Page 59 of The Tartan Trap

Margaret had waved both her hands at Callum. “That’s quite enough. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” His thundering voice was bland, his smile all too innocent. “I was very much looking forward to finding out what happened next.” His gaze slid to encompass the room. “As were several other gentlemen, by the looks of things.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” she’d rushed to say.

Somewhere along the way, Margaret’s antics had become less about truly pushing Callum away, and more about the little thrill of excitement she got when he overcame her obstacles. Her genuine desire to escape had metamorphosed into a contest of sorts.

Though she would never admit it to anyone, Margaret was playing with Callum, and heaven help her, she was enjoying their game. She might, upon the further reflection, which she refused to give, have admitted she was flirting with him.

This evening’s ball was no different. Margaret stuck to the outskirts of the party, doing her best to keep a pillar or a crowd between her and Callum. It was always easy to spot him—Callum was the center of his own solar system, with several ladies always orbiting. In a disturbing new development, more often than not, Daisy was one of them.

Margaret didn't wish to examine why she now found Callum’s crowd of feminine followers annoying. Previously, she’d thought them a convenient distraction.

From her post along the far wall, Margaret scanned the crowd, pleased to see that all three of her sisters were dancing. She narrowed her eyes, trying to locate Callum again. It had only taken a moment of distraction on her part, and he’d disappeared. Anticipation rushed through her stomach when he appeared at her side moments later.

“Margaret,” he said, his rolling R’s sounding like a growl of impatience to her ears.

“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” she said, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “My name is Miss Matilda Cambershoot. I’ve only newly moved to London; it’s impossible we’ve met before.”

Callum huffed—it sounded half exasperation, half amusement. He stood next to her, his elbow nearly grazing her arm. “Margaret, no matter how many of these little games you play, I am still going to court you.”

“Margaret must be such a lucky young lady,” she said, purposefully making her tone daft, “because you’re so handsome and so strong and so rich. How could a young lady want anything else in a husband?”

“You think I’m handsome, Matilda?” Callum gave her that same, slow smile that often popped into Margaret’s head when she was trying to go to sleep at night.

Margaret exhaled her indignation. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, and she faced determinedly forward.

“It’s hardly something to be embarrassed by,” he said. “I’ve made no secret of how lovely I find Margaret, and frankly, this is the most encouragement I’ve ever received in return.”

After a moment, Margaret shot him a sidelong look and said, “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to this Margaret that you might be in need of encouragement. Not with so many other ladies fawning over you all the time.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve noticed so quickly, new as you are to the London Season.”

She sniffed. “One cannot miss them. They trail after you like so many perfumed ducklings.”

“They don’t know me at all. They’re only interested in my title and my properties. It’s tiresome.” He sighed. “As is the fact that the one lady I’m interested in has made sport of my affections.”

Margaret frowned. Though she was treating his courtship as a contest of sorts, it hadn’t occurred to her how exhausting it might feel for him.

Margaret recovered enough to bat her eyelashes up at him insipidly. “Perhaps she is waiting for you to prove yourself, Your Grace. If this Margaret is rejecting your advances, she must have a very good reason. Perhaps it’s because she doubts your intentions.”

She frowned, for the familiar refrain no longer quite fit their relationship. She didn’t believe that Callum and Daisy were in league with one another, not anymore. As the weeks had worn on, Margaret had realized that Daisy would never have had the patience for such a long gambit—not when the conclusion would have seen her reputation restored.

“I have nothing but the best of intentions when it comes to Margaret,” Callum said. “I have given her no reason to be so suspicious of me.”

“Is that true, Your Grace?” Margaret said in that same stupid high voice, her smile tight. “For she knows that you’ve lied to her directly at least once.”

Callum stared down at the inlaid marble floor as if trying to remember what on earth she was talking about.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he finally said, his eyes raising to hers, his expression earnest. “But I beg you to tell me your charge against me so that I might answer it. I have never lied to you, to my knowledge.”

It was a reasonable request, perhaps one that she might have granted if they hadn’t been in a ballroom, surrounded by so many. Margaret certainly didn’t want to directly address his falsehood about not knowing Daisy—not when the lady herself stood only feet from them. Then again, perhaps Margaret could lead Callum to the issue in a more roundabout way.

“You’ve been nothing but honest with Margaret?” she said in the same stupid Matilda voice.

Callum nodded solemnly. “Indeed.”

“Then certainly you’re willing to share what it was that drew her to your attention in the first place.”