Page 43 of The Tartan Trap

His words were a balm to some sore part of her she hadn’t even known was injured. Margaret had never—not once—been compared to Lily and not been found lacking. It was hardly her sister’s fault. Lily was incomparably lovely, and Margaret was…well, she was just Margaret.

She felt herself softening toward him and lifted her chin against it. “No matter how welcome your pretty compliments are, I find I cannot trust them.” In English, she added, “You seem very confident, Your Grace.”

“I hope that in time you will come to know me well enough to call me by my first name, Callum. There’s no need for such formality between us.”

“I won’t fall for your charm so easily,” she said with a tight smile. “Formality is a shield against many indiscretions.”

“That’s true, and you show wisdom in recognizing it. However, my hope is that we will develop a friendship and trust over time.”

“I doubt you’ll be willing to pay the price of time my trust costs.” She handed the bouquet off to the harried-looking maid who’d finally come to put the blooms in water. “Friendship requires honesty.”

“Ask me anything, and I’ll answer it truthfully.”

Margaret frowned. She hadn’t expected such a statement, and for a moment, it threw her. Then she remembered that any gentleman who’d enter into a fake courtship to embarrass a lady would view lying as a given necessity.

“Why did you come to London, Your Grace?”

Callum looked her directly in the eyes as he answered solemnly, “To find a wife.”

Margaret frowned. It certainly seemed as if he were telling the truth. But if that were so, what was he doing wasting time in her parlor? Unless he’d already chosen a lady, and making sport of Margaret was just for fun.

“And have you decided upon one?” Margaret arched a brow in challenge.

Callum swallowed deeply as if he knew the words he was about to speak would cost him. “Indeed. I’m quite set upon one lady in particular.”

“And when did you meet the young lady? Was it at the first ball of the Season, or was it before?” Margaret gave a serene smile, though her heart pounded waiting for his answer.

“I hardly know how to answer that question, to be honest.” He stared at his large hands for a moment, then slowly said, “What about you, Margaret? It was my understanding that all ladies who were presented were interested in marriage. Is that not the case? Are you against the idea of marriage?”

“No,” she snapped, for a moment forgetting that the word was the same in French and in English. She added, “I fully expect to marry someday.”

“I have two sisters, but I am the only son in my family. Part of my motivation for finding a wife is to secure the family line so that my sisters will have a secure future as well.” He frowned. “Perhaps I have more in common with the aforementioned fortune hunters than I thought. Though I hardly think that anyone with siblings would begrudge me the desire to see them safe.”

Margaret blinked and haltingly said, “Of course not. It’s a normal—and admirable—sentiment.”

The moment the words were said, she wished she could take them back. Not because they were false—she’d meant every word—but because Callum now looked at her with something like hope in his eyes.

“Although some may find it distasteful to speak of such things,” he continued, “I would like to have a large family if Providence deems it possible. Not only to continue the family line and pass down the title, but also because of the domestic felicity which is unique to large families.”

“I enjoyed growing up in a large family,” she agreed, rather stiffly.

Margaret didn’t know whether it was Callum’s Scottish heritage or simply the man himself, but he was remarkably forthright. Lily had expressed concern that her suitors had yet to tell her anything more meaningful than their preference in horses, or whether they enjoyed city life more than the countryside.

Callum seemed the opposite of those men. Honestly, Margaret wished he weren’t so different. Despite all her best intentions to remain as cold and unfeeling as an ice sculpture, his words were slowly, inexorably melting her. She was hardly speaking in French at all anymore, and she wanted to know what he’d say next.

“I always wished for a brother,” he admitted. “My sisters shared a camaraderie that I was jealous of when I was a boy. Perhaps there would have been more of us, but my mother contracted a lung disease when she was quite young, and that made her delicate.”

Margaret frowned as the realization dawned—Callum was sharing personal things not widely known. Why would he do so, if this was all a game to him?

He continued, “Of course, the countryside was of great benefit to her. Our physician said that she probably wouldn’t have lived as long if she had remained in London.”

“I’m sorry to hear of her passing,” Margaret said sincerely. “There is nothing quite as painful as a parent’s death.”

Callum nodded. “I miss them very much. They were wonderful people and guided me in all ways. I only hope to do the same for my children, someday.”

They shared a smile of mutual understanding, but Margaret quickly became discomfited by the real feelings she was experiencing within this mockery of a visit. She looked down at her tangled fingers and frowned.

Callum cleared his throat and said, “Though it rains often in Scotland, our air is clean, and there is nothing quite as beautiful as a hillside in full bloom with heather.” He slid a sideways glance toward Margaret’s profile. “At least, I would have claimed such before I met you. Now I think that your smile is my favorite sight on earth. If only you would direct it towards me sometime.”