Page 49 of The Tartan Trap

Of course, only a truly arrogant gentleman would approach a lady with absolute certainty that she would eventually fall in love or accept him. But Callum had spent his nights poring over their interactions, and couldn’t find a misstep on his part that would produce the depth of rejection he’d received from Margaret.

He certainly wished he’d been more witty—some of his statements made him wince in light of what he could have said. But that was a normal consequence of retrospect. Callum was starting to wonder if it was him that Margaret didn’t care for.

He wanted to snort a laugh. How ironic that he’d set out to find someone who’d see past his good looks, his wealth, and his title. Apparently Margaret had done that…and found him wanting on a personal level.

“Very well.” Callum couldn’t help it that his voice sounded rather grim.

A large part of his delight in finding the owner of the journal had been the realization that he wouldn’t have to perform the daunting task of getting to know the dozens of other ladies of the ton. He didn’t think he could remember most of their names long enough to complete a conversation without embarrassing himself.

He nodded, determined. “I’ll dance with the other ladies. For Margaret.”

CHAPTER 18- MARGARET

After dancing with Rachel, Callum had only returned to Margaret twice to ask her to dance. Each time, she’d been able to deflect—once, by introducing him to another young lady, and the second time, by claiming she wasn’t feeling particularly well. To her surprise—and a little disappointment, though she didn’t want to admit it—Callum graciously allowed her excuses and danced with other ladies instead.

In fact, he had kept his distance so markedly—at least in comparison to what it had been before—that Margaret was certain he wouldn’t visit her the following day. She was irritated at herself when she found she didn’t much care which dress she wore; she accepted Chloe’s first suggestion and waved her off when the maid offered to add more curls to Margaret’s hair.

Margaret had to admit that though she’d found Callum’s presence vexing, at least it was something to break up the monotony. Without his conversation to listen to, without his stories of growing up in Scotland and that delightful accent that she secretly adored, she would be wholly without anything to amuse.

With that thought in mind, she copied Beatrice by selecting a book from her own personal library before she went down. It was one of her favorites—an action-filled story about a duke who was secretly a pirate.

Margaret had just settled herself in her customary chair by the window, which offered a lovely view of the gardens, when the butler appeared in the archway and took an enormous breath. Margaret couldn’t help but glance over at Beatrice—her sister had mocked the man for his great gasping breaths in whispers the night before. Beatrice was biting her lower lip, her eyes twinkling.

The butler announced several gentlemen to see Lily, and then, “…and His Grace, the Duke of Ettrick, to see Miss Margaret Preston.”

Margaret’s heart leapt along with her eyes. Callum was already heading toward her, a bouquet of purple flowers in his hands.

He bowed low over her hand and said, “Good afternoon, Margaret. I sincerely hope that you’ve recovered from the malady that prevented you from dancing last night.”

“It comes and goes, Your Grace,” she said weakly.

“Ah, one of those transitory things. I understand.” He smiled and handed her the bouquet. “These are for you.”

Margaret stared down at the flowers. They were lilacs, tied with a blue ribbon.

She froze. A dawning horror started in her stomach and spread outward toward her limbs until the realization fully engulfed her.

“You said you didn’t speak French,” she blurted, her eyes wide.

“Not precisely. I was going to say I didn’t speak French well, but you interrupted me before I could finish.” He grinned. “I might not speak French well, but thankfully, neither do you.”

Though she knew it was rude, Margaret couldn’t help it—she gaped at him.

“I particularly enjoyed your commentary regarding your preferences on breakfast foods.” Callum pressed his lips together and tilted his head as if considering. “I’d say I mostly agree, except when it comes to waffles. I prefer them with butter alone.”

Margaret was nearly swallowed by her embarrassment. She cast around for some means to defend herself and finally spluttered, “I hardly think it very gentlemanly of you to pretend not to know French.”

It was a flimsy excuse, and she regretted it the moment she’d cast the words from her lips.

It was in her mind to apologize, and she opened her mouth to do just that when he smiled and said, “And it was very unladylike of you to interrupt me in the first place, so let’s call it even, shall we?”

Margaret didn’t know how to answer him. She was given time to think by the arrival of a maid who took the flowers from her. Margaret sat and focused on settling her skirts so that she didn’t have to meet Callum’s eyes.

Thankfully, he broke the awkward silence by saying, “I didn’t enjoy the ball as much as I’d hoped.”

“Oh?” Her eyes met his in curiosity.

“I had hoped to spend the majority of it with you. Instead, I danced with several other young ladies.”