Chapter 15- Margaret
The following afternoon, Margaret sat with a straight back in one of the chairs near the window.
She felt much stronger than the previous night and intended to start as she meant to go on.
The pleasure for the duke and Daisy in such a gambit—or so Margaret thought—was for them to believe that they’d fooled her.
After all, Margaret wouldn’t have been half as embarrassed all those years ago in the garden with John Knope if she hadn’t bought into his lies, hadn’t accepted his kiss. She reasoned that if she rejected the duke, all the fun would be leached from the joke and he’d soon go away.
So when Ettrick arrived holding an even larger floral arrangement than he’d brought the day before, Margaret was determined to rebut his every advance, toeing the line of outright rudeness when necessary.
It was only fair—he was the one who’d arrived under false pretenses and tried to get her to love him.
Ettrick handed the flowers over with a courtly bow. They were ruffled peonies, tied with a pink grosgrain ribbon. “Good afternoon, Miss Margaret.”
“These are beautiful,” she said in French. After he was seated, she added in English, “Do you speak French, Your Grace?”
“I don’t speak it—” he began.
Anxious and a bit nervous to put her plan into action, Margaret leaned forward and said brightly in French, “The flowers you brought are lovely, but I much prefer lilacs and blue ribbons.” In English she added, “I am going to practice my French today, if you don’t mind.”
He gave a gracious nod of his head, and Margaret thought again what a pity it was that he was so handsome. What a waste it was that he was in league with Daisy Knope instead of courting Margaret for real!
But at the thought she felt a thrill of anxiety. For what would she do if he were courting her in earnest?
“I believe last time I was here I was speaking of my estate in Scotland,” he began.
“I’ve heard that Scots enjoy porridge in the morning.” Margaret nodded and smiled inanely. “I prefer waffles with butter and syrup.”
There was a brief flicker of a crease between his eyebrows, there and gone in an instant.
Margaret thought—quite triumphantly—that Ettrick hadn’t realized she meant to practice French within their conversation.
With any luck, the man would be driven from the parlor within the quarter hour out of sheer frustration.
He cleared his throat and continued, “The work is hard, but I’m glad to still take part in it. I think it’s important that my children know the running of the estate, no matter that one of them will inherit the title. Besides, I think physical activity is important for one’s health.”
Margaret thought the idea sound, if not odd from a duke. It was so arresting, in fact, that she nearly forgot to speak in French when she said, “I like to walk in the park across from my house every morning.”
“Working on the estate keeps me connected to the success of the fields and the people who live there. I also enjoy working with the horses. Do you like horses?”
It was difficult for Margaret to keep her smile generic when she said, “I love horses, but not riding them. I much prefer to feed them carrots and pat their heads.”
Ettrick pressed his lips together and studied his hands. “I feel I must apologize to you, Margaret. May I call you Margaret? For I would dearly love if you called me Callum.”
“Using each other’s given names would be as honest as the rest of our courtship,” she said, then added in English, “By all means, Your Grace.”
“Last time I visited you, I was nervous. I didn’t tell you the true reason for my visit, nor was I completely honest.”
Margaret was momentarily stunned into silence. Was he giving up his gambit so soon?
He raised his dark eyes to meet hers; Margaret felt pierced by his gaze. “You intrigue me, Margaret. I find you beautiful beyond comprehension. I wish to court you in earnest.”
Margaret’s heart sounded like a drum in her chest, her ears. With Callum’s expression as serious as it was, she could almost believe that he meant his words.
He huffed a rueful laugh and glanced toward Lily, who once again had a crowd surrounding her. “In fact, I’m shocked that I’m your only suitor. I’ve no idea why the gentlemen are over there instead of crowded around you.”
His words were like a bucket of freezing water dashed in her face. Margaret inhaled a sharp, soundless gasp; her back straightened. “It’s a pity your handsomeness is only rivalled by your duplicity.”
Callum frowned as if he understood her words. Then again, her sharp tone left little to the imagination.
“I apologize for whatever it is that I’ve said to offend you, Margaret.” His voice was low, cajoling.
“In order to be offended, one must first care,” she said stiffly. She frowned at her own words, for she was offended that he was mocking her in such a way. “My sister deserves every suitor she has and then some, Your Grace.”
“Indeed. My apologies. I never should have compared any lady to another, as a matter of honor. It was surprise that made me do so, nothing else. It was never my intent to disregard your sister’s charms; it’s simply that, in my mind, no other lady outshines you.”
His words were a balm to some sore part of her she hadn’t even known was injured. Margaret had never—not once—been compared to Lily and not been found lacking. It was hardly her sister’s fault. Lily was incomparably lovely, and Margaret was…well, she was just Margaret.
She felt herself softening toward him and lifted her chin against it. “No matter how welcome your pretty compliments are, I find I cannot trust them.” In English, she added, “You seem very confident, Your Grace.”
“I hope that in time you will come to know me well enough to call me by my first name, Callum. There’s no need for such formality between us.”
“I won’t fall for your charm so easily,” she said with a tight smile. “Formality is a shield against many indiscretions.”
“That’s true, and you show wisdom in recognizing it. However, my hope is that we will develop a friendship and trust over time.”
“I doubt you’ll be willing to pay the price of time my trust costs.” She handed the bouquet off to the harried-looking maid who’d finally come to put the blooms in water. “Friendship requires honesty.”
“Ask me anything, and I’ll answer it truthfully.”
Margaret frowned. She hadn’t expected such a statement, and for a moment, it threw her. Then she remembered that any gentleman who’d enter into a fake courtship to embarrass a lady would view lying as a given necessity.
“Why did you come to London, Your Grace?”
Callum looked her directly in the eyes as he answered solemnly, “To find a wife.”
Margaret frowned. It certainly seemed as if he were telling the truth. But if that were so, what was he doing wasting time in her parlor? Unless he’d already chosen a lady, and making sport of Margaret was just for fun.
“And have you decided upon one?” Margaret arched a brow in challenge.
Callum swallowed deeply as if he knew the words he was about to speak would cost him. “Indeed. I’m quite set upon one lady in particular.”
“And when did you meet the young lady? Was it at the first ball of the Season, or was it before?” Margaret gave a serene smile, though her heart pounded waiting for his answer.
“I hardly know how to answer that question, to be honest.” He stared at his large hands for a moment, then slowly said, “What about you, Margaret? It was my understanding that all ladies who were presented were interested in marriage. Is that not the case? Are you against the idea of marriage?”
“No,” she snapped, for a moment forgetting that the word was the same in French and in English. She added, “I fully expect to marry someday.”
“I have two sisters, but I am the only son in my family. Part of my motivation for finding a wife is to secure the family line so that my sisters will have a secure future as well.” He frowned.
“Perhaps I have more in common with the aforementioned fortune hunters than I thought. Though I hardly think that anyone with siblings would begrudge me the desire to see them safe.”
Margaret blinked and haltingly said, “Of course not. It’s a normal—and admirable—sentiment.”
The moment the words were said, she wished she could take them back. Not because they were false—she’d meant every word—but because Callum now looked at her with something like hope in his eyes.
“Although some may find it distasteful to speak of such things,” he continued, “I would like to have a large family if Providence deems it possible. Not only to continue the family line and pass down the title, but also because of the domestic felicity which is unique to large families.”
“I enjoyed growing up in a large family,” she agreed, rather stiffly.
Margaret didn’t know whether it was Callum’s Scottish heritage or simply the man himself, but he was remarkably forthright.
Lily had expressed concern that her suitors had yet to tell her anything more meaningful than their preference in horses, or whether they enjoyed city life more than the countryside.
Callum seemed the opposite of those men.
Honestly, Margaret wished he weren’t so different.
Despite all her best intentions to remain as cold and unfeeling as an ice sculpture, his words were slowly, inexorably melting her.
She was hardly speaking in French at all anymore, and she wanted to know what he’d say next.
“I always wished for a brother,” he admitted. “My sisters shared a camaraderie that I was jealous of when I was a boy. Perhaps there would have been more of us, but my mother contracted a lung disease when she was quite young, and that made her delicate.”
Margaret frowned as the realization dawned—Callum was sharing personal things not widely known. Why would he do so, if this was all a game to him?
He continued, “Of course, the countryside was of great benefit to her. Our physician said that she probably wouldn’t have lived as long if she had remained in London.”