Page 57 of The Tartan Trap

“Certainly not. I distinctly remember that the dog I saw a couple of hours ago was brown and mangy. This dog is white and fluffy.”

Callum stretched his back; bending over the tub for so long had taken its toll. “I’m not surprised you’re unfamiliar with the effects of a bath—you so rarely take them.”

“On the contrary. Just last night I stayed in so long I fell asleep and nearly drowned.” Ellis toasted Callum’s direction with his glass.

“I should have your valet bottle some of the bathwater afterward the next time; I doubt you’d notice the difference between that and whisky.”

“Oh, you’re very funny today, aren’t you?” Ellis said. “Almost half as funny as you think you are.”

Callum glanced at the clock, wondering if it was too early for a drink. He supposed it wasn’t if the drink was medicinal. Then he glanced at his cousin’s glass resting on the side table. There had to be one responsible adult in the household, and that role seemed to be left to him.

“How would you say your Season is going?” Ellis said.

“It’s going fine, I suppose.”

Despite his assurances to his cousin, Callum could privately admit that he was, at the very least, disappointed with how things were progressing. The Season was well underway, and the most progress he’d made was having small conversations with Margaret before she remembered she didn’t like him and went taciturn once more.

Truthfully, Callum had been surprised to find out that Margaret had thought he had been teasing her this entire time. It was a bit disheartening to realize that all his compliments had been received as mockery—that each one had driven her affections further away.

“Yes, I can see that. You came to London looking for companionship and undying loyalty, and look!” Ellis gestured at the dog. “You’ve found it. Well done!”

Callum reconsidered the drink and headed to the sideboard. On sudden thought, he turned, decanter in hand. “Do you drink so much for the same reason I’m about to?”

“Because the only lady I want is the only one who doesn’t want me? No, cousin. I’m far more egalitarian than that. I think any lady nearly as good as another.”

Callum huffed and shook his head, pouring himself a respectable fingerful.

Ellis grinned. “I’m sorry. I can tell you’re not in the mood to be bested in a conversational duel. Please, tell me the joke I just ruined, for we both know that you were setting one up, and I cut you off at the pass, as it were.”

“Nevermind.” Callum slumped onto the sofa facing Ellis.

Albie had already made himself quite at home in front of the grate. He was curled in a comfortable circular shape, his nose twitching ever so slightly in his sleep.

“Don’t be like that,” Ellis said. “Finish the joke.”

Callum just arched an eyebrow and sipped his whisky in lieu of a reply.

“Very well,” Ellis said. “I’ll try to suss the joke’s conclusion out myself. Do I drink for the same reason you’re about to…hmm. Any hints you’d like to offer?”

Callum shook his head.

“Fair enough. Comedic reasons for my drinking. Let me see…” He tapped his chin. “Because, like you, I have little hope of marrying this Season?”

Callum glowered at him.

Ellis held up his hands in defeat. “My apologies. You would never be so cruel to either of us. Besides, we both would be able to find wives easily if we dropped our stricter requirements.”

Callum made a noise of derision. “Is this your way of saying I should give up on Margaret?”

“Not at all. Only an idiot would suggest such a thing, and, despite the myriad things that suggest such, I’m not one.” Ellis smiled. “Everyone can tell you’re quite taken with her.”

Callum had heard the rumors. He’d deflected a dozen questioning comments so casually delivered that they couldn’t have been anything but genuine interest. It seemed that the entirety of British society wanted to know, right along with Margaret: what did Callum see in her?

But how was he to explain the truth without pushing her away forever? Callum’s preoccupation was how to explain it to Margaret, of course, not society—he wouldn’t pay a pile of moldering peat to hear their opinions.

How was Callum to make Margaret understand that he considered himself well in love with her already? How was he to admit that not only had he breached the privacy of her journal, but that he’d hunted for her, tracked her like a wild stag across the moors?

He knew he’d have to tell her the truth of it someday, but how could he, without frightening her off forever? It would be too much for nearly any lady to forgive, let alone one who had poured out not only her own secrets, but those of her family as well.