Accepting a cup of tea, Margaret bit into a flaky currant scone, so light it melted in her mouth. Her aunt’s cook was not nearly so skilled at baking. As she savored her treat, Margaret listened in rapt attention to the conversation around her.
The Duchess of Averell, she soon found out, had always been a patron of the arts. Her support of female artists was well known. She and Mrs. Anderson met when the latter had come to teach both the duchess and Andromeda, whom everyone referred to as Romy, the piano.
Mrs. Anderson rolled her eyes at the recollection. “Your Grace was kind enough to end her lessons after a time.”
The duchess burst into laughter. “And it was a kindness,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I was quite terrible. I believe my husband begged me to stop, promising he would gift me with a large diamond if only I would cease my attempts at playing. His late wife was musically inclined, and I had wished to impress him. My lack of talent, however, does not preclude me from encouraging others.” She nodded in the direction of Phaedra, who was licking frosting off her lip, and Miss Nelson. “Artistic pursuits should be nurtured, no matter what form they take, whether you are male or female. When I learned that all women, no matter their skill, were denied membership in the Royal Society of Musicians, I was outraged. An artist is an artist and should receive the support of their peers, despite their gender. When my dear Lucy informed me the Royal Society of Musicians would deny assistance to a violinist or pianist purely because that person was female, I was outraged.”
“Outraged is a much more polite term for my emotion at the time,” Mrs. Anderson chimed in. “Mrs. Mounsey and myself, along with another friend, decided to form our own society to assist female musicians in need. Her Grace has thrown her support behind us.” She took her friend’s hand. “And we are most grateful.”
The duchess blushed at the attention and squeezed Mrs. Anderson’s hand. “You shall always have my support.”
After tea, Mrs. Mounsey and Mrs. Adams saw themselves out with hugs and a thank you to the duchess.
Mrs. Anderson smiled and stood, patting her stomach. “My compliments to your cook on the scones, Your Grace. And I am so happy you could join us today, Miss Lainscott. I fear I won’t see you again for some time. I’m to start rehearsals for my next appearance with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.”
“Thank you for inviting me. I will look forward to spending another afternoon such as this.” Today had been amazing and Margaret would never forget the kindness of Mrs. Anderson and her friends. Nor of the duchess for having her. She was loath to leave the sunny conservatory and return to the exhausting task of avoiding Winthrop.
The thought brought Lord Welles and their conversation to mind. She hadn’t given up on becoming reacquainted with Carstairs.
The duchess walked Mrs. Anderson to the door, hugging her tightly. Margaret saw her nod as Mrs. Anderson said something in a low tone, then her gaze landed on Margaret.
“I fear I must take my leave as well, Your Grace.” Margaret stood, knowing she’d stayed far longer than was prudent. It wouldn’t be wise for Aunt Agnes or any of the servants to see Margaret sneak back to her room.
“A moment, Miss Lainscott.” The duchess motioned for her to sit back down.
Surprised, Margaret did as she requested.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself today?” The duchess picked up a delicate cup decorated with roses and sipped her tea.
“Yes, Your Grace. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a wonderful time. Thank you again for welcoming me into your home.”
The duchess eyed Margaret over the rim of her cup. “What do you think of the organization Mrs. Anderson has formed? I hope you’ll consider joining her and the other ladies when next they meet in my conservatory.”
“I would like nothing more, Your Grace. And I am committed to assisting Mrs. Anderson in any way I can.” Margaret would have access to a great deal of wealth once she married, which made it imperative she wed a man who would allow her to do as she pleased. Because it would please Margaret to fund the Royal Society of Female Musicians.
“I thought as much. You and I are of like mind in that regard. I hope I don’t shock you, Miss Lainscott, when I say I believe everyone, especially we women, must have a passion—something which is important and worthy of our time besides a husband and children. His Grace was not inclined to such an opinion when we first met.” She took another sip of tea, her voice softening as she spoke of her husband. “Though I am certain he feels differently now.”
“I agree, Your Grace,” Margaret said.
“That is why I’ve encouraged my daughters in their artistic pursuits. It matters not whether they excel or become noted for their accomplishments, though such a thing would be wonderful. What is important is that your passion feeds your soul, the part of you shared with no one else.” She smiled. “My family teases me about my obsession with Greek culture, but I find pleasure in seeking the truth hidden inside a Greek myth. I’ve studied the Iliad for years. Have you read it?” At Margaret’s nod, she said, “I learned Greek so I could read the original text without translation.”
The Duchess of Averell was not just a pampered, titled duchess. Margaret’s respect grew for her hostess who was not only kind but obviously of high intelligence.
“I’ve two young, musically inclined girls who should be encouraged in their pursuits, and not because such talent means I can trot them out to perform for a recital and hope to prove their worth to a potential husband.”
Margaret looked down at her hands, thinking of how Aunt Agnes had done such a thing to her.
A small sound of amusement left the duchess. “Only two, Miss Lainscott. I’ve officially given up on Romy’s musical talent.” Her eyes met Margaret’s. “Lucy tells me you compose as well as play the piano. What a magnificent gift.”
“I dabble, Your Grace. My accomplishments are well beneath those of Mrs. Mounsey.”
Margaret’s dreams were small. She wished to encourage a love of music in others, help other musicians when she could, and possibly publish her own music one day. A husband who made demands on her would allow none of that. Winthrop certainly would not.
She must have her music.
“Forgive me, my dear, if I am overstepping, but I am well acquainted with Lady Dobson.” A hint of dislike colored her words. “I feel certain you are not being encouraged and I doubt you’ve even a proper piano to practice on.” The duchess set down the teacup and leaned forward. “I think we may be able to help each other, Miss Lainscott. Lucy is so very busy and cannot visit often enough to provide the encouragement I feel certain Phaedra and Olivia need. And Romy cannot continue to accompany them on the piano; quite frankly, Phaedra has begged me to allow her sister to do something else.”
Margaret looked over to Phaedra and Olivia. The Duchess of Averell’s daughter was waving the violin’s bow about her head as she tried to make a point about something while Olivia nodded. She liked both girls very much.
“And you wish to compose, do you not? Wouldn’t you rather use our piano in the comfort of my conservatory? My cook does make excellent scones,” she added with a nod at the remains on Margaret’s plate.
Margaret’s eyes slid to the gorgeous piano in the corner. The sound had been sheer perfection.
The duchess noted the direction of her gaze. “It is a beautiful piece, is it not? I keep it regularly tuned. The piano was a gift to my stepson. A Broadwood. Wonderfully made. Certainly, the piano doesn’t deserve Romy.”
“Broadwood makes a very fine piano, Your Grace. The sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard. Even the piano I played at home.” Her voice faltered. Her mother had possessed a piano which Margaret had inherited, but it, like everything else, had been sold at auction after her father’s death.
“I have a proposal for you, Miss Lainscott. I would like you to visit twice weekly, more often if you wish. You will accompany Phaedra and Olivia and challenge them in their choice of music. Encourage them. You may also play and c
ompose to your heart’s content on that piano.” The duchess nodded again to the Broadwood standing sentinel in the corner. “I may ask you to continue Romy’s lessons. Infrequently,” she said in a hurried tone. “Oh, I know she’ll never be any good, mind you, music is not her passion. But Romy did promise her father to play a tune for him on his birthday, which is still some months away. She doesn’t wish to disappoint him.” Her eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. “My husband is in poor health, Miss Lainscott, and declines daily. Romy may need to find another way to please her father.” She blinked and bestowed a smile on Margaret. “At any rate, I know I’m asking you for a lot, but I’m hopeful the lure of the Broadwood and the use of my conservatory will be enough to entice you to return?”
It would be no hardship to accompany the girls on the piano, nor to offer encouragement. And showing Romy how to play a simple tune would be her pleasure. The Duchess of Averell’s proposal would benefit Margaret far more than her daughters. She snuck another look at the piano, knowing she would have to decline. It was doubtful Aunt Agnes would permit her to visit so often and for a reason other than being courted.
“I would love to do so, and your offer is incredibly generous, Your Grace. Unfortunately, my aunt —”
“You will leave Lady Dobson to me,” the duchess said firmly. “I know she wishes you to marry; she makes such clear to nearly everyone she meets. I’ve only been back in London for a short time and even I have been apprised of her determination. Never fear, Miss Lainscott, I shall throw my weight around a bit. I am a duchess, after all.” She gave Margaret a saucy wink. “You needn’t worry. I’ll settle everything.”
“My goodness.” The deep, husky baritone echoed from the entrance to the conservatory. “I expected to be greeted at the front door with some modicum of excitement. Instead, I was subjected to cooling my heels downstairs while a new footman who had no idea who I was went in search of Pith.”
Margaret’s eyes closed for a moment, reveling in the absolute beauty of his voice. What in the world was Lord Welles doing here?
The brilliant eyes scanned the room, landing on Margaret with a brief flash of surprise.
“Welles, darling.” The duchess’s face broke into an adoring smile. “I did wonder when you would appear.”
“Tony!” Phaedra flew at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Olivia came forward as well, and Welles wrapped an arm around her. “Did you bring me a present?” Phaedra grabbed at the lapels of his coat.
“Greedy chit. No, I didn’t bring you anything. I am your present.” He turned to the duchess. “What are you teaching these girls, Your Grace?” He kissed Phaedra’s cheek then Olivia’s. He whispered something in Olivia’s ear, and she giggled. Welles sauntered over to the duchess, bowing low over her hand. “Your Grace,” he greeted her properly.
The duchess offered her cheek for a kiss. “Have you brought Leo with you? Is he downstairs tormenting Pith?”
“No, Your Grace. But he sends his regards and eagerly anticipates an invitation to dine.” He reached across the table to snatch a tiny biscuit, popping it into his mouth with a satisfied sound. The rings of sapphire blue settled on Margaret though she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or annoyed to find her visiting the Duchess of Averell. Certainly, he was curious. “And what have we here? Is that Miss Lainscott hiding behind a cushion?”
“My lord, what a surprise to see you.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he’d be at Averell House at all. A man known for inhabiting Elysium didn’t seem the sort to stop by and have tea with a duchess.
Welles took her hand in greeting, sending a jolt of heat down the length of her arm. The long, tapered fingers gave hers a gentle, unexpected squeeze. “A pleasure, as always, Miss Lainscott.”
Unsettled, Margaret pulled her hand away with a small jerk.
The wide mouth ticked up in amusement; he clearly enjoyed her discomfort.
“I wasn’t aware you knew Miss Lainscott,” the duchess said to Welles.
“We’ve been introduced.” He sat down in a wing-backed chair directly across from Margaret, the length of his legs stretching beneath the table holding the tea tray. He was wearing a coat of deep indigo, a color that only served to enhance the beauty of his eyes. The material pulled against his broad shoulders as he reached for another biscuit, the sunlight catching across the brush of dark hair lining his jaw. He smiled at Margaret, his sensuous lips tilting in a way that made her stomach flutter. Welles was quite glorious, and he knew it. The females hovering about him in the conservatory only served to highlight his dark, masculine beauty.
And his voice. Margaret gave herself a mental shake. She was close to mooning over Welles which she refused to allow herself to do.
“Tony! I wasn’t sure you knew we had come.” Romy, a wide smile of greeting on her lips, strolled back into the conservatory. “Oh, drat. I’ve missed tea.”
“Welles has not yet eaten all the biscuits,” the duchess said.
Romy had a band around her wrist filled with pins. Bits of fabric and feathers, of all things, were stuck to her skirts. Going directly to Welles, she kissed his cheek, before turning and grinning at her mother. “Thank goodness. The biscuits are my favorite.”
Margaret stared, surprised at her own stupidity for not seeing what was right before her from the moment Welles had entered the conservatory.
The eyes. Welles’s and Romy’s eyes were identical, the same startling blue with the successively darker rings surrounding the iris.
This was his family. Romy, Phaedra, and the absent Theodosia were his sisters. The resemblance, now that they all stood together, was so obvious Margaret couldn’t believe she’d missed it. The duchess was far too young to be his mother. She had to be his stepmother. Margaret had known Welles was an earl, but he was also the son of the Duke of Averell.
No wonder he’s rather arrogant. He’s to be a duke one day.
“Miss Lainscott, I can see the proper introductions aren’t necessary as you’ve already met my stepson, Lord Welles.” The duchess looked between them, a question in her eyes, obviously trying to ascertain how the roguishly handsome Welles had come in contact with the plain heiress, Margaret Lainscott.
“We were introduced by the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, were we not, Miss Lainscott?”
“Yes,” Margaret assured the duchess. “At a house party given at Gray Covington last year.”
“You hate house parties.” Phaedra leaned over his shoulder and plucked at his shirt. She clearly adored her older brother.
“I do. Avoid them like the plague. But Gray Covington was on the way back to London. I was with Carstairs.” He put a slight emphasis on his friend’s name. “And Lady Cambourne invited me herself. No one disappoints the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. I thought it in my best interest not to be the first.”
“Carstairs?” The duchess’s lovely face wrinkled in confusion. “Oh, yes. I recall him. Your friend with the hunting lodge. I’m always concerned he’ll shoot one of his toes off the way his mind wanders. Or worse, think you a deer and aim in your direction.”
“That’s mother’s polite way of saying she doesn’t find Carstairs to possess a keen mind,” Phaedra piped up.
“Phaedra! I said no such thing. Pray, mind your tongue. We have a guest,” the duchess said, glancing at Margaret.
“Oh, I think Miss Lainscott discerned all she needed to about Carstairs after meeting him at Gray Covington, didn’t you, Miss Lainscott?”
Margaret choked on her bite of scone. “I find him very pleasant.”
“He is incredibly pleasant.” Welles slapped one hand against his thigh. “I’ve always said so. Doesn’t remind one of a pear or any other fruit either, does he, Miss Lainscott?”
Lord Welles was a horrible man. She should never have confided such a thing to him. “Not at all, my lord.” Margaret took another bite of what remained of her scone, hoping he didn’t mean to inform Her Grace and the others of her request to become reacquainted w
ith Carstairs, or of the reason.
“What an odd thing to say, Welles,” the duchess said. “Comparing gentlemen to fruit. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were foxed.”
“Not in the least, Your Grace. I was only making conversation with Miss Lainscott. Have you ladies been practicing your music? God, don’t tell me you’ve allowed Romy to torture my piano?”
Margaret momentarily stopped the chewing of the scone in her mouth. The Broadwood was his piano. And she’d spent the better part of the day with her hands on the gleaming keys, her fingertips caressing the beautiful ivory and wood. Almost like touching Welles himself.
The soft hum across her skin became more pronounced.
“No, I am thankfully relieved from duty,” Romy informed him. “I shan’t be distressing your piano any longer.”
“I can almost hear it sigh with relief,” he said.
“Mrs. Anderson visited and suggested Miss Lainscott might enjoy a day of music.” The duchess nodded to Margaret.
“Ah, the Royal Society of Female Musicians.” Welles tapped a finger to his lips, his eyes never leaving Margaret’s face. “How is Mrs. Anderson?”
Warmth bloomed across Margaret’s chest as Welles studied her. He made no disparaging remarks about the efforts of Mrs. Anderson and her friends, nor about Margaret’s involvement.
“Quite well,” the duchess replied. “She will be busy with her own commitments for the remainder of the year, but Miss Lainscott has agreed to accompany Phaedra and Olivia in her stead.” She nodded at Margaret. “Relieving Romy and, indeed, all of us.”
“How kind of Miss Lainscott.” Welles popped another biscuit into his mouth.
Margaret hadn’t actually agreed to Her Grace’s suggestion but from the look on the face of her hostess, the decision had been made for her.
“I haven’t yet seen Lady Cambourne since arriving in London,” the duchess said in a thoughtful tone. “I suppose I should pay her a call. She may be useful in garnering support for Romy.”
“Why do I need support garnered?” Romy plucked what looked like a feather stuck to the lace of her sleeve and shot her mother an exasperated look. “I thought you said I could spend this season just enjoying myself.”
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 4
