Chapter 21- Margaret
Though Margaret hadn’t looked forward to the Season with the same optimism as some of her sisters, she certainly hadn’t thought she would grow tired of standing around the edges of ballrooms so quickly.
However, it had only taken a little more than six weeks before she began rolling her eyes at the invitations they received.
Truthfully, Margaret’s greatest source of entertainment so far in the Season had been Callum.
Despite the many creative ways Margaret had employed to get him to go elsewhere, the man was steadfast. He arrived punctually, always bearing flowers, and handled whatever hurdle she set forth with admirable forbearance.
Only this past week, Margaret had waited until the front parlor was packed with Lily’s suitors, then asked Callum to read to her from her favorite novel.
When he obliged, Margaret had claimed she had water in her ear that made it difficult for her to hear him.
With only a slight narrowing of his eyes, Callum had increased his volume until he was nearly shouting the words across the short expanse.
“You are more beautiful than the fairest rose,” Callum had bellowed, reading from the cheap novel. “Fairer, in fact. I wish to be near you always, for I love you most passionately. My love churns like the waves along the seashore. It cannot be tamed, for it is wilder than the sea.”
The entire parlor had turned to stare at them. Margaret felt color rising in her cheeks but stared straight ahead as if nothing were amiss.
“My love is like a billowing stormcloud, like a wind that tosses the mightiest ships,” Callum shouted. He paused to turn the page and said at the same volume, “My, what wonderful analogies. The writer is very descriptive!”
Margaret had pressed her lips together and nodded sharply.
This had been one of Rachel’s suggestions, but what had sounded clever in the safety of Margaret’s bedroom was a different thing altogether when played out in front of onlookers.
But surely Callum would soon become embarrassed and refuse to continue?
“We will make our home wherever we find shelter! Whether beneath the shade of a tree or in the lee of a hill,” Callum yelled.
He frowned at Margaret for the first time but didn’t lower his voice when he commented, “That doesn’t sound like a prudent plan at all.
It might play well for romance, but sleeping out of doors is dreadfully uncomfortable. ”
Everyone in the parlor appeared stunned into silence, watching their strange—and very loud—interaction. Margaret choked back the growing need to shush Callum. She gave a tight smile and nodded instead.
“Surely the land will provide for our love!” He raised his eyebrows. “That hardly seems likely. Perhaps someone should have told this fellow about the modern banking system. Not to mention the principles of private land ownership.”
Margaret gave a weak smile and twisted her fingers together as he turned back to the book and continued. Her blush burned furiously upon her cheeks.
It finally dawned on her that Callum had truly bested her at her own game when he fairly yelled, “Clasped as she was in Bartholomew’s masculine embrace, Elise thought she could happily die. Bartholomew bent his head to kiss her again—”
Margaret had waved both her hands at Callum. “That’s quite enough. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” His thundering voice was bland, his smile all too innocent. “I was very much looking forward to finding out what happened next.” His gaze slid to encompass the room. “As were several other gentlemen, by the looks of things.”
“No, that’s quite all right,” she’d rushed to say.
Somewhere along the way, Margaret’s antics had become less about truly pushing Callum away, and more about the little thrill of excitement she got when he overcame her obstacles. Her genuine desire to escape had metamorphosed into a contest of sorts.
Though she would never admit it to anyone, Margaret was playing with Callum, and heaven help her, she was enjoying their game. She might, upon the further reflection, which she refused to give, have admitted she was flirting with him.
This evening’s ball was no different. Margaret stuck to the outskirts of the party, doing her best to keep a pillar or a crowd between her and Callum.
It was always easy to spot him—Callum was the center of his own solar system, with several ladies always orbiting.
In a disturbing new development, more often than not, Daisy was one of them.
Margaret didn't wish to examine why she now found Callum’s crowd of feminine followers annoying. Previously, she’d thought them a convenient distraction.
From her post along the far wall, Margaret scanned the crowd, pleased to see that all three of her sisters were dancing.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to locate Callum again.
It had only taken a moment of distraction on her part, and he’d disappeared.
Anticipation rushed through her stomach when he appeared at her side moments later.
“Margaret,” he said, his rolling R’s sounding like a growl of impatience to her ears.
“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” she said, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “My name is Miss Matilda Cambershoot. I’ve only newly moved to London; it’s impossible we’ve met before.”
Callum huffed—it sounded half exasperation, half amusement. He stood next to her, his elbow nearly grazing her arm. “Margaret, no matter how many of these little games you play, I am still going to court you.”
“Margaret must be such a lucky young lady,” she said, purposefully making her tone daft, “because you’re so handsome and so strong and so rich. How could a young lady want anything else in a husband?”
“You think I’m handsome, Matilda?” Callum gave her that same, slow smile that often popped into Margaret’s head when she was trying to go to sleep at night.
Margaret exhaled her indignation. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks, and she faced determinedly forward.
“It’s hardly something to be embarrassed by,” he said. “I’ve made no secret of how lovely I find Margaret, and frankly, this is the most encouragement I’ve ever received in return.”
After a moment, Margaret shot him a sidelong look and said, “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to this Margaret that you might be in need of encouragement. Not with so many other ladies fawning over you all the time.”
“It’s a wonder you’ve noticed so quickly, new as you are to the London Season.”
She sniffed. “One cannot miss them. They trail after you like so many perfumed ducklings.”
“They don’t know me at all. They’re only interested in my title and my properties. It’s tiresome.” He sighed. “As is the fact that the one lady I’m interested in has made sport of my affections.”
Margaret frowned. Though she was treating his courtship as a contest of sorts, it hadn’t occurred to her how exhausting it might feel for him.
Margaret recovered enough to bat her eyelashes up at him insipidly. “Perhaps she is waiting for you to prove yourself, Your Grace. If this Margaret is rejecting your advances, she must have a very good reason. Perhaps it’s because she doubts your intentions.”
She frowned, for the familiar refrain no longer quite fit their relationship.
She didn’t believe that Callum and Daisy were in league with one another, not anymore.
As the weeks had worn on, Margaret had realized that Daisy would never have had the patience for such a long gambit—not when the conclusion would have seen her reputation restored.
“I have nothing but the best of intentions when it comes to Margaret,” Callum said. “I have given her no reason to be so suspicious of me.”
“Is that true, Your Grace?” Margaret said in that same stupid high voice, her smile tight. “For she knows that you’ve lied to her directly at least once.”
Callum stared down at the inlaid marble floor as if trying to remember what on earth she was talking about.
“I have no idea what you mean,” he finally said, his eyes raising to hers, his expression earnest. “But I beg you to tell me your charge against me so that I might answer it. I have never lied to you, to my knowledge.”
It was a reasonable request, perhaps one that she might have granted if they hadn’t been in a ballroom, surrounded by so many.
Margaret certainly didn’t want to directly address his falsehood about not knowing Daisy—not when the lady herself stood only feet from them.
Then again, perhaps Margaret could lead Callum to the issue in a more roundabout way.
“You’ve been nothing but honest with Margaret?” she said in the same stupid Matilda voice.
Callum nodded solemnly. “Indeed.”
“Then certainly you’re willing to share what it was that drew her to your attention in the first place.”
Callum blinked as if taken aback, and Margaret felt a twist of emotions—a small thrill of victory that was shortly overshadowed by a sickness in her stomach that she’d been right.
“Then you admit you have lied,” Margaret said in her own voice.
“No—” he started.
She interrupted, “If you hadn’t, you would have no hesitation in answering the question.”
“There’s part of me that misses speaking to Matilda,” he muttered.
“Pardon me?” she snapped.
Callum sighed. “I feel I’ve been far more honest with you than you’ve been with me.”
Margaret tried to clear her expression and stared forward. It was amazing how quickly Callum could thwart her plans—she’d intended to keep up her Matilda facade all evening with no exceptions.
“For instance,” Callum said, “I would ask why you’re so hesitant to receive my suit, when every other lady would welcome my presence gladly.”
“Of all the egotistical statements!” Margaret said. “I know of several young ladies who wouldn’t encourage your suit.”
“Yes, but for honest reasons of their own. I assume that Miss Rachel Warrington is one of the ladies of whom you speak?”
Margaret nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.
“It’s well known she doesn’t wish to be married,” he said. “It’s the talk of the gentlemen’s club, the creative measures she’s used to put off her suitors. Of course, you and I know that she isn’t the only young lady employing such methods.”
Margaret didn’t reply—she was too busy telling herself there was no need to feel ashamed of what she’d done to drive Callum away, even as a blush dusted the bridge of her nose.
He continued, “Any other lady who would reject me does so because she’s already attached. If not publicly, then at least in her heart.”
“In your mind, those are the only reasons a woman would reject you?” Margaret blinked up at him, her expression incredulous. “Because they didn’t wish to be married or were already engaged?”
Callum appeared to think about it, then lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Until they got to know me, yes.”
“It’s no wonder you’re so large,” Margaret scoffed. “Your frame has to contain that huge ego of yours.”
“I have often been complimented on my proportions,” he said lightly.
If anything, his lack of anger only served to stoke hers higher. “Of all the insufferable sentiments—”
He turned and faced her fully. “I thought we had come to an understanding the other day. Why do you insist on viewing me with suspicion?”
“Oh, certainly,” she said, her voice syrupy with sarcasm. “Because a gentleman who looks like you has decided to court me.”
He scowled down at her. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
Margaret simply shook her head, her lips tight.
She’d said too much already. Again. How did she always end up out of balance in their conversations?
She was the one who was supposed to be making him uncomfortable, not the other way around!
While she mentally gnawed at her thoughts, she was vaguely aware of Callum staring down at her, searching her expression.
His tone was even when he said, “Margaret, you must hear me. As I’ve already told you, when I say that you are more beautiful to me than all the wildflowers in Scotland, I mean it.
When I say that your smile is like the sunshine breaking through the gloom of a Scotland winter, I mean it.
There is nothing about me or my courtship that has been dishonest—”
“Save for the secret you won’t tell me regarding why you sought me out,” she interjected, a bit triumphantly.
He sighed and shook his head. “Of course I had to choose the most difficult of all English women to court.”
“Yes, you’re right. I am very difficult. You should find someone else.” Even as she said the words, Margaret realized she didn't truly mean them—not anymore.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Margaret held her hands out to her sides in supplication, then dropped them immediately when she remembered they were in public.
“I just do.” Callum smiled gently at her.
“But why?”
Even she could hear the desperation in her voice, the slight panic. She wished she could take the words back, for they revealed too much about her true emotions.
He leaned in, his voice lowered. “Because when the nights are cold and the mist rolls off the loch, you want a warm, soft woman to hold on to.”
Margaret’s eyebrows shot upward, her cheeks heated. She spluttered, “Of all the impertinence, to say such a thing to me!”
Callum’s laughter rolled off his tongue, much like his R’s—rich and deep, like a crackling fire. She swore she felt that laugh warming her all the way down to her toes.
“It would only be impertinence to say such things to a lady I didn’t intend to marry someday. But make no mistake, Miss Margaret Preston or Miss Matilda Cumbershoot—whatever your name is—I mean to court you. Thoroughly.”
Margaret slid her gaze to the table holding the punch.
Many times, she’d heard caution against drinking from a communal bowl at a party.
Apparently, some rambunctious young gentlemen amused themselves by tipping flasks of liquor into unattended drink.
But this was no rollicking country dance, and a stern footman stared down his nose at the punch bowl as if he’d been instructed to guard against such things.
There was no possibility of her being accidentally drunk; Callum had truly said such a thing to her. Margaret blinked again and tried to calm her pounding pulse, even as he waited for her response with a knowing smile upon his face.
After a few moments—though not nearly enough time for her to regain her equilibrium—Callum turned to her. “That being said…Margaret, will you please honor me with the next dance?”
“No,” she snapped, too quickly. Then her cheeks pinkened. “That is, I don’t wish to dance right now.”
“Very well,” he said easily. He gave a sly smile. “Would Matilda like to dance?”