is getting ready, I reply. Keira is helping her with the… uh… final touches.
A gleam I know all too well lights up my grandmother’s eyes—the unmistakable sign that one of her schemes is underway.
— Perfect, perfect. I can’t wait to see her in the gown I chose for her.
— The gown you… what?
— Oh, don’t look so alarmed, my boy. It’s a family tradition. The grandmother gifts the new bride an outfit for the post-wedding ball. I did it for your mother, and now for Jane.
She pats my cheek fondly.
— It’s a beautiful dress, suited to her complexion. And perfect for dancing.
— Dancing, I repeat weakly.
— Of course, dancing! she declares, as though I’m being particularly dense tonight. You’ll open the ball with a traditional Scottish reel. I hired the best instructor in the Highlands for Jane. They’ve been practicing for days.
How did I not know about this? Clearly, I’ve underestimated my grandmother’s ability to orchestrate conspiracies inside my own home.
— Grandmother, I’m not sure that?—
— Your attention, please!
Jamison’s voice echoes through the hall, cutting me off. The butler, impeccable in his formal attire, stands at the foot of the grand staircase.
— Ladies and gentlemen, Lady Jane Elizabeth Carter-McGregor.
