Page 40 of The Tartan Trap

Ellis gave a sneaky smile. “Of course. I just wanted to know that you remember.”

“It isn’t every day that someone slings a handful of mud to the back of Mr. MacCubbin’s head.”

“He certainly deserved it,” Ellis said crisply, sitting up with better posture. “He called me a right dunderhead as he was riding by. Said I had nothing in my head but cotton-wool!”

Callum burst out in great peals of laughter. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “So that was your charge against the man?”

“Well, yes,” Ellis said, frowning. “I was too embarrassed to repeat what he’d said at the time, but I promise—I heard him clear as day.”

“He was calling the horse a dunderhead. He was famous for affectionately talking down to the horses as he trained them.”

“Oh dear.” Ellis stared down into his cup of tea for a few moments. “That does shine a different light on things, I suppose.”

CHAPTER 14- MARGARET

Late that night, Margaret stared up at her dark canopy and chewed her lower lip. Though many young ladies in the ton would have lost sleep due to sheer delight and anticipation of what tomorrow might hold, Margaret instead was consumed by the pit of dread in her stomach.

She could barely remember what their conversation had consisted of, once Ettrick had insisted he was there to visit her. She had been dazed, shocked into some compliant sort of pudding that quivered internally with nerves and was only capable of giving one-word answers to the man’s thoughtful questions.

It was hardly her fault. The Duke of Ettrick was almost too handsome up close—this she already knew. However, the night prior, Margaret had felt so embarrassed she’d hardly met his eyes, let alone studied his face. But in the clear light of the parlor, with the two of them sitting side by side near a window, Margaret couldn’t help but admire the strong features of his face, each perfectly wrought in a balance of masculinity and proportion.

There was no part of him—eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, or forehead—that could have been called feminine. Each would have looked out of place on a lady’s face. Yet there was something beautiful about the whole of his visage all the same.

And perhaps his handsomeness could have been discounted if the man had been a poor conversationalist, if he were boring, slow, or uncouth. Sadly, such was not the case. The Duke of Ettrick had observed every social nicety, his manners were all that were pleasing, and he had set such a marked attention on Margaret that Claire had inquired about his visit at the dinner table.

Margaret had shrugged it off, saying that they had been introduced the night before, and she thought the duke was simply dipping his toe into the courting pond—which, in his case, was less a pond and more of a sucking whirlpool.

Margaret hadn’t waited to see how her explanation was received. Instead, she’d deftly turned the conversation over to Claire’s visitors and Lily’s in turn. There was much to speak of on both accounts, but particularly regarding the sheer number of gentlemen who had trotted in and out of their parlor to sip tea and stare at Miss Lily Preston.

Only Margaret knew the truth of the duke’s visit. The gentleman had told her that he planned on visiting her again on the morrow. Though his words had sparked a delicious flame of anticipation, it was buried very deep, below thick clay layers of apprehension.

Now, instead of delighting in them, Margaret listed the duke’s attributes as charges against his character, against his truthfulness. He was handsome, supposedly wealthy, and in possession of the most esteemed title one could ask for.

He was young, cheerful, obliging, and, though her senses had been half deadened by shock at his presence next to her, she had to admit that his stories of Scotland were interesting. In fact, she wanted to hear more. What a terrifying thought.

His excellent attributes weren’t reasons why Margaret should accept him. Instead, they were reasons why this entire thing was as implausible as flying a hot air balloon across the Atlantic.

In the dark and privacy of her bedroom, Margaret’s doubts bloomed and sent out tendrils of fast growth. There was no possible way, she reasoned, that a gentleman of his position should be interested in her. If it were a great beauty he wanted, then Lily or Miss Dahlia Warrington would be his aim.

If it were connection to the family in general—if, for instance, the duke wished to be connected to William for some advantageous reason, such as sea trade or the like, then Claire would have been his object. She was the eldest and the most appropriate choice for a marriage based on uniting two families.

Margaret imagined them next to each other. Claire, with her cold imposing beauty, would make a very fine duchess indeed. The two of them would walk into any ballroom, Claire would look round with her frosty, imperious gaze, and everyone would agree that they were beneath her, beneath them.

Even Lily would have been a better choice. Margaret imagined that all the painters in the world would weep tears of gratitude if they were commissioned to paint that particular family portrait. As incomparably beautiful as Lily was, the Duke of Ettrick was her equal in masculine handsomeness.

But Margaret? Next to Claire and Lily, or even Beatrice, choosing Margaret made no sense at all. She groaned and rubbed at her face in frustration.

Margaret considered herself a very logical, rational person. She took pride in the practicality of her own self-evaluation. She believed she knew exactly what she was—physically speaking—and also had a decent grasp of who she was, which was far more than the average twenty-three year old English lady could claim. Other ladies seemed to spend much of their time sitting before reflective surfaces without actually seeing themselves at all. Such ladies believed that a gown or a new set of ribbons altered their worth along with their appearance.

Margaret flipped back her bedclothes and sighed. She couldn’t fall asleep. Her mind was too busy, too full of the duke—not only of the things he’d told her, his handsome face, and the accent that sent shivers dancing down her spine, but of his possible motivations.

What could have enticed Ettrick to court her? And—even more frightening—why did she want him to continue doing so, deep down?

She was struck with sudden terror—she realized she’d experienced the same thrilling anticipation before. Margaret drew a sharp gasp as the memory engulfed her.

As far as garden parties went, the one hosted by the Earl and Countess Montrose was one of Margaret’s favorites. Of course, at eight years old, Margaret wasn’t all that discerning. But they had made iced cream, and Margaret dearly loved the stuff. Besides, her dress was very pretty, she thought, nearly as pretty as Claire’s.

Margaret supposed it was only natural that her elder sisters wouldn’t want to spend time with her at such an event. They had their own friends. Claire was off somewhere, presumably chasing Michael Barrows through the bushes to prove that she was just as fast as he was. Lily was sitting at their mother’s side, and Beatrice was probably up in a tree somewhere.