Chapter 10- Margaret
“I’m so sorry,” Margaret said, her eyes wide.
She peeled her reflexive grip from his biceps. She couldn’t help but feel the firmness of his frame; indeed, the only softness beneath her gloved fingertips was the fine fabric of his black suit.
“Not at all,” the Duke of Ettrick replied with a kind smile, setting her back on her feet.
“I’m not usually this clumsy,” she said. It was a bald-faced lie, but he certainly didn’t need to know that.
“Anyone can tell you were undoubtedly pushed,” he said. Margaret felt her eyes go wide with panic that perhaps Ettrick had seen Rachel’s intervention and blamed it on Margaret, but then he added, “The crowd is a crush tonight.”
Thankfully, the gentleman seemed to have no idea how right his initial comment was. Rachel had conveniently evaporated into the surrounding throng.
Mr. Buckley smiled at his side. “I suppose introductions are in order. Your Grace, may I please present Miss Margaret Preston?”
She averted her eyes even as she completed the social niceties.
Once the bare minimum had been achieved, she looked for the first opportunity to withdraw.
Undoubtedly, the Duke thought she was another social-climbing young lady who’d endeavored to put herself in his path.
Margaret was going to throttle Rachel the next time she saw her.
Margaret couldn’t help the blush that lit her features.
She was well aware that each of her freckles probably stood out in stark relief beneath her flush.
Add to that the fact that numerous ladies were frowning at her—some with barely concealed jealousy, as if they wished they’d thought of tripping and falling into the path of the duke first—and Margaret was exceedingly miserable, indeed.
She was vaguely aware of a polite conversation taking place in her vicinity but was so focused with the boiling need to retreat that she heard none of it, until—
“Miss Preston?”
Margaret looked up to find the Duke of Ettrick staring down at her.
If she’d thought he was handsome down the street or even across the ballroom, it was nothing to what he was like up close.
From this distance, she could see that his eyes weren’t brown as she’d thought before, but rather, a dizzying hazel, with all the colors of autumn contained within the irises.
Green fought with amber and brown, all contained within a gold rim at the very edge.
His hand came to her elbow, searing warmth through her satin glove. “Miss Preston, are you quite well?”
“Pardon me,” she managed to stammer. “I fear I haven’t quite recovered from, er— being pushed.”
His tan forehead creased with concern. “Do you need a chair, or a glass of cool punch?” His head whipped up as if searching the ballroom for a solution.
“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I’m quite well now that I’ve caught my breath.”
She made to edge backward, but stepped squarely on what felt like another lady’s slipper. There was a nearly silent hiss of reprimand from behind her and Margaret stepped forward again.
“Then perhaps you feel well enough for a dance?”
Margaret looked up and was surprised to find that not only had the duke spoken the words, but he’d directed them at her.
“Me?” she blurted, then immediately regretted it.
“If you’d be so kind.” He smiled as if he were amused, but not in a cruel way. His hand was still at her elbow, leeching all sense from her mind.
“Very well,” Margaret said—for when a single duke asked one to dance, there was no plausible excuse to decline. At least, not one that she could think of.
Ettrick’s grip tightened and he began to steer her toward the dance floor. Magically, the crowd dispersed, leaving their way clear.
Oh no, Margaret thought as the strings began to play. Not a waltz.
But the duke looked satisfied by the turn of events, and he placed his hands in the proper position—one respectfully at her waist, the other at her hand.
A hundred dance recitals with her sister hadn’t prepared Margaret for the feeling of dancing with a gentleman. Her own hand—one she’d previously called overlarge and pudgy—disappeared within his.
“Are you fond of dancing, Miss Preston?” he asked.
For a mind-swimming moment, Margaret feared she wouldn’t be able to comprehend his words.
Not because his English was unintelligible.
For though his accent was thick and each word came out dripping with Scottish brogue, it was the effect they had on her that thickened her mind to approximately the consistency of the aforementioned plum pudding.
“My sister Charlotte is a far better dancer than I,” she finally said, grateful that her answer had landed somewhere in the vicinity of the subject matter.
Ettrick smiled down at her and Margaret experienced a brief moment of vertigo. She stepped squarely on his foot. He didn’t so much as flinch; Margaret wondered if he’d even felt it.
He said, “Pardon me for pointing it out, but that isn’t what I asked you. Do you enjoy it, regardless of whether your sister is better at it, in your opinion?”
Margaret frowned. “It isn’t just my opinion. She truly is better at it.”
He arched a dark eyebrow and Margaret nearly tripped.
She took a deep breath and stared at the tasteful emerald stick-pin in his cravat.
Not only was that an easy height for her to see, but looking into the Duke of Ettrick’s eyes while trying to perform the steps to a waltz was hazardous.
The man was too handsome; it was as disorienting as staring directly at the sun.
“I do enjoy it,” she finally mustered the presence of mind to say. “Even though I’m not excellent at it.”
“I feel much the same at riding horses,” he admitted. “I’m passable, as far as horsemen go, but it doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does for others. I think it’s because the only horse I don’t feel sorry for riding is a draft horse.”
Margaret couldn’t help it; her laugh surprised her and came out in a great, honking snort.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. If her hands hadn’t been occupied, she would have slapped one over her mouth.
“Whatever for?” His head was cocked as if he truly meant the question; Margaret hurried to look back at his cravat.
“Er, nothing.”
“If it’s for stepping on my foot earlier, I promise, I barely noticed.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide; her gaze jerked up to meet his. All she found was a kind smile with a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. Why, he was teasing her!
“There are some who say the quality of a lady’s dancing can often be attributed to the gentleman leading her,” Margaret said.
The instant the words left her mouth, she wished she could recall them. She hadn’t spent much time with dukes, but she imagined they didn’t care to be insulted to their face. And the insult wasn’t even based in truth—Ettrick was an excellent dancer.
She didn’t know what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t for him to laugh. “Indeed, Miss Preston. I have no doubt you’ll keep me well on my toes.”
Margaret focused on her dance steps instead of responding. She didn’t know what else to say, anyway. Though it was expected that both partners would share the burden of conversation equally, Margaret didn’t think it applied in this case. Ettrick had undoubtedly only asked her to dance to be polite.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She arched an eyebrow. “What a direct question.”
“I confess I don’t have much practice in subtlety or being coy,” he said. “My cousin Ellis says my blunt way of speaking will only get me into trouble in London. But I’ve always preferred honesty to evasiveness.”
“Very well. I was wondering if you asked me to dance to escape the veritable horde of other ladies following you,” Margaret admitted.
“Did you agree for the same reason?” He smiled.
“I agreed because there were too many ladies around you to make a clean escape.”
He chuckled. “I asked you to dance with me because I wanted to get to know you better. Isn’t that why gentlemen typically ask ladies to dance?”
“Oh I imagine there could be many other reasons.” Margaret would have shrugged if they hadn’t been dancing.
“Such as?”
“Perhaps they wish to do business with her brother and seek to ingratiate themselves. Or perhaps he saw another, difficult lady heading his way and wanted to avoid her. Then there are the fortune hunters, who must marry for money.”
“A dreadful lot, to be sure.”
Margaret tilted her head. “I’m sure some are—those who look at wealthy ladies only with avarice. But I confess I’m more ready to forgive fortune hunters than most.”
“How so?” His eyes narrowed with what looked like focus.
“I confess I feel compassion for those who are obliged to marry for money. Especially those looking to make a good match to provide for their younger siblings or family.”
Ettrick finally nodded. “I see your point. Perhaps I’ve judged them too quickly. Then again, perhaps I’m jealous. I imagine that, in some ways, a fortune hunter’s task is easier than mine.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave a small smile. “They need only marry for money. I wish to marry for love.”