Chapter 18- Margaret
After dancing with Rachel, Callum had only returned to Margaret twice to ask her to dance.
Each time, she’d been able to deflect—once, by introducing him to another young lady, and the second time, by claiming she wasn’t feeling particularly well.
To her surprise—and a little disappointment, though she didn’t want to admit it—Callum graciously allowed her excuses and danced with other ladies instead.
In fact, he had kept his distance so markedly—at least in comparison to what it had been before—that Margaret was certain he wouldn’t visit her the following day.
She was irritated at herself when she found she didn’t much care which dress she wore; she accepted Chloe’s first suggestion and waved her off when the maid offered to add more curls to Margaret’s hair.
Margaret had to admit that though she’d found Callum’s presence vexing, at least it was something to break up the monotony.
Without his conversation to listen to, without his stories of growing up in Scotland and that delightful accent that she secretly adored, she would be wholly without anything to amuse.
With that thought in mind, she copied Beatrice by selecting a book from her own personal library before she went down. It was one of her favorites—an action-filled story about a duke who was secretly a pirate.
Margaret had just settled herself in her customary chair by the window, which offered a lovely view of the gardens, when the butler appeared in the archway and took an enormous breath.
Margaret couldn’t help but glance over at Beatrice—her sister had mocked the man for his great gasping breaths in whispers the night before.
Beatrice was biting her lower lip, her eyes twinkling.
The butler announced several gentlemen to see Lily, and then, “…and His Grace, the Duke of Ettrick, to see Miss Margaret Preston.”
Margaret’s heart leapt along with her eyes. Callum was already heading toward her, a bouquet of purple flowers in his hands.
He bowed low over her hand and said, “Good afternoon, Margaret. I sincerely hope that you’ve recovered from the malady that prevented you from dancing last night.”
“It comes and goes, Your Grace,” she said weakly.
“Ah, one of those transitory things. I understand.” He smiled and handed her the bouquet. “These are for you.”
Margaret stared down at the flowers. They were lilacs, tied with a blue ribbon.
She froze. A dawning horror started in her stomach and spread outward toward her limbs until the realization fully engulfed her.
“You said you didn’t speak French,” she blurted, her eyes wide.
“Not precisely. I was going to say I didn’t speak French well, but you interrupted me before I could finish.” He grinned. “I might not speak French well, but thankfully, neither do you.”
Though she knew it was rude, Margaret couldn’t help it—she gaped at him.
“I particularly enjoyed your commentary regarding your preferences on breakfast foods.” Callum pressed his lips together and tilted his head as if considering. “I’d say I mostly agree, except when it comes to waffles. I prefer them with butter alone.”
Margaret was nearly swallowed by her embarrassment. She cast around for some means to defend herself and finally spluttered, “I hardly think it very gentlemanly of you to pretend not to know French.”
It was a flimsy excuse, and she regretted it the moment she’d cast the words from her lips.
It was in her mind to apologize, and she opened her mouth to do just that when he smiled and said, “And it was very unladylike of you to interrupt me in the first place, so let’s call it even, shall we?”
Margaret didn’t know how to answer him. She was given time to think by the arrival of a maid who took the flowers from her. Margaret sat and focused on settling her skirts so that she didn’t have to meet Callum’s eyes.
Thankfully, he broke the awkward silence by saying, “I didn’t enjoy the ball as much as I’d hoped.”
“Oh?” Her eyes met his in curiosity.
“I had hoped to spend the majority of it with you. Instead, I danced with several other young ladies.”
As if Margaret needed reminding. Though she’d sworn it was what she wanted, it had left her stomach feeling a bit queasy. And she couldn’t help but notice that Callum hadn’t danced with Daisy, not once. Though perhaps that was by design, if they were keeping their relationship secret.
Margaret bit her lip with the sudden realization of how contrary the premise was to Daisy’s character.
If Daisy had enough sway over Callum to make him court Margaret as a joke, then certainly they were romantically involved.
But if that were the case, it must have been driving Daisy half mad not to be the center of attention.
“What is your acquaintance with Miss Daisy Knope?” she blurted.
Callum frowned. “None. That is, I don’t believe I’ve ever met the lady.”
Margaret stiffened, pressed her lips together, and inhaled sharply at the lie. To think that she’d started to believe him! To think that she’d nearly been taken in by his acting so sincere! Callum’s forehead wrinkled at her expression.
She opened her mouth to deliver a scalding set-down when the butler announced from the archway, “Mr. Beetlesby to see Miss Margaret Preston.”
In her ire, Margaret shot to her feet. Callum studied her as he stood more slowly, still frowning.
Though he hadn’t made Margaret’s initial list, Mr. Beetlesby could have fit there comfortably.
He was very nearly as short as Margaret and far wider through his stomach, which he’d inexplicably covered with a lime-green satin waistcoat.
It was a fabric that only exacerbated whatever unfortunate ills already existed.
Mr. Beetlesby gave a bow so low that the few long, feathery strands that had been combed to cover his pate nearly brushed the floor.
“Miss Preston,” he said, his voice a breathless wheeze. “How do you do?”
“Very well, Mr. Beetles. I’m so very glad to meet you. How do you like the weather today?” Margaret said all in a rush.
Perhaps if she acted markedly more interested in a different gentleman, Callum would realize his ruse was up and go elsewhere.
If Margaret remembered her sister’s advice on flirting correctly, in order to encourage a gentleman’s attention, one must maintain eye contact to demonstrate interest, smile readily, use his name as often as possible, and laugh at anything he said that approximated a joke.
“Er, I’m not certain how you would like the weather, Miss Preston.” Mr. Beetlesby looked out at the window as if to inspect it again.
It was such an inane response that it must have been a joke.
Margaret employed her best giggle, but since it was forced, it came out rather loud and alarming—more like a donkey’s bray than anything else.
She cut it off as quickly as possible, ignoring Callum’s knowing expression and Mr. Beetlesby’s wide-eyed look of alarm.
Margaret smiled as widely as possible and gestured graciously to a chair. “Please, Mr. Beets, sit and tell me about yourself. I’m interested in anything you might have to say.”
The man frowned but took his seat. “Very well. I’m the fourth son of the Earl of Burnett.”
“Fascinating, Mr. Beetle. Where did you grow up?”
Margaret kept staring and smiling at the man, and quickly gestured to the maid to bring a tea tray.
She avoided Callum’s gaze as she did so.
Except for that first day when she’d been taken off guard, Margaret had very pointedly never offered Callum tea, no matter how long he lingered in her parlor, no matter if her own stomach rumbled in lament.
Though she kept her eyes securely on Mr. Beetlesby, she swore she saw Callum lean back in his chair and smirk.
“In London, mostly. Of course, no place as prime as this.” He gestured at the grand parlor in which they sat.
Margaret did her best to hold up the edges of her smile even though speaking of funds was unforgivably gauche. “How wonderful, Mr. Bleetsby. Did you ever have the opportunity to visit the countryside?”
“Not as often as I’d like, Miss Preston. Though I enjoy visiting generous friends whenever the opportunity arises.” Here, Mr. Beetlesby laughed at his own joke, but Margaret couldn’t bring herself to laugh along.
Thankfully, tea arrived quickly, and Margaret set about doing her duty as hostess. She asked Callum his preferences, then willfully poured him tea that was precisely the opposite as he’d requested. In the end, the cup she handed him was mostly cream and sugar with just a dash of tea.
Callum grinned, arched his eyebrow, silently saluted her with the cup, then dutifully sipped it. Margaret had to look away before she blushed. There was something about the sight of his large hand cradling the too-small teacup that threatened her composure.
Mr. Beetlesby got a cup just as he’d asked—three cubes of sugar and a dash of cream. Margaret begrudgingly thought that Callum’s preference was far more masculine.
To distract herself from the thought, she said, “I myself prefer the countryside to the city, Mr. Bleeter. Why, there is nothing so lovely as a country morning before anyone else is up.”
He frowned. “Indeed. What else do you enjoy, Miss Preston?”
“Why, many things. Books. I enjoy reading immensely, Mr. Beek.” Margaret’s cheeks pinched with the force of her smile. In order to alleviate the tension, she sipped her tea.
“An expensive hobby, but I daresay one that your brother can afford.” Here, the man chuckled at his own joke again.
Callum frowned openly at the man and glanced at the book that Margaret had tucked on the side table next to her.
“Do you enjoy reading, Mr. Beetlesby?” Callum finally asked.
“No, not typically. Of course, I read the Racing Calendar and things of that nature.”
Margaret grimaced before she caught herself. She wasn’t a fan of horse racing. No matter how many times gentlemen in her life tried to tell her otherwise, she was convinced that racing was a dangerous, sometimes brutal sport for the animals.