“I’ll be here right after breakfast; will that suit?”
“Yes. We’ll have tea and get dressed together. And Mother’s lady’s maid is a marvel with hair. I’m thinking fresh cut flowers from our gardens should do the trick.”
“You’ve gone to so much trouble on my account,” Margaret said.
“Nonsense. It’s what I love to do,” she said in a wistful tone. “Just as you love music and composing. Now look, what do you think?”
Margaret turned to face the large oval mirror one of the footmen had brought in. She did look smashing. The cut of the gown highlighted her small waist and made her bosom seem larger. Romy was truly a wizard to accomplish such a thing. She moved back and forth, watching the way the silk moved about her body.
“I like the way the sleeves flutter about. Very pretty.”
Margaret jumped with a squeak at the words and turned to the door.
Welles leaned against the wall, eyes hooded as his gaze ran slowly down the length of her body, as if he were touching each bone beneath her skin.
Her palm fell over her madly fluttering heart, begging it to cease such foolishness at the sight of him.
“Tony, do knock before you enter when I’m …doing things,” Romy chastised him. “What if Miss Lainscott,” her tone became formal in front of her brother, “had been…in a state of undress?”
Phaedra rolled her eyes and shot Welles a look. “She means Miss Lainscott may have been in her underthings.”
“Thank you for the clarification.” Tony winked at his youngest sister.
Phaedra gave him a roguish wink back.
“Hello, Tony.” Theo looked up with a frown. “Don’t encourage her.” She nodded to Phaedra.
“My apologies to Miss Lainscott.” Welles didn’t sound at all contrite as he strolled further into the parlor. His eyes never left her as Romy continued to fluff the hem.
This would be the moment she should throw a witty quip his way, or better yet, ignore his presence completely. He deserved no less after the scandalous request he’d made of her. But instead, all she could say was, “Good day, Lord Welles.”
He’d been out riding, she surmised, viewing the fawn-colored leather breeches topped by yet another jacket of indigo, cut sharply over his broad shoulders. She was quickly coming to realize he rarely wore anything other than dark colors. Margaret’s eyes fell away from him, afraid her attraction to Welles would not go unnoticed by the others in the room. She took in the black Hessian boots, her gaze moving up to the muscle lining his thighs, so apparent beneath the snug fit of his riding breeches.
Indecently tight.
Heat curled low inside Margaret at his approach, something that happened with increasing regularity whenever he appeared. It made her feel unbalanced. Unsettled.
“Hello, demon.” He walked over and pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of Phaedra’s head. “I’ve been informed that I must serve as escort to Lady Masterson’s garden party.” He was speaking to Romy, but his eyes never strayed from Margaret.
“I wondered if you would attend,” Romy said.
“Your mother is very persistent when she wishes to be.”
Margaret pretended to adjust one of the sleeves, not wishing to dwell on the fact Welles would not only be in attendance, which she’d expected, but he would be escorting them.
“Lady Masterson had pressured me to attend, though I refuse to dress as a twig or a rabbit.” Welles’s eyes pressed into Margaret. “Besides, my friend Carstairs will be there, and I’ve not seen him in some time. He is intent on dressing as a stag, complete with antlers, making it easy for any hunter to spot him.”
Margaret’s lips tightened, refusing to be drawn into his teasing. “What a clever costume Lord Carstairs has decided on.”
The humming in Margaret’s blood increased to a dull roar as Welles tilted his head, pretending to admire his sister’s handiwork. “Nicely done, Romy. I believe Miss Lainscott makes a lovely iris.”
Warm honey wrapped around Margaret’s spine.
“Finally, someone sees my vision.” Romy bestowed a smile on her brother, pins sticking from her mouth, before she bent again to the hem.
Welles was so close to Margaret she caught a whiff of the soap he’d used to shave, along with tobacco and leather. The combination of the three created a wholly masculine scent which was all Welles. It filled her nostrils, calling to Margaret on some primal level, making her knees weak. She wobbled on the small box she stood on, nearly falling off.
Romy gave a puff of exasperation and tugged back on the hem. “One more moment. I beg you. Don’t move.”
“If you should fall, Miss Lainscott, I’ll catch you.” Welles circled her like a big cat, purring and begging to be stroked, eyes sparkling like the rarest of sapphires. “I do apologize.” His voice lowered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Do be still.” The words were completely innocent, but to Margaret’s ears, they were imbued with the slightest hint of wickedness.
Good Lord, he’s right. I assume everything he says to me is improper.
His face was very near hers. Gold flecks floated in the depths of his eyes like tiny bits of the sun or the stars. Dark lashes brushed against his cheeks as his eyes fell first to her mouth, then the tops of her breasts. One elegant fingertip skimmed lightly over the silk of her skirts.
Margaret inhaled sharply as heat curled between her thighs.
“There.” Romy came to her feet. “I’ll finish the hem and the work on the bodice in plenty of time before Lady Masterson’s.” She waved Welles in the direction of the door. “Tony, Miss Lainscott needs to change. Shut the door behind you.”
Welles held Margaret’s eyes a moment longer before he bowed and moved in the direction of the door. Mortified at her body’s response when all Welles had done was come near her, Margaret looked away from him. He hadn’t even touched her. Not really.
Phaedra popped up in the chair, apple core in hand, to tug at his coat sleeve. “Tony, come up to the conservatory. I’ve been practicing a new piece I would love for you to hear. Olivia is out with Mama so you can’t hear the flute, but even so, I think you’ll like it. Miss Lainscott says I’m quite good.”
“I should like nothing better, demon,” he replied with affection.
Phaedra fairly skipped out of the parlor. “I’ll have Pith bring us refreshments.”
Margaret avoided looking at him until the humming in her skin halted and the door clicked shut. Hopping off the ottoman, she lifted her skirts, careful not to dislodge any of Romy’s carefully placed pins, and tiptoed to the decorated screen in the corner to change.
Romy was talking to herself as she picked up some discarded pins and bits of thread from the floor. She never once glanced toward the screen; she was too busy debating with herself on whether to add lace to the edge of the gown’s bodice.
Margaret breathed a small sigh of relief. Romy hadn’t picked up on the tension floating in the air between Margaret and her brother. Phaedra had been too absorbed in her apple. Satisfied no one had noticed, she dipped behind the screen only to catch sight of Theo.
Welles’s mysterious middle sister had lowered her paintbrush and was watching Margaret, a smile tugging at her lips.
9
The streets of London faded from view to be replaced with countryside as the ducal carriage neared Lady Masterson’s small estate outside the city. Dressed again in a coat of indigo, Welles had arrived on time to escort the duchess, Romy, and Margaret. Romy had protested her brother’s lack of a costume, but Welles only shrugged and said again that he’d no interest in appearing in public as a woodland animal.
Margaret took in the dark blue of his coat, the buff trousers and boots, everything elegantly cut and exquisitely tailored, but free from any sort of embellishment. He could have easily been a barrister or a wealthy merchant rather than a future duke. But no one would ever mistake him for either of those. Ordinary gentlemen didn’t look like Welles. Nor did most of the titled ones.
Romy and the duchess kept up a steady stream of conversation, requiring Welles to interject occasionally while Margaret listened. Every so often he would glance in her direction, but he’d not spoken to her directly, not beyond the polite greeting he’d murmured as he’d handed her into the coach.
Margaret told herself she didn’t miss his teasing.
The duchess looked out the window and clapped her hands in pleasure. “I’d no idea Lady Masterson was hiding such a treasure only an hour’s ride from London,” she exclaimed as the carriage pulled onto a winding drive. A lawn stretched out from a lovely stone two-story house sporting profusions of blooms hanging from every window.
Margaret wasn’t certain what she’d been expecting as she exited the carriage behind Romy and the duchess. Her vision of a garden party was limited to the few she’d attended in Yorkshire where elderly women showcased their hothouse orchids and won a ribbon for a splendid tasting pie.
Lady Masterson’s garden party was quite different.
Several gentlemen and ladies were bowling on the lawn while liveried servants ran to and fro. The grass further down the rise had been cut to resemble a large chessboard. A dozen guests, sporting either a black hat or a white hat as they were “moved” about by the two teams played a friendly game of chess. Cards were being played under one tent. Everywhere, servants circulated carrying trays heavy with refreshments.
The hostess, golden and beautiful, was far younger than the Yorkshire matrons by several decades. Lady Masterson was closer in age to Margaret and already a widow, as the late Lord Masterson had died several years ago. She stood boldly at the entrance to her lavish gardens, daring anyone to remark on the bright fuchsia gown hugging her voluptuous curves with its scandalously low-cut bodice. Fat, golden curls, woven with tiny rosebuds, fell about Lady Masterson’s shoulders in artful disarray as she greeted her guests, the flat American accent drawing looks of disdain.
Lady Masterson was quite something.
At their approach, she gave a little wave with one gloved hand and excused herself from the group of guests she’d been speaking to.
Welles, a smile crossing his wide mouth, bowed and took her hand, brushing his lips across the knuckles.
“Lord Welles, how kind of you and the rest of the Beautiful Barringtons,” she arched one plucked eyebrow, “to grace my little party.” Lady Masterson dropped his hand and executed a perfect curtsy before the duchess. “Your Grace, I’m so pleased you could come. Lady Andromeda.”
The duchess took her arm and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Georgina, the name is likely to stick if you keep referring to us as the Beautiful Barringtons, and you know how little I care for notoriety.”
“Your Grace, every single Barrington is a sight to behold, even Theodosia who lives beneath the eaves.”
“Or Leo?” Margaret heard Welles say under his breath.
The only sign Lady Masterson heard him was a slight tightening of the smile on her lips.
The duchess laughed. “There are some who grow concerned I’ve locked Theo in her room as some sort of punishment. I need no more gossip directed at us.” She gave a discreet nod in Welles’s direction.
“Better a nickname extolling your family’s beauty than the alternative. I speak from experience. I’ve several nicknames myself.” Lady Masterson smiled. “Though I won’t repeat them.”
“Oh, do tell, Lady Masterson,” Welles said.
Lady Masterson swatted him affectionately with her fan.
Margaret watched the interplay between the three. It was clear Lady Masterson was a friend of the family from the affectionate way the duchess spoke to her. But what of the beautiful widow’s relationship with Welles?
Jealously pricked her, unexpected and sharp.
“You must be Miss Lainscott.” Lady Masterson turned and greeted her.
Margaret bobbed. “Lady Masterson. Your gardens are lovely.”
“How kind of you to come to my party.” She leaned closer and Margaret was enveloped in a cloud of something floral. “And kinder still for not bringing your aunt.”
“The pleasure is mine.” It was impossible not to like Lady Masterson.
After conversing with the duchess and Romy for a few more minutes, Lady Masterson looked up at a pair coming up the lawn. Her expression became coldly polite before she excused herself to greet them.
The gentleman was tall and gaunt, almost stork like. Thick salt and pepper hair was combed back from a broad forehead and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The lady clutching his arm reminded Margaret unpleasantly of her aunt. She had the same judgmental look in her eyes as she scanned the lawn full of guests. The moment she spotted Lady Masterson, her lips curled in a sneer.
“What a sour pair,” the duchess said under her breath. “Why did she invite them? More importantly, why attend?”
“A perverse sense of self-punishment perhaps? The new Lord Masterson doesn’t care for his uncle’s widow and makes no effort to hide it,” Welles said.
“No, he does not.” The duchess’s lips pursed into a grimace. “He should be grateful Georgina’s dowry saved the earldom for him. Otherwise he’d have nothing but a debt-ridden title.”
“Yes, but he didn’t get everything,” Welles said with a tic of his lips. “For instance, this estate. What he can never have, displayed so beautifully under the guise of a party. I think perhaps that was Georgina’s purpose all along.”
The duchess didn’t take her eyes off the new Lord Masterson. “Do not expect him to attend my upcoming ball. He won’t receive an invitation.”
Welles nodded in the direction of one large, striped tent where servants were entering and leaving with flutes of champagne. “If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I’ll see if Georgina is serving anything other than champagne.”
He took his leave without another glance at Margaret.
She watched his broad-shouldered form disappear in the direction of the tent, missing his presence immediately.
Lifting her chin, Margaret reminded herself sternly she wasn’t at the garden party for Welles. And his relationship with Lady Masterson, no matter what it may be, was none of her affair. Margaret was here to entice Lord Carstairs. She’d been up half the night concocting various anecdotes on hunting based on the book she’d filched from Lord Dobson’s study and her observances of what little grouse hunting her father had done. At least she wouldn’t have to fabricate Walter Lainscott’s two dogs, Andy and Jake.
“Come, Miss Lainscott.” The duchess touched her arm. “Let us see and be seen.”
Romy linked her arm with Margaret’s as they followed in the duchess’s wake. Welles’s sister was especially lovely today in a shimmering gown the color of charred toast which she’d cleverly stitched with irregular folds to resemble the bark of a tree. Her sleeves, in contrast to Margaret’s, were tailored to fit her slender arms with strategically placed fabric leaves, acorns, and even a small bird sewn into the silk.
“You are masterful with a needle, Romy.” Margaret squeezed her friend’s hand. “A true artist.”
“Thank you,” Romy said. “But unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to practice my art, as you call it. Perhaps, if I never marry, I could set up my own modiste shop.”
“You’re a duke’s daughter,” Margaret said, bestowing a smile on the younger girl. “Isn’t marriage a requirement?”
Romy shrugged, her attention taken by the gown of the woman before them. “Yes. More’s the pity. I’ll be expected to make an impeccable match, preferably to one of the few dukes floating about London. Most are at least three times my age, and the few that aren’t elderly, I find distasteful.”
She dropped Margaret’s arm and took out a small notepad and pencil hidden in the pocket of her gown. The duchess had paused to speak to someone she knew which gave Romy a moment to sketch discreetly. She looked up and frowned, her pencil stilled, gaze focused.
Margaret followed her line of sight directly to a stilted looking gentleman with c
oal-black hair. A scowl marked his features, turning his lips down in an ugly manner.
“He’d be far more attractive were he not frowning,” Margaret said. The man was striking in a wild sort of way, and coldly austere, possessing none of the elegance that imbued Welles so effortlessly.
She clenched her hands, resolutely pushing Welles aside and conjured up an image of Carstairs. Or at least as much of him as she could recall.
“Gloomy Granby.” Romy nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “There’s one of the last unwed dukes in all of England. I pity the woman who attracts his attention. An iceberg possesses more warmth.” Romy tugged at Margaret’s hand. The duchess was on the move.
Margaret took in the beauty of Lady Masterson’s garden party, wondering at the young widow’s vision in planning the event. The women attending were dressed in every color under the rainbow, drifting about the lawn like a mass of peonies, roses, and daisies all having escaped the confines of their carefully maintained flower beds. The duchess was much sought after, many of those present wishing to renew their acquaintance with her and ask after the duke. It was clear the duchess hadn’t left her country estate for some time due to the ill health of her husband. Romy and her mother both spoke in glowing terms of the duke and with much affection, in sharp contrast to Welles. The mere mention of his father brought a scowl to his face.
She wondered what had happened between Welles and the duke to cause his sentiments to be so different.
Margaret smiled so much in the next several hours, her cheeks began to ache. Few of those she met recognized or remembered her until she mentioned her aunt’s name. She supposed that was fair; to be honest, Margaret didn’t remember any of their names either.
Scanning the gardens, she struggled to remember what Carstairs looked like. All she could recall was light brown hair and a vacant expression. Finally, thanks to Welles’s previous description of his friend’s costume, she spotted him. It was impossible to miss the antlers rising above the shoulders of the small group surrounding him. Excusing herself from Romy’s side, Margaret struck out for Carstairs intent on reintroducing herself. It was bold, true, but they had met previously.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 7
