Page 47 of The Tartan Trap

“There,” Margaret said. “That should buy me a quarter of an hour. Thank you for offering to dance with him next—I might have half an hour of the evening where I’m not hounded.”

“I wish to speak with him,” Rachel said. “I’m curious and want to make up my own mind. I still don’t understand why you’re resisting the courtship of such an esteemed gentleman.”

“Suffice it to say I don’t trust his motivations.” Margaret frowned.

She didn’t want to explain her suspicions regarding the duke and Daisy Knope. Rachel might ask her for evidence, and Margaret would have to share her most embarrassing childhood memory. She thought embarrassment was much like spilled honey—it got worse the more one spread it around.

“What, precisely, do you think his motivations are?” she asked, her head tilted.

“If it isn’t financial, then perhaps he’s made a bet at a gambling hall that he can woo me. Frankly, I don’t know.”

“That hardly sounds plausible.” Rachel frowned.

Margaret forced a smile upon her face and said, “No matter. Perhaps Ettrick will be so delighted with Miss Avery that he won’t return at all.”

Margaret didn’t wish to examine the little burr of disappointment she felt at her own words.

Rachel smiled and shook her head. “Certainly not. Men like him love a challenge, and you’ve presented a delicious one.”

CHAPTER 17- CALLUM

By the end of his dance with Miss Avery, Callum was lamenting the length of the quadrille. It wasn’t that the young lady was a bad dancer. Far from it—her steps were flawless, her conversation perfectly adequate. She smelled lightly of flowers and her beatific smile remained firmly in place the entire time.

Even so, he was dreadfully bored, his only entertainment planning what he’d say the next time he spoke with Margaret. Granted, Callum did his best to engage, to make the dance pleasant for the young lady. After all, it wasn’t Miss Avery’s fault that she wasn’t Margaret.

When he finally escorted her off the dance floor, it was all he could do not to exhale an audible sigh of relief. He looked around for Margaret—it was already a habit, finding her in a crowd. His eyes alighted on Rachel Warrington and he headed her direction instead.

“May I have this dance, Miss Warrington?” he asked after a perfunctory bow.

“What a delightful surprise,” she said, smirking. “Certainly.”

The music was starting when he led her out onto the dance floor. Callum was grateful the dance was a waltz—they would have plenty of time to speak. Though he would have much preferred dancing it with Margaret, perhaps he could find out something as to why she rebuffed every attempt to get to know her.

Thankfully, Rachel didn’t take long to get to the point.

“Why are you chasing my friend across the ballroom?” she said.

He exhaled a huff of a laugh. “I wouldn’t have to chase her if she’d stand still for more than five minutes.”

Rachel smiled. “You like her.”

“Of course I do.” Callum’s eyes still scanned the crowd, looking for the lady in question. “Why else would I have handed in my pride along with my great coat at the door in order to follow her around?”

“She thinks you’re mocking her, that you’ve perhaps entered into one of those awful betting books at the gentlemen’s club.”

Callum frowned down at her. “She thinks I’ve bet on her? What’s the bet supposed to be—how many times she’ll reject me before I lose my patience?”

“To be clear, have you placed a bet on her?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Not only do I not have time for such ridiculous nonsense, but I’d never do her the disservice of treating our acquaintance in such a cavalier fashion.”

Rachel studied him. He studied her back. She was pretty enough—blonde, intelligent blue eyes, a pert nose, and a light figure. To Callum, she looked rather like all the other young ladies.

The lot of them reminded him of that pureed soup they served at dinner parties in London. The hosts always claimed it was this vegetable or that—leek or potato, usually—but Callum never found an ounce of evidence that there were any real vegetables in the soup at all.

But Margaret…if she were soup, she was a hearty beef stew where one couldn’t see to the bottom of the bowl because the broth was as thick as gravy. She was full of flavor, each bite more interesting and delicious than the last. She couldn't hide her good nature or clever wit, even in those frustrating one-word answers she gave him.

“You are truly fond of her, aren’t you?” Rachel stared at him with a little crease between her eyes.