Chapter 18- Margaret #2
Her own horse growing up had been a gentle mare named Rosaline. Margaret still could remember her sweet, horsey smell and her kind brown eyes beneath a fringe of nearly translucent brown lashes. She couldn't imagine taking a riding crop to an animal.
Callum frowned. “I’m not fond of horse racing, myself. I never saw the point in it. Of course, on my estate, horses serve a different function—plowing or pulling carriages and the like.”
Mr. Beetlesby didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. He just nodded.
Margaret’s cheeks were starting to hurt from holding her wide smile. Her eyes began to pinch and water from maintaining eye contact and doing her best not to blink. Flirting was exceptionally difficult, not to mention painful.
Finally, she could take it no longer—she fluttered her lashes to give her eyes some relief. She hoped it looked coy and ladylike, the way other ladies did. She tried to maintain focus with Mr. Beetlesby as she did so, but with her lashes blinking so rapidly, she could barely see anything at all.
Callum coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. She squinted at him and wrinkled her nose. He just smiled back at her and calmly sipped his sugared cream.
“Mr. Beetle, do you have a horse?” Margaret asked, mainly to break the awkward silence.
“Er, no. That is, not at the moment.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it again, someday, however.”
For the first time, Margaret’s smile truly faltered. Of course William had warned his sisters about fortune hunters. Until that precise moment, she had always felt rather sorry for those gentlemen who needed to take finances into consideration when choosing a wife.
If, several years ago, Margaret had thought there had been a sliver of hope that she might have been able to marry rich, she would have been batting her eyelashes and simpering up at any gentleman who had a purse heavy enough to make him attractive.
Now, however, she thought that perhaps some fortune hunters were a little too blunt about their intent.
“I loved my horse growing up,” Margaret managed to say for the sake of the sagging conversation. “I wasn’t a very good rider, but she and I managed.”
“Must have been quite the food bill, for a horse that big,” Mr. Beetlesby said, stirring another sugar cube into his cup.
Margaret froze. The next instant, her expression slid into horrified embarrassment. Callum set his teacup and saucer down with a sharp plink upon the marble table.
He stood abruptly and smiled down at Mr. Beetlesby. “Join me in the gardens for a chat, Mr. Beets.”
“What? Now?” He frowned.
“Right this second.” Callum’s smile had a hard edge to it.
“I haven’t finished my tea,” he spluttered.
Callum reached over, plucked the cup from the man’s hands, and dumped the remaining tea into a nearby potted plant. He gestured toward the glass doors. “Shall we?”
Mr. Beetlesby had no choice but to stand and follow.
It seemed that upon the threshold of the glass doors, he realized something was amiss and had second thoughts.
He turned as if to return to the parlor, but Callum put one hand to the back of his jacket and lifted him. Mr. Beetlesby squeaked in terror.
Callum caught Margaret’s wide eyes over his shoulder and said, “Not to worry, mo ghrian, I’ll be back soon.”
Ettrick fairly carried the squirming fellow outside, shutting the door behind them with a gentle click.
Margaret stared after them, her mind a muddle. What on earth had Callum called her as he’d escorted Mr. Beetlesby out? It was something in Gaelic, she thought. The nickname had a definite effect upon her—her stomach went warm, her mind a bit languid.
She’d heard that some ladies were unusually susceptible to a gentleman who could speak a different language; she was more than a little surprised to realize she apparently was one of them.
It was enough to momentarily distract her from the fact that Callum had quite literally just carried Mr. Beetlesby out the door.
Truthfully, she was grateful that the man was gone. She hadn’t enjoyed his company, and besides, now she could stop smiling like a ninny. She had no clue how any lady ensnared a fellow when flirting was so much work.
She rubbed at her pounding temple, then soothed herself with a sip of tea and a biscuit.
It was delicious, and she determined not to withhold tea from Callum any longer, should he continue to visit.
It was far more punishment to her than it was to him.
How much could he possibly miss it when the man didn’t even take cream or sugar in his tea?
The other thought at the forefront of her mind was that she was fairly certain that Callum wasn’t working with Daisy.
If he and Daisy had been of the same mind, Callum would have reveled in Mr. Beetlesby’s casually awful treatment of Margaret.
If Daisy had witnessed such a thing, for example, she would have snickered and asked the man leading questions to encourage him onward.
The pain in Margaret’s head graduated from moderate pressure to a pounding that matched her pulse. She frowned and selected another biscuit, barely noticing as the buttery flavor of the shortbread spread across her tongue.
But the truth remained—there was no good reason why Callum had lied about knowing Daisy in the first place. Not unless there was something to hide.
Margaret couldn’t discount her own senses—she had seen them together.
If it had just been a passing moment, Margaret might have written the entire episode off, but Callum and Daisy had spoken for at least five minutes.
He had escorted her down the street at a leisurely pace that spoke of friendship.
Margaret winced at the pain in her head.
It was no use—despite her natural curiosity that prodded her to wait and see what state the gentlemen returned in, her headache was so intense that her stomach turned.
Margaret had perhaps two terrible headaches a year, and it seemed that this was to be one of them.
She looked over her shoulder at Beatrice.
Her sister stood immediately and came over; Margaret must have looked nearly as bad as she suddenly felt.
“What is it?” Beatrice frowned down at her. “I saw the duke haul the other gentleman out of here. Has that distressed you?”
“Actually, no.” Margaret squinted against the suddenly too-bright light. “I suddenly have a dreadful headache.”
“Come, let me help you.” Beatrice helped Margaret out of her chair, then assisted her toward the door. Margaret was just thinking how kind her sister was being when Beatrice added, “Let’s get you out of here before your grimace frightens away Lily’s suitors like it did yours.”