Page 50 of The Tartan Trap

As if Margaret needed reminding. Though she’d sworn it was what she wanted, it had left her stomach feeling a bit queasy. And she couldn’t help but notice that Callum hadn’t danced with Daisy, not once. Though perhaps that was by design, if they were keeping their relationship secret.

Margaret bit her lip with the sudden realization of how contrary the premise was to Daisy’s character. If Daisy had enough sway over Callum to make him court Margaret as a joke, then certainly they were romantically involved. But if that were the case, it must have been driving Daisy half mad not to be the center of attention.

“What is your acquaintance with Miss Daisy Knope?” she blurted.

Callum frowned. “None. That is, I don’t believe I’ve ever met the lady.”

Margaret stiffened, pressed her lips together, and inhaled sharply at the lie. To think that she’d started to believe him! To think that she’d nearly been taken in by his acting so sincere! Callum’s forehead wrinkled at her expression.

She opened her mouth to deliver a scalding set-down when the butler announced from the archway, “Mr. Beetlesby to see Miss Margaret Preston.”

In her ire, Margaret shot to her feet. Callum studied her as he stood more slowly, still frowning.

Though he hadn’t made Margaret’s initial list, Mr. Beetlesby could have fit there comfortably. He was very nearly as short as Margaret and far wider through his stomach, which he’d inexplicably covered with a lime-green satin waistcoat. It was a fabric that only exacerbated whatever unfortunate ills already existed.

Mr. Beetlesby gave a bow so low that the few long, feathery strands that had been combed to cover his pate nearly brushed the floor.

“Miss Preston,” he said, his voice a breathless wheeze. “How do you do?”

“Very well, Mr. Beetles. I’m so very glad to meet you. How do you like the weather today?” Margaret said all in a rush.

Perhaps if she acted markedly more interested in a different gentleman, Callum would realize his ruse was up and go elsewhere. If Margaret remembered her sister’s advice on flirting correctly, in order to encourage a gentleman’s attention, one must maintain eye contact to demonstrate interest, smile readily, use his name as often as possible, and laugh at anything he said that approximated a joke.

“Er, I’m not certain how you would like the weather, Miss Preston.” Mr. Beetlesby looked out at the window as if to inspect it again.

It was such an inane response that it must have been a joke. Margaret employed her best giggle, but since it was forced, it came out rather loud and alarming—more like a donkey’s bray than anything else. She cut it off as quickly as possible, ignoring Callum’s knowing expression and Mr. Beetlesby’s wide-eyed look of alarm.

Margaret smiled as widely as possible and gestured graciously to a chair. “Please, Mr. Beets, sit and tell me about yourself. I’m interested in anything you might have to say.”

The man frowned but took his seat. “Very well. I’m the fourth son of the Earl of Burnett.”

“Fascinating, Mr. Beetle. Where did you grow up?”

Margaret kept staring and smiling at the man, and quickly gestured to the maid to bring a tea tray. She avoided Callum’s gaze as she did so. Except for that first day when she’d been taken off guard, Margaret had very pointedly never offered Callum tea, no matter how long he lingered in her parlor, no matter if her own stomach rumbled in lament. Though she kept her eyes securely on Mr. Beetlesby, she swore she saw Callum lean back in his chair and smirk.

“In London, mostly. Of course, no place as prime as this.” He gestured at the grand parlor in which they sat.

Margaret did her best to hold up the edges of her smile even though speaking of funds was unforgivably gauche. “How wonderful, Mr. Bleetsby. Did you ever have the opportunity to visit the countryside?”

“Not as often as I’d like, Miss Preston. Though I enjoy visiting generous friends whenever the opportunity arises.” Here, Mr. Beetlesby laughed at his own joke, but Margaret couldn’t bring herself to laugh along.

Thankfully, tea arrived quickly, and Margaret set about doing her duty as hostess. She asked Callum his preferences, then willfully poured him tea that was precisely the opposite as he’d requested. In the end, the cup she handed him was mostly cream and sugar with just a dash of tea.

Callum grinned, arched his eyebrow, silently saluted her with the cup, then dutifully sipped it. Margaret had to look away before she blushed. There was something about the sight of his large hand cradling the too-small teacup that threatened her composure.

Mr. Beetlesby got a cup just as he’d asked—three cubes of sugar and a dash of cream. Margaret begrudgingly thought that Callum’s preference was far more masculine.

To distract herself from the thought, she said, “I myself prefer the countryside to the city, Mr. Bleeter. Why, there is nothing so lovely as a country morning before anyone else is up.”

He frowned. “Indeed. What else do you enjoy, Miss Preston?”

“Why, many things. Books. I enjoy reading immensely, Mr. Beek.” Margaret’s cheeks pinched with the force of her smile. In order to alleviate the tension, she sipped her tea.

“An expensive hobby, but I daresay one that your brother can afford.” Here, the man chuckled at his own joke again.

Callum frowned openly at the man and glanced at the book that Margaret had tucked on the side table next to her.

“Do you enjoy reading, Mr. Beetlesby?” Callum finally asked.