Page 2 of The Tartan Trap

“Why, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I only meant⁠—”

“That I could choose from amongst the ladies you reject?” He arched one blond eyebrow.

Callum sighed and looked heavenward. “Don’t be purposefully obtuse. There are undoubtedly numerous gentlemen looking for a wife this Season. Why shouldn’t you be one of them?”

“I prefer to peruse my options in a less serious manner than you intend. Though marriage is on the eventual horizon, I see no reason why I shouldn’t enjoy myself for the time being.”

Callum frowned at the sentiment.

“Don’t you take umbrage with me,” Ellis said. “Of course I’ll show the utmost deference and consideration toward my wife, when I finally find a lady I like well enough. But no gentleman needs to extend vows to every lady he meets. That’s what courting is for—to find someone you like well enough to settle down with. Or, in my case, to find the prettiest, most amusing lady with a hefty dowry.”

“What an admirable sentiment.”

Ellis exhaled a laugh through his nose. “I’m well aware that you aren’t worried about a lady’s dowry. Knowing you, you’re much more concerned with the character and values a lady espouses than with how many pounds trail after her down the wedding aisle.”

Callum nodded his agreement. His wife would be the first to marry into the title. He was determined she be a lady of excellent character.

Ellis dabbed his lips with a napkin. “We each have our own set of problems, make no mistake about it.”

Callum frowned. He didn’t quite see what problem he had. Other than choosing the best quality lady in England, he didn’t think there was any problem at all.

“Oh dear. Did I just see you disagreeing with me in your head?” His cousin barked a laugh. “Do you not foresee the problems you’ll encounter? You’re a young, wealthy duke who’s at least half a head taller than any other gentleman in the room. Not to mention your stupid face and the fact you have all your teeth and hair.”

“You’re making me blush,” Callum deadpanned. “What’s your point?”

He was already aware of the effect he had on ladies. His father had sat him down when he was fifteen and warned him. “You’ve got the MacMillan looks about you,” he’d said gruffly. “You look to have the height, too. Which means we need to start talking about women.”

Callum had found the conversation equal parts frightening, embarrassing, and fascinating. In summary, his father had told him thus: the MacMillan men were handsome, and “handsome” was a weapon that could be used like any other—for good or for ill. Callum remembered the first time a lady had truly stared at him, though once they’d started, they hadn’t seemed to stop. Inheriting his title had only made things dreadfully worse.

He already knew this. He was prepared.

Ellis was shaking his head. “You don’t know the depths to which some London ladies would stoop in order to become a duchess.”

“You make it sound as if they’ll come after me with pitchforks.”

“Oh, I daresay they’ll be far more clever and effective than that,” Ellis said. “The finest actresses of the stage have nothing on these women, believe me.”

Callum narrowed his eyes at the hint of bitterness riding Ellis’s words. Though he knew his cousin had suffered a romantic setback a couple years ago—a broken engagement that had been so new it thankfully hadn’t yet been announced—Ellis had made it the brunt of many of his jokes. Now Callum wondered if the experience hadn’t hurt Ellis more than he’d let on. In the next instant, Callum cursed himself an idiot, for of course it had.

Ellis didn’t seem to notice Callum’s introspection; he continued, “I have the benefit of no title at all, and precisely the right amount of wealth. No lady will pursue me with avarice, but my allotment isn’t so miserable it would put a wealthy one off the idea of marriage, either. You, however…”

“You’re speaking to me as if I were wet behind the ears, yet I’m eight and twenty. I’ll not have my head turned by the first pretty girl who smiles at me.”

Ellis huffed his incredulity. “I think you’re underestimating the scope of the problem. I don’t think you’re in danger of turning into a mooning sop the first time a lady flutters her lashes at you. It’s about figuring out which among them are actually of quality make, and which are only pretending. Forgive me for saying so, but your late father was the luckiest of men. He never had to wonder whether your mother’s affections lay with him or with his title.”

Callum nodded. His mother and Ellis’s mother had been sisters, daughters of an earl. Ellis’s mother had married the eldest son of a baron, a prudent match, whereas Callum’s mother had wed an untitled son of a Scottish landowner. Though his father’s family was prosperous, it had been seen as a poor match, bordering on scandal.

Until Callum’s paternal grandfather was awarded the title of Duke of Ettrick, of course. Some called his mother’s choice a gamble that had paid off nicely. His parents had simply called it love.

“Here, you should read this.” Ellis winged a pamphlet at him. Callum leaned to the side just in time—its pages ruffled as it sailed neatly past his ear.

“How was I to catch that?” Callum lifted his hands, showing the teapot and cup he held.

“Very sorry. I meant for it to land next to you.”

“Your coordination hasn’t changed a bit.” Callum set the china down, stood, and retrieved the pamphlet. As he regained his seat he read, “Mr. Pickwick’s Guide to Marriageable Young Ladies. What is this?”