Heaven forbid they find out what she'd been up to all those years.
Heaven forbid it wasn't her sisters at all who found out, but a completestranger…
Margaret's breathing grew shallow. Her knees shook until he nearly collapsed into her desk chair. She couldn't have left it out there, could she? Shewouldn'thave.
And yet, that image of her holding the old up next to the new wouldn't leave her mind. That had happened. She'd brought her journal out andleftit somewhere.
Margaret ran for the door. There was no possible way she could have. Shewouldn'thave. Her journal was sitting on the plush seat of the carriage even now. She'd been the last to exit and she'd left it behind, that was all.
She'd meet a footman bringing it to her on her way down, surely. Except she didn't meet anyone as she ran down the stairs. She ignored the curious glances of the servants in the kitchen as she barreled past them with wide, frightened eyes.
In the stables, she inhaled the familiar scent of horse and hay and nearly ran directly into the groomsman who was still unhooking the last of the horses from their harness.
"Miss Preston," he said, nodding his head and yanking at the cap he wasn't wearing. "Is everything alright?"
It took Margaret a moment to catch her breath and speak past the terror that burgeoned like sickness in her stomach. "I left something in the carriage. A book?"
The man frowned. "I didn't see one when I removed the heating bricks, miss, but I'm happy to check again."
"No need," she said. "I'll look myself."
"Certainly."
He offered her a helping hand into the carriage, but even before Margaret hauled herself in the door, she could easily see that what he said was true--the compartment was completely empty. There was no journal on the plush seats, nor on the carpeted floor.
Margaret sat heavily on the padded seat and pressed a hand to her midsection.
"Everything all right, Miss?"
"No. I’m sorry, I'm afraid I must ask you to reattach the horses. I need to go back to town, immediately."
CHAPTER 2- CALLUM
Callum Burnett MacMillan, the Duke of Ettrick, was in want of a wife. And London was precisely the place to go if one wanted to solve a lack of a wife with all expeditiousness. Or so he’d been told.
Callum strode down the street, his fine wool overcoat billowing out behind him. Though he detested the city, he couldn't deny there were some perks--chief amongst them the quality of the clothing. His cousin had advised him of the best places to shop, and hadn't steered him wrong yet. He'd already visited the bookmaker’s and the tailors, outfitting himself for hunting season, as his cousin had jokingly called it.
Only, Callum didn't know who was the hunter and who was the prey. Even now, he was vaguely aware of a group of ladies sitting in the window of a fashionable tea room across the street. He'd glanced once in their general direction--he'd been taking note of his surroundings, nothing more--and they'd blatantly stared at him ever since. They'd been watching as he went into the tailors and they still watched a half an hour later when he'd exited.
At the top of the street, he was glad to leave their stares behind. Not that he'd be free of them for long.
When he'd expressed consternation on a ride through the park only just the other day, his cousin Ellis had mocked him for it.
"Oh yes," he'd drawled. "What a pity to be handsome and wealthy and single."
Callum rolled his eyes at the memory. He knew how it sounded--him complaining about his impressive height and build, his strong chin and the dark features that had a certain effect on the ladies. But the truth of the matter was his looks had been far more trouble than they were worth.
Down the street he spied his destination.Morton and Rolland, Fine Stationers. He needed more parchment and a new ledger, and a small, pocket-sized book for jotting down names. He was atrocious at remembering them; they flew out of his head nearly the moment they were spoken. He’d found that the only thing that helped was ducking away at the first opportunity to write down names and descriptions.
The bell jangled overhead and he ducked inside, missing the tall doorways of the family manor outside Edinburgh. The shopkeeper nodded his direction and Callum began to swiftly peruse the shelves. In the fortnight he’d spent in London, he'd learned to be quick about his shopping, especially in a store where ladies might be present.
Word had spread that the Duke of Ettrick had come to London, and it was but a puddle's hop of a leap to deduce he'd come to select a bride.
He'd selected a ledger, several new pens, some parchment, and was looking at small, leather-bound notebooks when it happened. He shifted one to the side and frowned. Amongst the new journals was a worn one, whose leather cover was battered and scratched from what looked like years of use.
Callum picked it up, his curiosity piqued. Perhaps only the cover was used, and the interior unmarked like the others. But when he flipped it open to a page in the middle, the tightly written script nearly leapt off the page.
Dear Ruth,
