“Ponsonby, the Earl of Killin,” her father repeated. “You’ll be a countess, mistress of a castle set on the banks of Loch Tay. Of course it’s a bit run-down, in need of your dowry to fix it up, and the Killin title isn’t as prestigious as ours, but it’s a venerable one. And as for his side of the bargain—well, it’s what I would call serendipity. Our estates have lots of sheep. He has woollen mills. In more ways than one, it will be a marriage made in heaven. So, what do you say?” he concluded with a rare smile. “Haven’t your mother and I done well by you?”

Horrified, knowing her feelings would be writ large across her face, Margaret prevaricated. “I had no idea he was interested.”

“Why would you? He’s a perfect gentleman; he wouldn’t dream of fixing his intentions with you until he’d spoken to me. I’m very glad he did. Just between ourselves, he was already in our top five.”

“You actually had a list?”

“Choosing your husband is the single most important decision we have to make for you as parents, and we set about it with due diligence.”

Margaret tried to imagine her parents, closeted together in Papa’s study, working their way through the runners and riders, but this was no laughing matter. Whether or not she and her prospective suitors shared any interests or, heaven forfend, found each other attractive or even liked each other would not have been taken into consideration.

“What does that pained expression mean? Come on, out with it.”

Papa’s tone was considerably less indulgent now. She braced herself. “I am so sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t like Killin.”

“You don’t like him?” Papa’s face was set, his expression forbidding now. “There is plenty to like about him, is there not, Charlotte?”

Taking her cue, Mama launched into a rhapsody about Killin and all his husbandly qualities.

Margaret couldn’t argue with any of them. “It’s the way he clears his throat,” she exclaimed when her mother finished her encomium. “Just before he speaks, he makes this really irritating noise—”

“Margaret! You do realise that is the most preposterous—”

“I don’t like him, Mama, and I’m certain he doesn’t like me either. Or if he does, he’s certainly done an excellent job of concealing the fact. He is so—so cold.”

“You mean he does not wear his heart on his sleeve as you do. A modicum of reserve is no bad thing.”

“He has vast reservoirs of it! Enough to drown me. Please, I beg you don’t make me—”