Page 33 of The Tartan Trap

She arched an eyebrow. “What a direct question.”

“I confess I don’t have much practice in subtlety or being coy,” he said. “My cousin Ellis says my blunt way of speaking will only get me into trouble in London. But I’ve always preferred honesty to evasiveness.”

“Very well. I was wondering if you asked me to dance to escape the veritable horde of other ladies following you,” Margaret admitted.

“Did you agree for the same reason?” He smiled.

“I agreed because there were too many ladies around you to make a clean escape.”

He chuckled. “I asked you to dance with me because I wanted to get to know you better. Isn’t that why gentlemen typically ask ladies to dance?”

“Oh I imagine there could be many other reasons.” Margaret would have shrugged if they hadn’t been dancing.

“Such as?”

“Perhaps they wish to do business with her brother and seek to ingratiate themselves. Or perhaps he saw another, difficult lady heading his way and wanted to avoid her. Then there are the fortune hunters, who must marry for money.”

“A dreadful lot, to be sure.”

Margaret tilted her head. “I’m sure some are—those who look at wealthy ladies only with avarice. But I confess I’m more ready to forgive fortune hunters than most.”

“How so?” His eyes narrowed with what looked like focus.

“I confess I feel compassion for those who are obliged to marry for money. Especially those looking to make a good match to provide for their younger siblings or family.”

Ettrick finally nodded. “I see your point. Perhaps I’ve judged them too quickly. Then again, perhaps I’m jealous. I imagine that, in some ways, a fortune hunter’s task is easier than mine.”

“What do you mean?”

He gave a small smile. “They need only marry for money. I wish to marry for love.”

CHAPTER 11- CALLUM

Callum hadn’t intended to approach Margaret that first evening, but then she’d landed directly in his arms. Heaven help him, she’d felt so right there that it had taken all of his considerable will to set her back upon her feet as promptly as politeness dictated. And once she was in his proximity, he couldn’t help but ask her to dance.

That small interlude was enough to convince him of his feelings. Margaret was completely free of artifice, and delightfully funny. The entire rest of the evening fell away in the light of those few precious minutes—every other lady he’d met was but a smudged painting in his mind, but Margaret was branded there in perfect clarity.

He didn’t linger at her side after escorting her from the dance floor after their waltz. Instead, he’d watched. Callum had spent his childhood hunting deer—he knew the value of tracking before one made one’s move.

Hour by hour, Callum’s stomach had twisted into increasingly complex knots. After unobtrusively watching the lady for the entire remainder of the ball, he was concerned. Was there something wrong with Miss Margaret Preston that he didn’t know about? Why else would the gentlemen in the ballroom ignore the most beautiful young woman in the room?

Callum was determined to find out the truth of the matter, but he didn’t dare ask Ellis. His cousin was already suspicious that a young lady had secretly ensnared him. Thankfully, Ellis was also a late sleeper, so the following morning, Callum started his hunt at the best place for gossip—the White Raven, the most prestigious gaming club for gentlemen in all of London.

Not only did the White Raven boast luxurious meeting rooms, an honest, well-run gambling floor, and fastidiously clean overnight accommodations, but they also served the finest breakfast a gentleman could find outside his own home. It was perfect for those who wanted to start their day away from their own breakfast table—due to whim or marital infelicity—and it was a wonderful pick-me-up for those who’d never made it home the night before.

“Ettrick, old chap.” Lord Gavin Nelson waved him down from a nearby table. “Come join us.”

Callum gave a closed-mouth smile that concealed his gritted teeth. If there ever was a “gentleman” more detestable than Lord Nelson, he’d yet to meet him. But Callum had come here for gossip about ladies, and there was no better way to have it than to accept the invitation.

He nodded, and two of the man’s table companions shuffled to the side to make room for him. There was already an empty chair, but Callum was larger than the average English male—broader in the shoulder and thicker everywhere else. He suspected the difference in physique was partly due to his ancestry, but also because while these gentlemen had spent their leisure time reading books or debating which horse would win at the races, Callum’s father hadn’t believed in leisure time at all.

Callum had spent his time riding out with his father, hunting for their table, repairing fences as if he were an equal to the men of work from the village, and not the duke’s son. He hadn’t always appreciated his father’s tactics, but now he was immensely grateful.

His father had died when Callum was just eighteen. If Callum hadn’t spent all that time engaged in the minutiae of the estate, it would have been an even bigger blow than simply the loss of the greatest man he’d ever known.

“Gentlemen.” He nodded to the three men as he took the empty seat.

A servant rushed forward to pour him tea; he waved off the offer of cream and sugar. Those additions were for ladies to keep or grow their curves; Callum believed men should be as hard as the stone cliffs of Clo Mor.