Page 18 of The Tartan Trap

Margaret’s impression of the duke soured immediately. It hardly mattered that he was handsome if he was such a poor judge of character as to befriend Daisy Knope. The duke turned and offered the lady his arm, cementing Margaret’s firm dislike. Daisy took it readily, and they continued toward the other corner.

Margaret exhaled her incredulity in a large gust. Though many young ladies intended to throw their trimmed bonnets in the ring for the duke’s affections, it appeared that Daisy had a leg up on all of them.

Margaret wondered whether the duke didn’t care about Daisy’s strained reputation. It was impossible to believe that the gentleman hadn’t heard of the scandal—it seemed all that anyone in London had spoken of this past summer. Then again, it wasn’t difficult to believe that a man with the Duke of Ettrick’s excellent looks would enjoy a lady simply for the attention she could give him, that he would be more interested in pretty smiles and batting eyelashes than the true hallmarks of good character.

Margaret couldn’t wait to tell Rachel of this development. To think that her friend had put Ettrick on Margaret’s list! No matter—names were more easily scratched out than they were written, and this would be the last she would think of the gentleman at all.

Late-morning sunshine slanted past the velvet draperies into Margaret’s bedroom windows. Beatrice, Rachel, and Margaret had landed there at the end of their migration through the house in search of something to occupy their time. Beatrice lay flopped on the bed, a pillow over her face for some reason, her stocking feet dangling off the edge of the velvet coverlet.

Margaret was barely more presentable. Her hair had escaped its pins, even though the ladies had done nothing at all that morning. It now hung in a curling, disorderly halo about her face.

Her hair was as unruly and ill-behaved as their governess had claimed Margaret was, growing up. There was simply too much of it, for one thing. In dry weather, it behaved well enough, but the second any moisture hit it, certain sections frizzed and waved.

Margaret lounged on the tufted sofa before the fire, her feet propped on the padded ottoman before her, an encyclopedia open on her lap. Although she had always been a reader, her interest in encyclopedias was recent—she had only ever used them for reference before, not for reading straight through.

It was Rachel Warrington who was to blame—she was the one who’d suggested that the volumes could be a form of entertainment all in themselves. Margaret was surprised how much she enjoyed reading them in such a manner. The books provided a survey of interests that she never would have discovered otherwise.

Rachel sat at Margaret’s desk, ostensibly reading a volume of encyclopedia herself. Except apparently she had gotten bored of the book, for she held up a piece of parchment and wrinkled her nose. “What on earth is this?”

Margaret glanced over and flushed. “You were the one who told me to write a list,” she said, her tone defensive.

“Yes, of eligible, handsome men. Not whatever this is.” Rachel scowled.

“I think it is a fine list,” she said. “An attainable list.”

Margaret knew who she’d end up with, if anyone at all. Someone with a wonky nose or crowded teeth. Someone who thought Margaret was pleasant and smiled at her antics. She expected her husband to be her friend, nothing more, and before she settled into a lifetime of pleasant, comfortable, relational mediocrity, Margaret was determined to enjoy herself at least a little.

That was all she wanted out of this Season—a bit of fun, a lot of laughter, and not to embarrass her eldest three sisters or her brother. For someone who was just a little accident-prone, it might be too tall of an order to ask for all three of those things. If she couldn’t have them all, Margaret would settle for not being the familial embarrassment.

Rachel said, “Leave it to you to sell yourself so short. One should make a list with aspiration and hope in mind, not with dread and practicality.”

Beatrice suddenly flung the pillow from her face and sat upright. “What’s this about a list?”

Margaret opened her mouth to come up with some sort of a lie, but Rachel was already answering. “She’s made a list of the most boring gentlemen in the ton.”

“To avoid them, you mean?” Beatrice asked, tilting her head.

“For courting,” Rachel said.

“I thought the gentlemen were to court us,” Beatrice said, a wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“Well, yes, but it’s more of a list to prepare oneself, isn’t it?” Margaret said, already regretting this entire conversation. Now that Beatrice was involved, who knew what would happen?

“Why, this list is nothing but second and third sons,” Rachel said, aghast.

Beatrice scuttled off the bed in a decidedly unladylike fashion, came to stand by Rachel’s side, and peered over her shoulder.

“Mr. Forthswithe is missing a tooth,” she pointed out, frowning, “and Mr. Bailey has already been married twice.”

“But he’s not married now,” Margaret pointed out.

“Because his wives both died,” Rachel said. “I’m uncertain if he did it himself or if the man has terrible luck, but in either case, I wouldn’t see you entrusted to him.”

“Besides, he’s shorter than you are, which certainly is saying something,” Beatrice said.

“My height is perfectly respectable.”

“For a hobgoblin, perhaps,” Beatrice muttered.