Page 27 of The Tartan Trap

However, despite the multitude of pins employed, Margaret had no doubt that by the end of the evening, her hair would burst forth from the arrangement like an overstuffed bag of flour dropped upon a stone floor. She was determined to make the most of it while the straining barrettes and pins still held.

Stepping down a staircase in full view of everyone else was terrifying—nearly as bad as the time she’d been chased by a pair of stray dogs back when delivering her washing. On a staircase, a lady couldn’t lift her skirts too high for fear of exposing her ankles, but she had to lift them a little if she didn’t want to trip and fall down the stairs.

It was that fear that kept Margaret up some nights. She clenched her bedclothes and imagined it—the gasps and shrill screams, half-fearful, half-delighted—as Margaret rolled in a thumping flurry of tulle and silk all the way to the bottom. If such a disaster ever happened, she half-hoped the fall would kill her, as she was certain the humiliation that followed would.

When she reached the bottom of the ballroom staircase without pitching forward and taking out her other three sisters like a set of bowling ninepins, Margaret felt quite satisfied. As far as she was concerned, her task for the evening was half completed by that simple act alone. Once she was on solid footing, she looked around.

The ballroom was appropriately grand for the opening ball of the Season. In one corner, a group of musicians brandished their batons against stringed instruments with a flourish. Many couples were already dancing. Though the Preston misses weren’t late by any stretch of the imagination, the social contest had started without them.

It was just as well. Margaret had no stake in the outcome of such courtship maneuvers and felt that the couples simply added to the general splendor of the ballroom. Silk shimmered, satin whispered, and smiling gentlemen turned their dance partners in cultured circles around the floor.

Glittering matrons watched carefully from the sidelines, ready to pounce upon any breach of decorum in their presence. Margaret took up a position next to her brother William and looked out over the crowd. Beatrice and Lily did the same, but Claire had already disappeared into the genteel mayhem.

They stood near a pillar topped with a stone urn, which joyfully overflowed with flowers. Margaret was careful not to stand too close, lest a sprig of delphinium tangle in her hair and start the inevitable explosion.

Despite all of the time Margaret had spent determinedly thinking otherwise, as she watched the glittering Season take its first breath, she couldn’t help the small voice within her that whispered, What if?

What if this weren’t just for her sisters, as she had told herself a thousand times? What if her role wasn’t just to stand against a wall and bear witness to others’ dreams coming true? What would it feel like, she wondered, if a gentleman truly saw her for the very first time?

As she had the thought, her eyes lifted. A gentleman stared at her with wide brown eyes. Margaret smiled at him—the same reflexive smile she gave to anyone she made eye contact with. The gentleman didn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he frowned and quickly averted his gaze.

Embarrassment and something like guilt churned in her stomach. Margaret felt her cheeks heat. By the gentleman’s reaction, one would have thought she’d cornered the gentleman and proposed marriage.

It was only a smile, she thought.

Margaret gave herself an internal shake. Perhaps that gentleman was just as nervous as some of the young ladies. She didn’t know his situation. She didn’t know him at all. Perhaps his mother had demanded he marry within the month, and now he felt as if every woman he laid eyes upon was some sort of trap.

Despite her embarrassment, Margaret increased the width of her smile and continued to scan the ballroom. Her eyes alighted on a truly friendly face. Rachel stood across the ballroom and stared boldly at Margaret, one eyebrow arched as if she’d been waiting far too long for Margaret to notice her. Margaret smiled, and Rachel jerked her blonde head in a plain request.

Margaret turned to William. “I’m going to find out if they have the good punch.”

With Rachel waiting for her, Margaret suddenly found it easy to plunge into the merry fray of the crowd. It was no busier than going to market in the early morning hours, and it certainly smelled far better.

Rachel found her moments later. She wore a ball gown in her customary navy color with simple, severe lines that complemented her beauty.

“So it begins,” she said grimly to Margaret.

“By all means, contain your excitement,” Margaret said with a smile. “If you carry on as you are, someone might be compelled to fetch the smelling salts.”

Rachel’s only reply was a sidelong glance.

“At least you and I are in much the same position.” Margaret huffed a laugh. “Neither of us believe we will be married by the end of the Season.”

“It would be an overreach of confidence for any young lady to say that she was absolutely going to be married by the Season’s end.”

“True, but in this grand ballroom, there are varying degrees of certainty.” Margaret nodded toward Dahlia Warrington, Rachel’s sister, who was swarmed by a group of gentlemen. Each one of the men smiled as if enchanted.

If Margaret had the artistic talent her sister Winifred did, she might have painted the scene. But no, she thought, half a second later. Unless someone painted such a scene with a sarcastic bent and called it satire, it wouldn’t be believable.

“There are degrees of certainty,” Rachel agreed. “And if I were the wagering type, I would place a bet that both our sisters come to some sort of matrimonial settlement by the end of the year.”

“Lily, you mean,” Margaret said.

“I doubt such a bet would pay very good odds,” Rachel said.

Margaret tilted her head. “What do you know of betting?”

“More than you, I’d wager,” Rachel said with a twinkle in her eye.