Chapter 12-Margaret
That afternoon, Margaret dressed with particular care, choosing a pale blue dress with off-white stripes. Typically, she avoided patterns. She had found them to be either too small and distracting, or if they were larger, she felt she looked like a lumpy ottoman.
However, like all of the dresses Miss Dahlia Warrington had designed for them, this one was cleverly done, with an eye for Margaret’s form.
The stripes didn’t simply go up and down; the material darted in at her waist, then flowed naturally from her hips.
Margaret thought it accented her shape quite nicely.
While Margaret didn’t expect to be entertaining any gentlemen personally, she knew her sisters would. They certainly would look lovelier than ever, and Margaret didn’t want to disrupt the general beauty of the tableau.
Lily had made quite the stir at last night’s ball; she had stood up for nearly every dance.
In contrast, Margaret had only been asked for the one dance, and she’d written that invitation off as politeness and pity.
The duke had danced with several other ladies that evening, and Margaret thought he’d only asked her first because she’d quite literally fallen on him.
Now, as the Preston sisters walked into the large parlor for visiting hours, Lily’s fingers twisted together in nerves.
Margaret took compassion on her and sat on the same sofa even though she had been planning on taking one of the armchairs near the window.
She hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the fact that she was sitting alone.
Margaret did her best to encourage Lily as they waited, but the ticking of the clock from the mantel had never seemed so interminable.
She had to beat back the instinct to swing her foot back and forth or to chew her inner cheek.
The nerves were so thick in the parlor that Margaret felt she was inhaling them as if they were smoke.
Soon, however, they were put out of their collective misery when the butler came to the archway and announced their first visitors.
“His Grace, the Duke of Ettrick, to visit Miss Margaret Preston.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. Thankfully, her small gasp was covered by the butler announcing a visitor for Lily, some Lord Hayes—a gentleman Margaret had never heard of—and Lord Rutheridge to see Claire, but that was underwhelming as they were longtime friends.
Margaret stood with the others and felt color heating her cheeks.
She could not imagine why on earth the Duke of Ettrick was here, and certainly not why he would be visiting her.
She thought it was a mistake and expected the gentleman to have low words with the butler and ask him to set things right, but he didn’t.
Instead, Ettrick’s eyes clamped onto hers and he strode across the room as if he were in a great hurry to speak with her.
It was but a moment before he stood before her. He gave a low bow and offered her an overly large arrangement of flowers. They were beautiful, of course, but Margaret was flummoxed by their sudden appearance in her hands.
She frowned down at the roses and the delphinium, at the expensive parrot tulips, all of which must have been grown in hot houses, for they were not yet in season.
Margaret offered the man her hand on rote.
He took it gingerly, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and she felt the blush rising in her cheeks.
Margaret’s mind whirred with all the possibilities.
This had to be some mistake. Or perhaps he was here to ask about one of her sisters because he was too shy to approach them directly.
None of her sisters had mentioned being introduced to him the night before.
As the duke was a topic of much conversation and speculation among the ladies of the ton, one of them would have said something had that been the case.
Margaret wasn’t sure why she hadn’t offered the information, but the circumstances of their introduction were so embarrassing that she hardly felt it counted. What option did the man have but to become introduced to the woman who had been literally thrust upon him?
If Margaret thought she’d been mortified then, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. If the other ladies in society heard that hers had been the parlor the duke visited first, they would surely laugh until they were forced to drape themselves over the nearest chair.
“Miss Margaret Preston,” he said, “you look particularly lovely this morning.”
He bowed over her hand and pressed his warm lips to her glove. His presence and the riot of emotions that this small act of politeness loosed in her stomach made Margaret blink.
“How do you do, Your Grace?” she said politely, snatching her hand back as quickly as she was able.
“Very well, now that I am here with you.”
Margaret was flustered as she sat and peered over the bouquet on her lap.
The duke took the seat closest to her. So the man had meant to visit her, after all.
Or perhaps he was just too polite to correct such a glaring error.
Surely he was meant to be bowing in front of Lily and…
Margaret blinked as the butler announced three more gentlemen to visit her sister.
Margaret shot to her feet; the duke mirrored the motion with a quizzical frown. Margaret took her bouquet and relocated to the seats near the tall windows. If she was to be embarrassed when Ettrick admitted that he’d come for Lily, she’d rather not have an audience.
Margaret sat and looked about for the maid. She hardly wanted to continue clutching this bunch of flowers as if she were some deranged mimicry of a bride. But the poor maids were already busy with arrangements gentlemen had brought for her sisters.
Beatrice, shockingly, was the only one who had not yet received a caller, though she seemed highly unconcerned. She had a book open on her lap. Margaret glanced her direction and Beatrice lifted a questioning eyebrow. Margaret jerked her eyes away.
“Apologies,” Margaret said when she realized the silence had gone on too long. “I thought it would be more convenient to sit over here.”
She trailed off and felt a blush engulf her face so thoroughly there was no possible way the duke couldn’t see it.
“It was thoughtful of you,” he said. “I prefer a quieter location myself. Scotland is a different pace of life than what you have here in London. I fear I’m not quite accustomed to the bustle yet. What of you, Miss Preston—have you traveled much? Have you ever been to Scotland?”
Margaret blinked and shook her head, still staring down at the bouquet. She could hardly focus well enough to comprehend his question. Instead of answering, she turned to him with a crease between her eyebrows. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but why are you here?”
Instead of drawing back with affront, a smile twitched at his lips as if her blunt question amused him. “I’m here for the same reason as those gentlemen.” He nodded at Lily’s grouping, which seemed to be growing by the second.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Margaret said, her shoulders slumping in relief. “I knew it.”
She thrust the bouquet at Ettrick with such alacrity that it nearly hit him in the face before he was forced to catch it.
“If you hurry,” Margaret said, “you’ll still be able to get a decent seat.”
“Pardon?” Ettrick frowned down at the slightly crumpled flowers.
Margaret pointed toward Lily’s grouping, even as another gentleman bowed in front of her beautiful sister.
“Oh, drat it all,” Margaret murmured. “He’s going to take the last chair.” She looked at Ettrick. “But you look sturdy enough that you could take yours with you. I’m sure no one would mind. Or perhaps there’s one closer, so you don’t have to lug the furniture quite so far. Or—”
“Hold on a moment—” he started, a crease between his eyebrows.
“You’re right,” Margaret said, shaking her head. She pressed a hand to her chest. “What on earth am I thinking? We can get the footman’s help.” Margaret put her arm in the air and waved one down.
The man stepped forward as if to ask what Margaret needed, but Ettrick held up a hand and said quite clearly, “No assistance is required at this time, thank you.”
Margaret frowned over at him. “You prefer to carry your own chair?”
“No,” he said, his voice deeper, his accent thicker than before. “I prefer to sit right here and speak to the lady I intend to court.”
Margaret’s chin drew back. “What?”
Ettrick gently placed the bouquet back in her hands. “I came to visit you, Margaret, not your sister.”