“I know.” His fingers gave a sharp, noticeable tug before stilling.
Suddenly her rod, propped up on the small brace of rocks, tumbled free and slid in the direction of the stream.
“Ho there, Miss Lainscott. It appears you’ve caught a fish.” Carstairs hopped up and hurried down the slight incline toward the rod.
Margaret looked away from Welles and stood. “It appears one of my lures worked,” she said, delighted to have possibly caught a fish. Walking down carefully to Carstairs, she took the rod only to have the line pull and the reel unwind before she could bring in her catch.
In his excitement, Carstairs took hold of her hands, helping her reel the fish in, while Margaret laughed. Carstairs smelled pleasantly of mint, and his hands were warm on hers, but there was no prickling of her skin or unsettling of her stomach at his nearness. Determined, Margaret intentionally brushed herself against him.
Nothing. Not even so much as an ounce of the heat only the sound of Welles’s voice instilled in her.
When Carstairs leaned over her to tug at the reel, the line snapped, sending them both to land on their bottoms on the grass in an awkward sprawl. Margaret’s bonnet fell off her head and she heard a slight tearing sound in the region of her sleeve.
Carstairs laughed. “Goodness, Miss Lainscott, are you all right?”
Margaret giggled. The entire day had been ridiculous.
Miss Turnbull, ever the good sport, laughed as well and ran forward, struggling to help them both up. Even their chaperone, Aunt Louise had a hand pressed to her lips to stifle her amusement.
Margaret looked toward the stream. Her line was long gone as well as the old fishing lure she’d found in Lord Dobson’s desk, stuck amidst several buttons and a lone cufflink. It had been a boon to find the lure. She’d claimed to Carstairs it had belonged to her father.
“Oh, dear, Miss Lainscott. You’ve lost your father’s lucky fishing lure.”
“My father had several, Lord Carstairs. I’ve others.” She’d have to search through Lord Dobson’s things again to find another. Or not. Carstairs wouldn’t realize she’d no idea how to fish or hunt until after they were married.
“My lord, Lord Welles begs your apologies. He was late for an appointment and had to take his leave,” Margaret heard one of the footmen utter. “The matter was quite urgent.”
“Oh, too bad.” Carstairs smiled his usual pleasant, empty smile, while Miss Turnbull looked at him in adoration.
Margaret stared at the empty spot on the blanket where Welles had been sitting. He’d left without telling her goodbye. It pained her more than it should have.
14
Nearly two weeks later, sitting before the Broadwood at Averell House, Margaret wondered if she’d mistaken Carstairs’s interest. Or perhaps after their fishing excursion, Miss Turnbull had managed to truly sink her hooks into him. She went over their conversation repeatedly at the stream and there was nothing to indicate he wasn’t interested in pursuing her further. Before entering the carriage to take them all home, Carstairs had made a point to pull her aside and ask if she would be present at the duchess’s upcoming ball at the end of the month.
Margaret assured him she’d be there. But Carstairs hadn’t called on her nor had she seen him at the few events she had attended with her aunt since. It was as if he’d simply disappeared.
The only gentleman who did call on her was Winthrop.
Margaret’s fingers slowed. She refused to think of Winthrop.
She looked around the empty conservatory, glad for the solitude. Miss Nelson was suffering from a cold, and the duchess had taken Phaedra and Romy shopping. Theo was somewhere on the third floor behind the closed door of her studio, painting miniatures. Margaret supposed she should have gone home, but she’d no desire to hear her aunt mutter how grateful she was for Winthrop now that Margaret had ‘scared off’ Carstairs.
I didn’t scare him off.
Her right hand pressed several keys in succession.
No, that wasn’t right.
She tried another series of notes before pausing to write down the sequence in her composition book. Her sonata was beginning to take shape in bits and pieces, the melody accompanied by a swirl of purples, blues, and greens in her mind. But mostly a cacophony of blues, particularly sapphires and indigo. Which made sense because those shades were the colors Margaret most associated with him. She’d never before considered a person when music came to her; usually, it was a place or a series of noises, like the clopping of horses making their way down the street. Not even in the throes of grief over her father had Margaret written music specifically in his memory.
Only Welles.
“I guess that stands to reason,” she said out loud to the empty conservatory. “I’m playing his piano.”
“Indeed, you are.” The lovely baritone echoed in the stark silence of the room.
Margaret’s hands stilled on the keys as footsteps drew closer to her place on the bench. The air around her suddenly came to life, the hairs along her arms rippling in anticipation. Her body arched back unconsciously, wanting to be touched. “Lord Welles.”
A bare fingertip, devoid of gloves, gently traced the outline of her collarbone. The touch was so brief, she wondered if it was only her imagination.
Welles came around the bench to lean against the piano. “That’s the tune you were humming at the stream the other day.” His voice lowered to an intimate rumble. “Your sonata.”
Margaret’s entire core grew taut as a slow, languorous ache started to hum low in her belly. “Yes. You find such a thing odd? My writing music?”
“Never. I have a theory that while there are a select number of those who are gifted enough to play the piano beautifully, finding a pianist who also creates is far more rare.”
Margaret’s heart tugged again in his direction, this time more firmly and with purpose.
“I think that is more of a statement of your opinion than a theory, Welles.”
“Perhaps.” A wave of dark hair fell into one eye and he absently pushed it away. Welles was dressed in riding clothes, something he wore often and to great effect. Her eyes ran down the length of his legs. He looked smashing in leather breeches and boots. Not to mention he was looking at her in a way that caused Margaret’s insides to twist and tighten pleasurably.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Riding,” Margaret blurted out. Welles’s ability to make her lose her train of thought was unsettling, particularly for a woman who prided herself on being level-headed.
“Ah.” The heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
Margaret blinked, reddening at the thinly veiled innuendo. “I meant you were doing the riding.”
“Yes. You are making yourself abundantly clear, Miss Lainscott.”
“A horse.” She looked away. “Why must you do that? Turn the most innocent of words into something—”
“Improper?” He shrugged. “I suppose I can’t help myself, especially when I have the proper inducement. Why do you seem to notice it so often?”
Margaret narrowed her eyes. “I can’t imagine everyone doesn’t hear such—”
His wide mouth twitched. “How are things going with Carstairs?” he said, cutting her off.
“Very well, thank you.” She’d no intention of telling Welles that she hadn’t seen Carstairs in two weeks. Or that he’d virtually disappeared with no note to her, despite her best efforts.
“Then you probably won’t need this.” He produced a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon from his coat and set it atop the piano. “A gift to help you strengthen your lead over the fair Miss Turnbull. Poor Carstairs. He has no idea of the scheming going on behind his back.”
Margaret didn’t want to discuss Miss Turnbull. Or Carstairs. “That’s very thoughtful but—”
“Hopefully this,” he tapped the package, “will help your cause.” He leaned in her direction, so close his lips were mere inches from hers.
For the briefest moment, Margaret was convinced he meant to kiss her, but when he didn’t, she said, “I have things well in hand and have no need of your assistance with Carstairs. Or anything else, for that matter,” she murmured, her eyes lowering to his mouth before she caught herself. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Not even for the sake of your art? And you, composing a sonata? A pity.” His gaze ran up the length of her, lighting fire along her skin.
God, he was flirtatious. Charming. “Lady Masterson might have an objection to you proposing something so outlandish to me.”
“Doubtful.”
She’d been curious as to his relationship to the beautiful American for some time, even jealous though she hated to admit it. “Aren’t you—”
“God, no.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Nor is she my mistress if that is your next question.”
Margaret felt the heat nip at her cheeks. “I would never ask such a thing.”
“Of course not; you’re so terribly mild-mannered, you wouldn’t dare.”
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do, Welles.” She snapped the words at him like a whip.
“Ah. There she is.”
Margaret’s lips tightened into a line. He was very good at pulling away the cloak of timid invisibility she liked to wear.
Welles drummed his fingers lightly on the Broadwood. “In answer to your implied question, even if I had the inclination to wed, which I do not, Lady Masterson would not be a candidate.”
“Why?”
“The lady in question is already spoken for.”
“No, why won’t you ever wed? You’re the son of a duke.” He was not the only one who could find chinks in a person’s carefully constructed armor. “A duke must have heirs.” She’d been considering his reasons since their conversation at the pond but wanted to hear him admit it. “Even if that duke is you.”
The handsome features clouded over and a snarl lifted one side of his wide mouth. “Bearing children merely to perpetuate the lineage of a title which should die out is not something I’m interested in. Ever. And marriage holds no appeal for me.” Something like regret flashed in his eyes as he looked down at her before he abruptly pushed away from the Broadwood.
Away from her. Margaret had touched a nerve. Intentionally. “Welles—”
“I’ll take my leave now.” He leaned close until she could feel his breath against her neck. “Miss Turnbull can be a formidable opponent. She’s been after Carstairs for some time and is well known for her passion for trout and bass fishing. Perhaps this will help even the odds.” He tapped the package with one knuckle. “Good day, Miss Lainscott.”
His steps echoed in the empty conservatory, but Margaret did not turn around. As soon as the sound of the door closing met her ears, she took her hands from the keys and looked at the package he’d left. The idea of more studying to capture Lord Carstairs held little appeal. The thought of marrying Winthrop even less so.
Don’t you want to experience passion?
She did; that was the problem. Margaret shut her legs tightly against the sudden fluttering between them at the mere thought of playing the piano half-naked for Welles. He’d deliberately not mentioned such a thing to her again. She knew Welles wanted Margaret to come to him.
Margaret didn’t consider herself completely innocent, only inexperienced. Her plan, before her father’s death, had been to stay unmarried but not celibate. She had planned to take lovers, though her choices in the small village where her father’s estate lay were slim, to say the least. But in preparation, she’d purchased a copy of the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson. Margaret rarely decided to do anything unless she educated herself first. Sex was no different.
Harriette Wilson had been a courtesan of some renown and her recollections of her lovers were exceptionally detailed. Welles was wrong. Margaret knew something of passion, just not firsthand. She knew what sex entailed at the very least. Would it be so terrible if it were Welles who introduced her to such things? According to the gossips of London, he was incredibly skilled.
Her fingers banged against the keys.
Margaret liked Carstairs. He was a decent man. Honorable. She would have a comfortable life at his side though she doubted he would ever inspire the feelings within her that Welles did. But Carstairs was a far better alternative than Winthrop.
Her fingers flew to her lips, remembering the touch of Welles’s mouth, no matter how fleeting it had been. “I can’t believe I’m considering such a thing,” she said, standing up from the bench and gathering her things. “I’ve set my cap for his friend.”
She reached out, picking up the package Welles had left for her. The size and weight suggested a book. Wondering what sort of book Welles would bring her, she undid the ribbon and the brown wrapping paper fell away.
The Flyfisher’s Entomology by Alfred Ronalds
Margaret opened the book but there was no inscription, only page after page of fish and instructions on fly fishing. She shut the book with a snap, her hand lingering over the fine leather binding. He’d said he wouldn’t help her woo Carstairs, and yet Welles kept doing small things to ensure she would have what she wanted. Making certain she was at Lady Masterson’s where Carstairs was. Re-introducing them. Buying her a book on fishing.
Offering to show her passion.
The clock struck the hour and Margaret stood to gather her things, praying fervently that Carstairs had called while she was gone.
15
“Miss.” Henderson greeted her at the door with his usual mild dislike. “Lady Dobson awaits you in the drawing room.”
The drawing room? Alarm bells immediately sounded for Margaret. Her aunt only ever used the room for meetings of importance. Or intimidation. She handed over her cloak to Henderson but held on to her composition notebook and Ronald’s fly fishing treatise which she’d re-wrapped in the brown paper.
Henderson gave her a bland look, but his eyes darted to her hands as he clearly tried to discern what she carried.
“I’ll just put these away,” she said in a rush, hurrying to her room before the butler could stop her. “Please let my aunt know I will join her promptly.”
She didn’t want Henderson touching her things, especially not her composition book where she kept her music, and it would be unwise if he saw the book Welles had gifted her. Questions would be raised as to why Margaret was carrying around a book on fishing, and she didn’t want to add to what she assumed would be an interrogation or a lecture from her aunt.
Upon reaching her room, Margaret locked the door, thankful Eliza, her lady’s maid, wasn’t waiting for her return. She had suspicions Eliza was reporting back to her aunt, though Margaret couldn’t prove it. Margaret got down on her knees and slid partially beneath the bed, wedging both books between the frame and mattress. Satisfied the books were hidden and wouldn’t be discovered, Margaret smoothed her skirts and made her way to the drawing room.
Of all the rooms in her aunt’s home, Margaret hated the formal drawing room the most. She’d been berated in the lavishly decorated crimson and gold chamber more than once since arriving in London. The tasseled pillows and paisley damask covering of the sofa were stark reminders of Margaret being given over to her aunt’s care. Grief-stricken over her father’s death and devastated at being unceremoniously wrenched from her home, Margaret had been dumped into the drawing room to await the pleasure of Aunt Agnes. Seated on the sofa, the blood-red walls closing in on her, Margaret had faced the chilly reception of her aunt, a woman she’d met only once before. There had been no warm embrace. No condolence on the death of Walter Lainscott. Not a bit of affection was spared on Margaret. Instead, Aunt Agnes berated her for nearly an hour at the stain Margaret represented on the perfect lineage of her mother’s family. A shameful secret Lady Dobson had kept from the ton she now had to acknowledge.
“There you are, my dear.”
Margaret halted briefly in the doorway at the uncharacteristic cheery gree
ting, the hair on the back of her neck raising. Her aunt was never pleasant, at least not to Margaret.
Aunt Agnes sat perched on her favorite chair, an uncomfortable piece of furniture with little padding and a hand-embroidered silk covering. The stitching on the chair was so delicate and fine, one risked tearing the fragile depiction of roses climbing up the cushions with only the slightest movement.
Margaret avoided the chair as if it carried a disease.
Oddly enough, her aunt was smiling, a startling toothy grin which frightened Margaret nearly as much as the cordial greeting. Dressed all in blue, today’s turban held a large peacock feather sprouting from the center.
“Come and sit, Margaret. You look especially lovely today. The dress suits you.”
Margaret glanced down at the light brown day dress with its motif of acorns carefully stitched into the skirt and along the bodice. It was one of her favorites but had never elicited any compliments from her aunt.
Oh, God.
Instantly she knew why she’d been summoned to the formal drawing room. She should have guessed. The season wasn’t over yet but apparently, Aunt Agnes didn’t have any intention of waiting to see if Lord Carstairs would call again. Margaret swayed ever so slightly as she made her way to the sofa, her foot catching on the wooden leg so that she fell with a whoosh into the cushions.
I thought I had more time.
Aunt Agnes gave her a gleeful stare, the small, beady eyes snapping in triumph. A fresh pot of tea sat before her on the table, along with a selection of sandwiches.
Horrid woman. She can hardly contain herself.
A sharp rap sounded at the door of the drawing room. “Lord Winthrop.” Henderson, her aunt’s butler intoned, a hint of satisfaction coloring his announcement.
Aunt Agnes brought up her chin. The peacock feather waved at Margaret, tendrils fluttering with mockery.
The dreadful clomp of too large feet clad in ridiculous shoes sounded in the hall seconds before the twin odors of sweat and talc permeated the drawing room. Winthrop was dressed in burgundy velvet, far too rich and heavy for the warmth of the day. Moisture had gathered between his brows and atop his upper lip, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 10
