Page 32 of The Tartan Trap

“Then perhaps you feel well enough for a dance?”

Margaret looked up and was surprised to find that not only had the duke spoken the words, but he’d directed them at her.

“Me?” she blurted, then immediately regretted it.

“If you’d be so kind.” He smiled as if he were amused, but not in a cruel way. His hand was still at her elbow, leeching all sense from her mind.

“Very well,” Margaret said—for when a single duke asked one to dance, there was no plausible excuse to decline. At least, not one that she could think of.

Ettrick’s grip tightened and he began to steer her toward the dance floor. Magically, the crowd dispersed, leaving their way clear.

Oh no, Margaret thought as the strings began to play. Not a waltz.

But the duke looked satisfied by the turn of events, and he placed his hands in the proper position—one respectfully at her waist, the other at her hand.

A hundred dance recitals with her sister hadn’t prepared Margaret for the feeling of dancing with a gentleman. Her own hand—one she’d previously called overlarge and pudgy—disappeared within his.

“Are you fond of dancing, Miss Preston?” he asked.

For a mind-swimming moment, Margaret feared she wouldn’t be able to comprehend his words. Not because his English was unintelligible. For though his accent was thick and each word came out dripping with Scottish brogue, it was the effect they had on her that thickened her mind to approximately the consistency of the aforementioned plum pudding.

“My sister Charlotte is a far better dancer than I,” she finally said, grateful that her answer had landed somewhere in the vicinity of the subject matter.

Ettrick smiled down at her and Margaret experienced a brief moment of vertigo. She stepped squarely on his foot. He didn’t so much as flinch; Margaret wondered if he’d even felt it.

He said, “Pardon me for pointing it out, but that isn’t what I asked you. Do you enjoy it, regardless of whether your sister is better at it, in your opinion?”

Margaret frowned. “It isn’t just my opinion. She truly is better at it.”

He arched a dark eyebrow and Margaret nearly tripped.

She took a deep breath and stared at the tasteful emerald stick-pin in his cravat. Not only was that an easy height for her to see, but looking into the Duke of Ettrick’s eyes while trying to perform the steps to a waltz was hazardous. The man was too handsome; it was as disorienting as staring directly at the sun.

“I do enjoy it,” she finally mustered the presence of mind to say. “Even though I’m not excellent at it.”

“I feel much the same at riding horses,” he admitted. “I’m passable, as far as horsemen go, but it doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does for others. I think it’s because the only horse I don’t feel sorry for riding is a draft horse.”

Margaret couldn’t help it; her laugh surprised her and came out in a great, honking snort.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. If her hands hadn’t been occupied, she would have slapped one over her mouth.

“Whatever for?” His head was cocked as if he truly meant the question; Margaret hurried to look back at his cravat.

“Er, nothing.”

“If it’s for stepping on my foot earlier, I promise, I barely noticed.”

Margaret’s eyes went wide; her gaze jerked up to meet his. All she found was a kind smile with a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. Why, he was teasing her!

“There are some who say the quality of a lady’s dancing can often be attributed to the gentleman leading her,” Margaret said.

The instant the words left her mouth, she wished she could recall them. She hadn’t spent much time with dukes, but she imagined they didn’t care to be insulted to their face. And the insult wasn’t even based in truth—Ettrick was an excellent dancer.

She didn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t for him to laugh. “Indeed, Miss Preston. I have no doubt you’ll keep me well on my toes.”

Margaret focused on her dance steps instead of responding. She didn’t know what else to say, anyway. Though it was expected that both partners would share the burden of conversation equally, Margaret didn’t think it applied in this case. Ettrick had undoubtedly only asked her to dance to be polite.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.