Page 62 of The Tartan Trap

“How wonderful that you’re in His Grace’s confidence.”

“I have it on excellent authority that the gentleman prefers pink.” She gestured at the very fine silk gown that she wore. It was a bright, vivid pink.

Margaret privately thought that Miss Dahlia Warrington had probably had a private mental fit when she first saw the thing.

“And yet Miss Bates is wearing blue,” Margaret said.

“He doesn’t look all that pleased by her, does he?”

He did not, in fact. His countenance had transformed into an outright frown by degrees since the dance had started.

“It’s for the best,” Daisy said, smoothing her dress front. She’d done so repeatedly; Margaret wondered if it was a nervous habit. “It would only hurt her more in the end.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He’s perfect. The most desirable gentleman of the Season,” Daisy murmured. “Whoever he marries will be beyond reproach. No one would dare say anything against her, no matter her past. No matter the particulars surrounding their engagement…”

Margaret blinked. She wondered if Daisy was even aware that she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

Daisy stared out at Callum on the dance floor. She sounded as if she were nearly in a trance as she continued, “Even if he were caught alone with a lady, no one would judge her for it. And his honor would demand that he take her as his wife.”

Margaret blurted, “Are you quite well?”

She meant the question in earnest. Margaret could think of no other reason than illness or derangement that would cause Daisy to state her motivations regarding the duke so plainly, especially in public, to one who was nowhere close to a friend.

Margaret should have known that Daisy would take her question as an insult.

“As if you haven’t considered what marriage to the duke could do for your unique type of obscurity and undesirableness.” Daisy huffed through her nostrils in disgust, then whirled and left.

It might not have been so bad if their conversation had gone unnoticed, but Margaret was aware of several groups whispering behind their gloved hands. Daisy had exited, so now their eyes were all focused on Margaret.

Great, she thought. Excellent.

Socially speaking, Daisy Knope currently had much in common with a three-day-old trout. If Margaret had any sense, she would have walked the other way when the lady approached. Now some of Daisy’s stink had unintentionally rubbed off on her.

Margaret was so consumed with thoughts of how to gracefully exit the ballroom—how long she had to remain before it wouldn’t appear that she was fleeing the whispers—that she didn’t see Callum approaching until he stood at her side, staring down at her.

“Why are you frowning?” he asked without preamble. He scanned the crowd, as if he held them all accountable for her lack of cheer.

“It’s nothing,” Margaret said quickly.

She ignored the small rustle of flattery she felt at his protectiveness. Her mind whirled with what Daisy had told her, but Margaret’s most pressing need was to remove herself from attention. Callum standing so close and speaking to her wasn’t helping in the least. And this certainly wasn’t the time to warn the fellow about what Daisy had planned.

“Are you certain?” he said.

“I assure you, I’m fine.” Margaret glanced around to find that Callum’s female followers had blocked many of the possible exits. She’d have to elbow her way through—assuming Callum didn’t walk with her.

“For if someone’s done something to upset you⁠—”

“For goodness’ sakes, Callum,” she snapped, more loudly than she’d intended.

He grinned down at her.

She frowned up at him. “What?”

“It’s the first time you’ve used my first name in public,” he said. He glanced up and his grin deepened. “Even better, several ladies seem to have overheard.”

“No.” Margaret felt the color drain from her face.