Page 61 of The Tartan Trap

“I just do.” Callum smiled gently at her.

“But why?”

Even she could hear the desperation in her voice, the slight panic. She wished she could take the words back, for they revealed too much about her true emotions.

He leaned in, his voice lowered. “Because when the nights are cold and the mist rolls off the loch, you want a warm, soft woman to hold on to.”

Margaret’s eyebrows shot upward, her cheeks heated. She spluttered, “Of all the impertinence, to say such a thing to me!”

Callum’s laughter rolled off his tongue, much like his R’s—rich and deep, like a crackling fire. She swore she felt that laugh warming her all the way down to her toes.

“It would only be impertinence to say such things to a lady I didn’t intend to marry someday. But make no mistake, Miss Margaret Preston or Miss Matilda Cumbershoot—whatever your name is—I mean to court you. Thoroughly.”

Margaret slid her gaze to the table holding the punch. Many times, she’d heard caution against drinking from a communal bowl at a party. Apparently, some rambunctious young gentlemen amused themselves by tipping flasks of liquor into unattended drink. But this was no rollicking country dance, and a stern footman stared down his nose at the punch bowl as if he’d been instructed to guard against such things.

There was no possibility of her being accidentally drunk; Callum had truly said such a thing to her. Margaret blinked again and tried to calm her pounding pulse, even as he waited for her response with a knowing smile upon his face.

After a few moments—though not nearly enough time for her to regain her equilibrium—Callum turned to her. “That being said…Margaret, will you please honor me with the next dance?”

“No,” she snapped, too quickly. Then her cheeks pinkened. “That is, I don’t wish to dance right now.”

“Very well,” he said easily. He gave a sly smile. “Would Matilda like to dance?”

CHAPTER 22- MARGARET

Several hours later, Margaret stood against a wall. The candles in the crystal-shaded sconces were burning low; Margaret sincerely hoped that her sisters were feeling similarly spent so they might soon return home.

Though Callum returned to her at the trilling end of every song and requested the next dance, Margaret had only accepted once, for a quadrille. It was the dance with the least privacy. She felt she was still recovering from the nearly scandalous words he’d said to her; she certainly hadn’t felt strong enough to waltz with him.

Truthfully, Margaret was surprised that Callum hadn’t lost interest in her by now. Even though she could hardly avoid him in her very parlor, she’d nearly perfected not dancing with him at balls.

There was always a young lady about who was more than willing to be thrust onto the duke, and politeness demanded he offer them a dance once Margaret suggested it. In fact, some of the young ladies had caught on to her tactics; Margaret was now far more popular than she’d ever been.

Only Miss Daisy Knope seemed to avoid her altogether at such gatherings. Daisy currently stood just to the side of a large urn of flowers. Margaret thought it a bad gamble—in comparison to the flowers, Daisy looked rather wilted. Margaret might have felt sympathy for the young lady, had she been anyone else; hissing whispers now followed in her wake wherever she went.

Yet there was a post-scandal prescription for ladies. It involved staying mostly at home, preferably in the countryside where no one could find you, followed by public appearances carefully selected to endear the young lady to her harshest critics—the grand dames who had little to do but polish their gemstones and hand down scathing judgements of the current generation’s morality.

If Daisy had any sense, she would only have been spotted at church services when she returned to London, or perhaps at several philanthropic endeavors for the bleakest causes possible—blind orphans in India, preferably, or, if the orphans weren’t available, then perhaps any downtrodden might have sufficed.

Through ignorance or sheer willfulness, Daisy had come to the very first ball and danced with all the gentlemen who’d asked her. It was a large misstep in a series of missteps so marked and obvious that Margaret couldn’t help think the young lady was truly an idiot. Either that or she was desperate to marry, and there was no perfume known to man that could cover that stench.

Even still, Daisy stared across the ballroom at Callum, fluttering her eyelashes whenever his gaze slid over her. Margaret shook her head and gave a huff of disgust. Daisy was not the only young lady who fluttered when Callum’s head turned their direction. The entire room of ladies resembled birds in a bath wherever he turned.

She and Daisy were alike in that, currently, they both stood alone on the sidelines, watching as the Duke of Ettrick swept Miss Jessica Bates through the steps of a dance. One of Margaret’s sisters or Rachel Warrington would have been standing with Margaret, but they were all dancing.

Miss Bates was classically beautiful, her temperament vivacious. As Margaret watched, she smiled prettily up at Callum. Margaret suddenly regretted turning Callum down for that particular dance.

“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” Daisy commented.

Margaret jerked. At some point while her attention was on the dance floor, Daisy had sidled up to her. Margaret followed her line of sight toward Callum and Miss Bates.

Margaret didn’t think Callum was enjoying himself. Though Miss Bates appeared to be keeping up the lively end of a one-sided conversation, Callum hardly spoke. When he did deign to look down from his impressive height, it was only to nod. Margaret guessed that was his semblance of a response.

“I suppose,” Margaret said.

She had learned not to commit to any opinion when Daisy was about, lest it be twisted into a more scandalous shape and passed on to the gossips.

“He’s looking for a bride,” Daisy pressed.