Rebellion & In From The Cold by Nora Roberts

whose families had wanted them to learn about being ladies.
    Bah.
    She could learn everything there was about running a household from her own mother. As to being a lady, there wasn’t a finer one than Fiona MacGregor. She was a laird’s daughter herself, after all, and had spent time in Paris and, yes, even in England, long ago.
    There were still times, when the chores were done and the fires burning low when Fiona played the spinet. Hadn’t she taught Gwen, whose fingers were more clever and whose mind was more patient that her sister’s, how to ply a fancy needle? Fiona could speak French and engage any visitor in polite conversation.
    To Serena’s mind, if she needed to be polished, she would be polished in her own home, where the talk was of more than hooped skirts and the latest coiffures.
    Those giggling whey-faced girls were the kind of ladies Lord Ashburn preferred, she imagined. The kind who covered their faces with fans and fluttered their lashes over them. They drank fruit punch and carried vials of smelling salts and lace handkerchiefs in their reticules. Empty-headed twits. Those were the kind of women whose hands Brigham would kiss at fancy London balls.
    As she neared the river, she slowed the horse to a walk. It would be pleasant to sit by the water fora little while. If she had had time, she would have ridden all the way to the loch. That was her special place when she was troubled or needed time by herself.
    Today she wasn’t troubled, Serena reminded herself as she slid from the saddle. She had only wanted to take a breath of air that was hers alone. She laid the reins loosely over a branch, then rested her cheek against the mare’s.
    Fancy London balls, she thought again, and sighed without any idea that the sound was wistful. Her mother had told her and Gwen what they were like. The mirrors, the polished floors, the hundreds and hundreds of candles. Beautiful gowns sparkling. Men in curling white wigs. And music.
    She closed her eyes and tried to see it. She’d always had a weakness for music. Over the sounds of the rushing river she imagined the strains of a minuet. There would be reels later, Serena thought. But to start, it would be a slow, lovely minuet.
    She began to move to the music in her head, her eyes still closed, her hand held out to an invisible partner.
    Lord Ashburn would give balls, she thought. All the beautiful women would come, hoping for just one dance with him. Smiling a little, Serena executed a neat turn and imagined she heard the sound of petticoats rustling. If she were there, she would wear a dress of rich green satin, with her hair piled high and powdered white so that the diamonds in it glittered like ice on snow. All the men with their foaming lace and buckled shoes would be dazzled. She would dance with them, one by one. As long as the music played she would dance, twirling, stepping, dipping into low, graceful curtsies.
    Then he would be there. He would be dressed in black. It suited him. Aye, he would wear black, black and silver, just what he had worn that night he’d come into Coll’s room, when there had been only candle and firelight. It had made him look so tall and trim. Now the light would be blinding, flashing in the mirrors, shimmering on silver buttons and braid. As the music swelled they would look at each other. He would smile, in the way he did that softened his eyes and made her heart melt just a little.
    He would hold out his hand. She would lay hers on it, palm to palm. A bow from him, then her curtsy. Then … Giddy, Serena opened her eyes.
    Her hand was caught in an easy grip. Her eyes were still clouded with the dream as she looked up at Brigham. The light was behind him, and as she stared up, dazed, it seemed to form a halo around his face. He was wearing black as she had imagined, but it was a simple riding coat, without the fancy silver work or the sparkle of jewels.
    Slowly he raised her to her feet. Because she would have sworn she still