It was that, the thought of that incredibly annoying little habit he had and surely the most preposterous reason in history for calling off a betrothal, which decided her. If she returned to the ballroom, she knew she would be lost. Her courage would desert her, and before she knew it, the announcement would be made. On the other hand, if she stayed here hidden in the garden long enough, then her parents would have no choice but to finally put an end to her suffering. They would never forgive her, but on the bright side, neither would Killin. More importantly, if she went through with this engagement, she’d never forgive herself.

Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.

Repeating that one heartfelt phrase to herself over and over, Margaret hoisted up her crinoline, turned her back on the ballroom, and hurried towards the shrubs at the very edge of her father’s property.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the sooty concoction that blackened her lashes, blinding her. The scent of expensive tobacco filled her nostrils just before she collided full tilt into a man idly puffing on a cigar. She would have fallen, set off balance by the contact with his solid bulk, had he not put his arms around her to steady her. The collision overset her shattered nerves completely. Margaret screamed, flailing wildly at him, attempting to kick his shins and stubbing her slippered toes in the process.

He let her go immediately. “Lady Margaret?”

She recognised the cultured Highland lilt as belonging to Donald Cameron of Lochiel, an acquaintance of her father and some sort of diplomat. “Leave me alone. Please, forget you saw me.”

Needless to say, he ignored her plea. “What in God’s name are you doing out here on your own in the dark? Your engagement is about to be announced.”

“I thought I’d just pop out for a smoke first,” Margaret replied witheringly, well beyond any attempt to be polite.

Startled, he eyed the lit cigar in his own hand, before dropping it and stamping it out. “You’re nervous and no wonder. It must be a daunting prospect, especially in front of the great and the good. Let me lend you my arm.”

He spoke to her as if to a child. Lochiel was very tall and sombrely dressed, the type of man commonly referred to as handsome or distinguished. However, like most men, handsome, distinguished or otherwise, he sported a beard, and one of the most objectionable types, too, known as the Newgate frill, which framed his face like a wiry ruff. “I don’t need your support,” Margaret snapped. “For pity’s sake, just leave me be.”

For one glorious moment, she thought he was about to do as she asked. “You need a little time to compose yourself, that’s all. I can understand that, but really, Lady Margaret, it will not do to keep everyone waiting indefinitely, you know.”