Page 63 of The Tartan Trap

She turned to survey the room and found Callum was right—the groupings who’d only moments ago been discussing Daisy’s abrupt departure were now consumed with a different topic.

“Perhaps they’re discussing something else. Something interesting that has nothing to do with either of us?” she said weakly.

“I don’t think so. That young lady just stamped her foot while she was staring at us.”

“Who?” Margaret resisted the urge to turn and check for herself.

“I don’t know; I haven’t bothered to learn any of their names.” He shrugged, then chuckled.

“This isn’t funny,” Margaret said, trying desperately to fan the high color from her face.

“Well I’m vastly amused, though I wouldn’t presume to advise you on what you should find funny.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” His voice is a low rumble, just loud enough for Margaret alone to hear.

“What is your purpose in being here?”

“At this ball, in London, or on the earth in general?” he asked. Before she could open her mouth to answer, he continued, “Though it hardly matters. Whatever question you were asking me, I feel my answer is the same. I’m here for you, Margaret.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Pardon?”

“I’m here for you. I’ve made that fairly obvious.” His tone was patient, his cadence careful, as if Callum wanted to make sure that she heard him correctly.

But that hardly helped her understanding of the words.

Callum glanced around the room; Margaret reflexively did the same. There were many clusters of ladies watching with unabashed interest, including a group of dowagers Margaret knew to be among the finest gossips in all of London.

To think she’d done so well at avoiding embarrassment for her sisters this Season—why, Margaret hadn’t spilled a single glass of punch or fallen on the dance floor once! And now she’d undone it all in the span of fifteen minutes.

If Daisy storming away from her wasn’t enough, Margaret had shared a very public conversation—bordering on argument—with the most eligible bachelor of the Season. And she’d called him by his first name. Loudly.

“I fear I’ve made a scene,” she murmured. “Everyone will be speaking of this. I’m sorry, Callum.”

“Whatever for?” He frowned. “Margaret, all I’ve ever wanted is for you to feel free to be yourself around me. It would hardly be fair if I then condemned you for it. Furthermore, in this room, there’s only one person’s opinion I care to hear. And that’s you, of course.”

Callum truly seemed to mean his words; he didn’t appear discomfited in the least. Margaret found that despite all her best efforts, a spark of hope had kindled within her in regards to Callum. She couldn’t help it—not under his constant, gentle attentions.

He grinned down at her. “Besides, if there is a rumor going around on the morrow, we can just blame it on Matilda.”

CHAPTER 23- MARGARET

Though the park across the street was less cultivated than other, larger ones in the city, Margaret was all the more fond of it for that reason. The overlong tree branches that sometimes threatened to swipe hats from atop heads gave the narrow gravel paths a cozy, enclosed feel. The flower beds that bled into the grass almost made it possible for Margaret to believe she was in the countryside, miles away from London.

That morning, she set out early enough that whisps of fog still hid in the hollows of the landscape and sunlight slanted at a sharp angle through the trees. The air clung to the coolness of the previous night, and Margaret pulled her fine cloak closed.

In light of the chill, the parasol she carried might have been seen as unnecessary, but Margaret liked to have a long implement in hand in case the waterfowl became too enthusiastic about her offering of stale bread crumbs. It was hardly appropriate for an elegant young lady to walk about carrying a stick, so her parasol would have to suffice.

Though the city was not yet awake, Margaret wasn’t just walking to enjoy the quiet stillness—she was walking to try to untangle her thoughts. Her boots crunched in the pea gravel of the path that led to the pond. She found a familiar comfort in watching the water birds—there was a cheer that only a duck’s awkward waddle could provide—and she desperately needed it that morning.

It was difficult for her to admit, but guilt had been building for quite some time in regards to Callum.

He visited each and every day—as he had done for weeks—and spoke to her about everything. Margaret thought she was actually getting to know Callum very well indeed, for they were rarely interrupted.

Despite her best efforts, Callum was wearing down her defenses. Sometimes Margaret remembered she was meant to be repelling the man—even if it was mostly a game at this point. More often than not, however, she found herself leaning forward with interest or laughing at something he had to say.

The ball the other night had been the worst interlude yet. When she’d thought of pretending to be Matilda, she’d felt a heady anticipation, but it had been more difficult than usual to hold up her facade.