Chapter 22- Margaret
Several hours later, Margaret stood against a wall. The candles in the crystal-shaded sconces were burning low; Margaret sincerely hoped that her sisters were feeling similarly spent so they might soon return home.
Though Callum returned to her at the trilling end of every song and requested the next dance, Margaret had only accepted once, for a quadrille.
It was the dance with the least privacy.
She felt she was still recovering from the nearly scandalous words he’d said to her; she certainly hadn’t felt strong enough to waltz with him.
Truthfully, Margaret was surprised that Callum hadn’t lost interest in her by now. Even though she could hardly avoid him in her very parlor, she’d nearly perfected not dancing with him at balls.
There was always a young lady about who was more than willing to be thrust onto the duke, and politeness demanded he offer them a dance once Margaret suggested it. In fact, some of the young ladies had caught on to her tactics; Margaret was now far more popular than she’d ever been.
Only Miss Daisy Knope seemed to avoid her altogether at such gatherings.
Daisy currently stood just to the side of a large urn of flowers.
Margaret thought it a bad gamble—in comparison to the flowers, Daisy looked rather wilted.
Margaret might have felt sympathy for the young lady, had she been anyone else; hissing whispers now followed in her wake wherever she went.
Yet there was a post-scandal prescription for ladies.
It involved staying mostly at home, preferably in the countryside where no one could find you, followed by public appearances carefully selected to endear the young lady to her harshest critics—the grand dames who had little to do but polish their gemstones and hand down scathing judgements of the current generation’s morality.
If Daisy had any sense, she would only have been spotted at church services when she returned to London, or perhaps at several philanthropic endeavors for the bleakest causes possible—blind orphans in India, preferably, or, if the orphans weren’t available, then perhaps any downtrodden might have sufficed.
Through ignorance or sheer willfulness, Daisy had come to the very first ball and danced with all the gentlemen who’d asked her.
It was a large misstep in a series of missteps so marked and obvious that Margaret couldn’t help think the young lady was truly an idiot.
Either that or she was desperate to marry, and there was no perfume known to man that could cover that stench.
Even still, Daisy stared across the ballroom at Callum, fluttering her eyelashes whenever his gaze slid over her.
Margaret shook her head and gave a huff of disgust. Daisy was not the only young lady who fluttered when Callum’s head turned their direction.
The entire room of ladies resembled birds in a bath wherever he turned.
She and Daisy were alike in that, currently, they both stood alone on the sidelines, watching as the Duke of Ettrick swept Miss Jessica Bates through the steps of a dance. One of Margaret’s sisters or Rachel Warrington would have been standing with Margaret, but they were all dancing.
Miss Bates was classically beautiful, her temperament vivacious. As Margaret watched, she smiled prettily up at Callum. Margaret suddenly regretted turning Callum down for that particular dance.
“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” Daisy commented.
Margaret jerked. At some point while her attention was on the dance floor, Daisy had sidled up to her. Margaret followed her line of sight toward Callum and Miss Bates.
Margaret didn’t think Callum was enjoying himself. Though Miss Bates appeared to be keeping up the lively end of a one-sided conversation, Callum hardly spoke. When he did deign to look down from his impressive height, it was only to nod. Margaret guessed that was his semblance of a response.
“I suppose,” Margaret said.
She had learned not to commit to any opinion when Daisy was about, lest it be twisted into a more scandalous shape and passed on to the gossips.
“He’s looking for a bride,” Daisy pressed.
“How wonderful that you’re in His Grace’s confidence.”
“I have it on excellent authority that the gentleman prefers pink.” She gestured at the very fine silk gown that she wore. It was a bright, vivid pink.
Margaret privately thought that Miss Dahlia Warrington had probably had a private mental fit when she first saw the thing.
“And yet Miss Bates is wearing blue,” Margaret said.
“He doesn’t look all that pleased by her, does he?”
He did not, in fact. His countenance had transformed into an outright frown by degrees since the dance had started.
“It’s for the best,” Daisy said, smoothing her dress front. She’d done so repeatedly; Margaret wondered if it was a nervous habit. “It would only hurt her more in the end.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“He’s perfect. The most desirable gentleman of the Season,” Daisy murmured. “Whoever he marries will be beyond reproach. No one would dare say anything against her, no matter her past. No matter the particulars surrounding their engagement…”
Margaret blinked. She wondered if Daisy was even aware that she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.
Daisy stared out at Callum on the dance floor. She sounded as if she were nearly in a trance as she continued, “Even if he were caught alone with a lady, no one would judge her for it. And his honor would demand that he take her as his wife.”
Margaret blurted, “Are you quite well?”
She meant the question in earnest. Margaret could think of no other reason than illness or derangement that would cause Daisy to state her motivations regarding the duke so plainly, especially in public, to one who was nowhere close to a friend.
Margaret should have known that Daisy would take her question as an insult.
“As if you haven’t considered what marriage to the duke could do for your unique type of obscurity and undesirableness.” Daisy huffed through her nostrils in disgust, then whirled and left.
It might not have been so bad if their conversation had gone unnoticed, but Margaret was aware of several groups whispering behind their gloved hands. Daisy had exited, so now their eyes were all focused on Margaret.
Great, she thought. Excellent.
Socially speaking, Daisy Knope currently had much in common with a three-day-old trout. If Margaret had any sense, she would have walked the other way when the lady approached. Now some of Daisy’s stink had unintentionally rubbed off on her.
Margaret was so consumed with thoughts of how to gracefully exit the ballroom—how long she had to remain before it wouldn’t appear that she was fleeing the whispers—that she didn’t see Callum approaching until he stood at her side, staring down at her.
“Why are you frowning?” he asked without preamble. He scanned the crowd, as if he held them all accountable for her lack of cheer.
“It’s nothing,” Margaret said quickly.
She ignored the small rustle of flattery she felt at his protectiveness.
Her mind whirled with what Daisy had told her, but Margaret’s most pressing need was to remove herself from attention.
Callum standing so close and speaking to her wasn’t helping in the least. And this certainly wasn’t the time to warn the fellow about what Daisy had planned.
“Are you certain?” he said.
“I assure you, I’m fine.” Margaret glanced around to find that Callum’s female followers had blocked many of the possible exits. She’d have to elbow her way through—assuming Callum didn’t walk with her.
“For if someone’s done something to upset you—”
“For goodness’ sakes, Callum,” she snapped, more loudly than she’d intended.
He grinned down at her.
She frowned up at him. “What?”
“It’s the first time you’ve used my first name in public,” he said. He glanced up and his grin deepened. “Even better, several ladies seem to have overheard.”
“No.” Margaret felt the color drain from her face.
She turned to survey the room and found Callum was right—the groupings who’d only moments ago been discussing Daisy’s abrupt departure were now consumed with a different topic.
“Perhaps they’re discussing something else. Something interesting that has nothing to do with either of us?” she said weakly.
“I don’t think so. That young lady just stamped her foot while she was staring at us.”
“Who?” Margaret resisted the urge to turn and check for herself.
“I don’t know; I haven’t bothered to learn any of their names.” He shrugged, then chuckled.
“This isn’t funny,” Margaret said, trying desperately to fan the high color from her face.
“Well I’m vastly amused, though I wouldn’t presume to advise you on what you should find funny.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” His voice is a low rumble, just loud enough for Margaret alone to hear.
“What is your purpose in being here?”
“At this ball, in London, or on the earth in general?” he asked. Before she could open her mouth to answer, he continued, “Though it hardly matters. Whatever question you were asking me, I feel my answer is the same. I’m here for you, Margaret.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Pardon?”
“I’m here for you. I’ve made that fairly obvious.” His tone was patient, his cadence careful, as if Callum wanted to make sure that she heard him correctly.
But that hardly helped her understanding of the words.
Callum glanced around the room; Margaret reflexively did the same. There were many clusters of ladies watching with unabashed interest, including a group of dowagers Margaret knew to be among the finest gossips in all of London.
To think she’d done so well at avoiding embarrassment for her sisters this Season—why, Margaret hadn’t spilled a single glass of punch or fallen on the dance floor once! And now she’d undone it all in the span of fifteen minutes.
If Daisy storming away from her wasn’t enough, Margaret had shared a very public conversation—bordering on argument—with the most eligible bachelor of the Season. And she’d called him by his first name. Loudly.
“I fear I’ve made a scene,” she murmured. “Everyone will be speaking of this. I’m sorry, Callum.”
“Whatever for?” He frowned. “Margaret, all I’ve ever wanted is for you to feel free to be yourself around me. It would hardly be fair if I then condemned you for it. Furthermore, in this room, there’s only one person’s opinion I care to hear. And that’s you, of course.”
Callum truly seemed to mean his words; he didn’t appear discomfited in the least. Margaret found that despite all her best efforts, a spark of hope had kindled within her in regards to Callum. She couldn’t help it—not under his constant, gentle attentions.
He grinned down at her. “Besides, if there is a rumor going around on the morrow, we can just blame it on Matilda.”