Chapter 8- Callum #2
Ellis scowled. “Those are the Prestons. And that large gentleman watching over them in a hawk-like fashion is their brother, Lord Cavendish. Were he not present, I might try to play the part of a picnic beggar, but it’s well known the man is little better than a pirate.
Heaven help the gentleman who treads unwelcome upon that particular blanket. ”
Callum barely heard what his cousin was saying, for once Ellis had uttered the name Preston, all coherent thought fled from his mind.
The picnic blanket in question held four young ladies and a gentleman, with a line of lady’s maids standing at attention nearby.
Their picnic was among the most robust Callum had seen, with a little low table cluttered with cheerful china dishes and an assortment of sandwiches and biscuits as well as a tea service.
How the servants had managed that, Callum had no clue.
But his gaze snagged on each of the ladies in turn, his heart pounding, the tension in his back ratcheting tighter and tighter with each passing moment.
Which of them was Margaret? There was only one blonde amongst them, but it couldn’t possibly be her. In her journal, Margaret had called herself ugly in comparison to her sisters. There was nothing remotely unattractive about the blonde on the picnic blanket.
Callum’s shoulders sagged. To think that he’d come so close to seeing her, but she wasn’t in attendance!
To cover his disappointment, Callum feigned interest. “Who are the ladies present?”
“I just told you,” Ellis said huffing an impatient sigh.
“The Preston sisters—Claire’s the one who looks like she’ll turn you to stone if you meet her gaze.
Lily’s the prize of the Season as far as gentlemen are concerned, for obvious reasons, Beatrice is the one who’s almost as pretty as Lily, and the other one’s Margaret. ”
Margaret.
Callum’s head whipped back toward the pretty tableau so fast it was a testament to Ellis’s hunger-induced curmudgeonly state that he didn’t notice.
Callum had braced himself. He’d known that a young lady with Margaret’s depth of moral fiber and keen intelligence, with such a burden to serve the poor—not just to be seen in doing so but to do so privately, in such a way that would actually lift them up—was bound to be a plain woman.
Callum didn’t care—he was more than half in love with Margaret already. As long as she was willing to be wooed, he was determined to have her.
Callum’s eyes latched onto the blonde on the blanket again; he drew a sharp, silent gasp.
This couldn’t possibly be correct. That was Miss Margaret Preston?
If he’d thought Ellis to be at all the sort to play a cruel joke on another fellow, Callum would have instantly been convinced that was the case.
Yet, Ellis didn’t even know of Callum’s preoccupation with the lady. Certainly he couldn’t have named another lady as Margaret Preston for a lark.
The contrast between Callum’s dreary imaginings and the stunning reality couldn’t have been more stark.
Miss Margaret Preston had blonde hair. That part of her self-evaluation in her journal was true.
But now Callum could see that the description had also been woefully inadequate.
In the next tight breath, Callum called himself an idiot—of course Margaret’s humility and tendency to think more highly of others than herself would color the words in her journal!
She sat upon the blanket with her three sisters.
Her bright halo of wavy blonde hair was barely constrained by two straining barrettes.
Her lips were full, her lashes two dark fans beneath handsome eyebrows.
The modesty of her blue gown couldn’t hide the generous abundance of all the best kinds of curves.
Callum would never have dared pray for such a woman—it would have been too scandalous to ask heaven for that level of beauty, that figure. He wouldn’t have been able to put such a want to words without stuttering and blushing furiously.
Callum gave up his goal of surreptitious peeking instantly, settling for goggling at her open-mouthed.
As he watched, Margaret tipped that lovely head back and laughed—exposing straight white teeth and better displaying the cream-smooth skin of her neck.
Callum nearly steered his horse off the gravel path into a tree.
The artist Rubens would have bit his knuckle and wept in ecstatic agony if he’d seen such a woman. Then he would have fallen at her feet and begged to paint her, certain that her appearance would have been enough to secure his position in the annals of history forevermore.
That was the young lady who donned a drab cloak and brought stew to St. Alban’s Home for Children every week? That was the secret patroness of the hospital for war veterans? That was the young lady who had lowered herself to working as a washerwoman to support her sisters?
As soon as reality descended, Callum nearly cursed in despair. If Margaret Preston looked like that, her parlor was bound to be flooded with interest. Callum would have to knock numerous other gentlemen upside the head just to get close enough to speak with her.
Callum straightened his shoulders in the following instant.
It was a good thing he was nothing if not determined.
And if he had to bully three dozen other suitors out of the way, well, it was a good thing Providence had made him taller and stronger than most men.
Perhaps all those afternoons swinging an axe and steering a stubborn team of draft horses had been for something, after all.
He reasoned that if nothing else, he was strong enough to simply pick her up and make a run for it. Callum chuckled, not altogether unserious about the idea.
A gentleman approached the blanket, removed his hat, and began speaking to the ladies. Callum couldn’t help notice that Lord Cavendish didn’t seem impressed with the man—Cavendish’s eyes were locked on the hairsbreadth of space between the tips of the gentleman’s shoes and the edge of the blanket.
Callum thought suddenly of the red-headed boy near St. Alban’s who’d sent him on a goose-chase toward the wrong woman and taken his sovereign as payment for bad information.
“That little weasel,” Callum growled.
Ellis cocked his head, his eyes on the gentleman near the picnic. “I quite agree with your assessment. He’s being far too forward. Gentlemen should wait until the start of the Season to begin their courting. It’s an unwritten rule of honor.”
“Is it?” Callum frowned; he’d never heard such a thing.
“Well, no. But part of the support I offer to you is finding reasons to dislike your competition—however thin and implausible the reason might be.”
“You truly are an excellent friend, Ellis.” Callum grinned, his eyes still latched on Margaret. Suddenly, his heart felt light and he couldn’t wait for the Season to begin.
His cousin sat straighter, his saddle squeaking with the motion. “Thank you for noticing. Does this mean you forgive me for burning a hole in the sofa in the lounge with my cigar?”
“What?”
“What?” Ellis repeated. He quickly nodded his head toward the gathering of ladies. “Ooh, look how pretty they all are.”
Callum frowned even as he obligingly turned his attention back to the cheery arrangement.
With all of the Preston ladies dressed in fetching pastels with ribbons and lace and expensive tassels dangling from their person, they reminded Callum of a gorgeous floral arrangement or an impressive oil painting, one that he could have lingered and enjoyed for hours.
But there was no doubt in his mind that Margaret was the central point of the beauty. If the ladies were flowers, she was the ruffled abundance of a peony. The others were perhaps roses.
If any average person were asked what the most beautiful flower was, nine out of ten might answer that it was the rose.
But Callum had always found roses a bit boring, too predictable.
Roses always unfurled in the same manner; roses rarely surprised you.
They were pretty enough, he supposed, but if you put one next to the fringed plentitude of a peony in full bloom… well, it wasn’t even a contest.
“What on earth are you thinking about?” Ellis asked, his forehead wrinkled.
“Why do you ask?” Callum said, trying to keep any guilt from his tone. It wasn’t good to compare ladies to anything, let alone something as unimaginative as flowers.
Ellis’s eyes narrowed. “You look like my hound when it spots the kitchen mouser.”
“I was thinking about flowers.”
“I never knew you were interested in horticulture,” Ellis said.
Callum sent one more glance spearing toward the oblivious Margaret Preston and wheeled his horse about. They had lingered too long already—several other groupings of ladies looked as though they were about to casually converge on their position.
“It’s a recent obsession of mine, actually.”
His cousin rolled his eyes. “With interests as bland as that, it’s no wonder you can’t choose an exciting book.”