Page 46 of The Tartan Trap

When Margaret didn’t answer, Rachel turned to Beatrice and said, “Margaret seems to think he’s suffering financial ruin and is in the market for a wife with a hefty dowry.”

Margaret gave an incredulous huff that her friend had repeated her suspicions.

“A fortune hunter?” Beatrice frowned in consideration, then shook her head. “It doesn’t hold up. Miss Rullond would certainly welcome the duke’s attentions. She has very few suitors and an even larger dowry than we do.”

William had chuffed about it the other evening after a snifter of brandy, saying, “A father would have to bankrupt his estate to marry that one off.”

Margaret had thwacked him sharply in the arm with her new journal for saying so. She had a special affinity for homely things, perhaps because she sorted herself amongst their ranks.

The three ladies paused their conversation and pasted on charming smiles as a gentleman approached and collected Beatrice for a dance. The gentleman in question was short, portly, and balding, and Beatrice threw a glance of desperation back over her shoulder as she went.

Margaret felt a thrill of anticipation when she glimpsed Callum’s large form across the dance floor. She told herself it was panic; however, even she had to admit he looked exceedingly handsome in his black tailcoat and crisp white shirt.

Per usual, he was looking right at Margaret, though he was so surrounded by other young ladies, she doubted he’d be able to reach her anytime soon. Even still, Margaret’s heart thumped an irregular rhythm as she tugged Rachel out of sight behind a stone urn atop a pedestal.

Rachel studied Margaret. “I thought you wished to be married.”

“Yes, but not to someone like him.”

“Whyever not? He was at the top of my ‘most eligible bachelors’ list.”

“That was your list, not mine.”

She frowned. “But it was a list for you. Objectively, he is the most handsome, the one with the best title. Why on earth are you hiding from him behind a potted plant?”

Margaret had been peering out from one side of the pedestal, keeping watch for Callum’s inevitable approach. When she turned to answer Rachel, Callum was standing just behind her friend.

Margaret jolted. She must have been distracted indeed, for Callum was travelling with the customary entourage of hopeful young misses trailing in his wake. Most of them hadn’t been formally introduced to Callum, so there was very little hope of him asking them to dance. However, even a shard of hope at becoming a duchess was apparently enough for the half-dozen ladies surrounding them now.

“Miss Preston, Miss Warrington.” Ettrick bowed to each of them in turn.

He opened his mouth, and Margaret swore she could hear his request before he spoke it. In desperation, she reached out and grasped the elbow of one of the nearby ladies, tugging her forward.

“Your Grace,” Margaret said. “May I please present Miss Elizabeth Avery?”

The young lady in question looked absolutely shocked with delight. Her eyes were wide, eyelashes fluttering. Margaret still had her hand on Miss Avery’s elbow, lest she try to escape for some reason. The lady gave such a ridiculously low curtsy that she faltered at the bottom and Margaret was required to bear some of her weight to help her up again.

Margaret read the gleam in Callum’s eye as half irritation, half…amusement? “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Avery. Now⁠—”

Margaret interrupted, her voice a bit shrill with her anxiety. “Miss Avery was just telling me how much she looked forward to the next dance, which is a…”

“A quadrille,” the helpful Miss Avery supplied from the corner of her mouth.

“A quadrille,” Margaret repeated. “That’s right. Unfortunately, Miss Avery is without a partner. Your Grace, I believe you dance the quadrille quite well, do you not?”

There was a flash of victory in his expression, and Margaret momentarily cursed herself an idiot, for she’d just proven that she had indeed been listening to his mostly one-sided conversation when he visited her every afternoon in her parlor.

Margaret had been giving short, taciturn answers whenever possible, hoping that if her appearance wasn’t enough to drive him away, a distinct lack of personality might do it.

“Indeed, I do.” Callum grinned at Margaret, a smile that was little more than open challenge, for she had backed him into a corner, and they both knew it.

Margaret’s stomach swooped, and she had to roll her lips inward to keep from smiling in victory as Callum turned to Miss Avery and bowed. “Miss Avery, may I have the honor of this dance?”

The delighted Miss Avery quickly agreed, clutching at Callum’s arm nearly before he could properly offer it.

“Your Grace,” Rachel said, with a challenging lift to her chin. “You may ask me to dance next.”

Callum nodded. As they turned toward the dance floor, Miss Avery shot a look of amazement over her shoulder at the other ladies, as if nearly scandalized by her good fortune.