The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “I’m not on your list,” Margaret said. “I had an open invitation and I’m not certain—”

  “Your name and who you’re to see.”

  Margaret lifted her chin. What difference did it make if these two men knew who she was or why she was here? She doubted Elysium would still be in business if the employees were less than discreet.

  “Margaret to see Lord Welles.”

  “Margaret?”

  “Just Margaret. I’m here for Lord Welles.”

  The brute holding her arm cursed softly. “I’ll let Johnson know.”

  The man at the door shrugged and put down the ledger. “Inside with you then, miss.” He took her arm and led her through the doorway.

  Margaret swallowed. “Would it be possible to wait outside for him?” The cloak slipped revealing her naked collarbone and she pulled it tighter around her.

  He shook his head. “No. You wait inside.”

  Her escort barely took notice of the fact she was half-dressed under the cloak. She supposed in his line of work he’d seen things much more interesting than the exposed collarbone of a plain-faced spinster.

  Taking her by the elbow, he opened the door. A gangly youth leaned against the wall just inside, reading a book of all things. Her escort motioned for the young man to go outside. “I’ve got a package for Lord Welles I need to deal with.”

  The youth took one look at Margaret and then went outside.

  “Is Lord Welles here?” Belatedly it had occurred to her that he might not be here tonight. Margaret rarely made rash decisions, but in her panic about Winthrop and the horribly revealing discussion she’d had with her aunt, she’d chosen to come to Elysium without a second thought. She should have sent him word she was coming.

  “He’s here,” the guard assured her before opening the door to a small parlor. A fire burned in the hearth; shivering, Margaret immediately went to stand before the flames to warm herself. She turned to ask another question but saw only the door closing behind him.

  Margaret circled the room, taking in her surroundings. The furnishings were understated and elegant, the rug expensive and plush beneath her feet. A silver tray on a sideboard held a collection of crystal decanters, each filled with amber liquid. Walter Lainscott had liked scotch and Irish whisky, and the parlor at her home in Yorkshire had been filled with the stuff. Eyeing one decanter, she lifted the crystal stopper and sniffed.

  Scotch. Margaret smiled to herself.

  If there was ever a moment for her to have scotch, it was tonight when she desperately needed a bit of courage. Margaret picked up a glass and poured herself two fingers. She took a cautious sip and immediately started to cough and sputter.

  The burn down her throat left her gasping for breath but once her eyes stopped watering, a pleasant warmth spread across her chest. After a moment, she took another swallow and didn’t cough once.

  The door to the parlor opened and Margaret swung around, expecting to see Welles.

  The man who’d escorted her to the room, the guard, had returned.

  Margaret’s heart sank. Welles was here but didn’t want to see her. She cursed softly. How utterly humiliating. She would now have to go down to the street and call a hack.

  He looked at the almost empty glass of scotch in her hand. “This way, miss. You can pour a bit more and take it with you.” His tone and manner were much more deferential now that he’d returned. “Lord Welles has asked me to escort you upstairs.”

  Relief filled her. He was here and would see her. Margaret poured another finger of scotch into her glass. “Shall we?”

  “I’m Peckam,” he said, introducing himself as he led her up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor where a door opened into a narrow hall. Loud conversation, cursing, laughter, and the sound of a piano met her ears as they approached a wide landing. Margaret stopped to look over the side. The entire gaming floor of Elysium was spread out before her. Gentlemen milled around the tables in groups, occasionally escorting a well-dressed lady. Other women, clearly courtesans, fluttered about the tables, recognizable by their scandalous gowns and flirtatious manner. A tall, dark-haired man strolled nonchalantly about the tables, stopping here and there to speak to someone. She leaned over the rail to get a better look, certain it was Welles below her. Her eyes widened, taking in his waistcoat which was a dizzying swirl of crimson and green with an exorbitant amount of gold thread. She’d never seen him wear something so…outlandish.

  Her escort tapped her politely on the arm. “Come, miss.”

  “I believe Lord Welles is downstairs.” She pointed down to the man on the gaming floor.

  Peckam followed the direction of her finger and shook his head. “No, miss. That’s Mr. Murphy, not Lord Welles. This way, please.”

  So that’s Leo. Margaret’s eyes lingered on Welles’s mysterious half-brother. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but from a distance, he looked remarkably like Welles. The duchess and her daughters spoke of Leo often and with great affection, though if he visited, it hadn’t been when Margaret was there. She watched him for a moment longer, wishing he would turn her way.

  “Miss?” Peckam was waving her down the hall. The second floor was quiet once they walked past the landing. Muffled sounds came from behind the row of doors as she passed. Each door was painted a different color and numbered.

  The two ladies who’d preceded her into Elysium earlier came down the hall from the opposite direction. Giggling, with wine glasses dangling from their fingers, they stopped before one of the rooms and opened the door without knocking.

  As Peckam ushered her by, Margaret caught sight of a man, lying on his side, facing the door.

  The man was naked save for the mask covering his face and was quite…well endowed.

  The two women entered the room with another giggle and closed the door behind them.

  Margaret looked away, her cheeks flaming. Again, she questioned her wisdom in coming to Elysium. But after Winthrop’s proposal and Carstairs’s sudden disinterest, Margaret needed to see Welles.

  It was madness to be here, Margaret knew that. Scandalous. But she could still feel the warmth of Welles’s larger hand in hers at Lady Masterson’s party. How he’d told her about his mother. The press of his lips. The look of understanding on his face when she’d told him she heard music in the flowers.

  I want to be here. Her heart beat louder in her chest.

  As sure as she was that she would marry Carstairs, Margaret took no joy in it. He was only better than Winthrop.

  I want Welles.

  She and Peckam walked the entire length of the second floor to yet another set of stairs with a velvet cord strung across the steps. Two thuggish looking men stood guard before the barrier. The brute on the left, with a shock of red curls falling across his forehead, nodded at Peckam and lifted the cord for Margaret to step under.

  “Have a good night, miss.” Peckam made a short bow. “At the landing, take a right. Lord Welles’s rooms are at the far end of the hall.”

  Rooms? Welles lived here?

  Margaret climbed the stairs to the top, reaching a small landing. Two narrow halls led from the junction of the landing, with an enormous set of double doors at the end of each. She turned right, as instructed. One of the doors stood ajar as the notes of a Chopin nocturne floated out to wrap around her.

  Welles was playing the piano.

  Margaret stepped through the doorway and stopped.

  The room wasn’t overly large and was sparsely furnished, though even in the candlelight she could see the rugs and furniture were all expensive. A large, overstuffed chaise, the size of a small bed, faced the piano. Two leather wing-back chairs sat at angles before a fire blazing on the hearth; a small table sat between them. A sideboard filled with various bottles and decanters took up one corner. There was also a washbasin and a stack of towels. A bookcase lined one wall and was packed full of bits of paper, books, and ledgers. Above the fireplace, a painting hung—a landscape of a pond surr
ounded by thick woods.

  But it was the piano, and the man playing Chopin which commanded Margaret’s attention.

  Another Broadwood, she could tell by the lines and the sound even without seeing the gold lettering across the front. Welles had discarded his coat and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. The thick waves of his hair curled in disarray around the edge of his collar and the stark lines of his jaw. His hands floated gracefully over the keys as he bent forward in concentration. The Chopin piece was as beautiful as it was difficult. It was one Margaret played often.

  A bolt of longing struck her. For the piano. For him.

  Sensing her presence, his fingers slowed on the keys, the gold signet ring he wore on his pinky finger winking at her in the light. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat along with a light dusting of hair. Welles turned in her direction, a small lazy smile gracing the corner of his wide mouth. He was so beautiful sitting at the Broadwood, like Hades playing Chopin in the underworld.

  A delicious hum began beneath her skin as she approached the piano. Margaret felt dizzy, intoxicated by the sight of him. Or perhaps it was only the scotch. She set the glass down on the table.

  “Hello, Maggie.”

  Her nickname. He’d called her Maggie the day he’d interrupted her fishing with Carstairs. The ache inside her grew more pronounced. Her skin always hummed in his presence, the blood rippling with urgency through her body the closer she got. Her trepidation at coming to him dissipated, and the sight of Winthrop sweating in her aunt’s garden faded away to nothing.

  “Lord Welles.”

  “I was surprised when they told me you were asking for me at the door. Why are you here?”

  The deep baritone seduced her, skimming across the surface of her skin. Welles was one of those rare human beings who possessed an innate sensuality. She’d noticed that about him the very first time she’d seen him at Gray Covington. Every smile or careless gesture was imbued with subtle hints of his sexual nature, every movement of his body graceful and tinted with something erotic. The attraction Margaret had for Welles far outweighed everything else in her life, even eclipsing her passion for music.

  “I wanted to see you,” she whispered.

  A small wrinkle appeared between the dark brows. “What’s happened, Maggie?”

  She ignored his question. “You were playing Chopin.” Her fingers ran lightly along the top of the piano. “And you purchased another Broadwood.”

  “Technically I only bought this one. The piano which you play so often was a gift.”

  “I stand corrected.” Margaret found herself looking at his mouth. Like the rest of Welles, it was beautifully made.

  “I met him once, have I ever told you? Chopin. He visited London shortly before I met you at Gray Covington. I attended a soiree given for him at the home of James Broadwood.”

  “James Broadwood? The Broadwood? The piano maker?” If it were possible, Margaret was more intrigued by Welles than before. Tiny flutters swirled deep in her belly.

  He nodded, lips tilted. “I’ve finally managed to impress you. It’s been bloody difficult.” His fingers ran over the keys and the hint of the earlier piece came out. “All it took was a little Chopin. I suppose the book on fly fishing didn’t suffice?”

  “I haven’t cracked open the fly fishing book as of yet, but I’m certain it will make for riveting reading. And you lied. You do still play and very well, I might add.”

  A soft chuckle. “I hope it helps your cause. The book. And I never said I didn’t play any more,” he said. “I believe I declined to answer. But my talent is not like yours. You become the piano. I can only play it.”

  A memory flashed before her: Welles watching her perform at Gray Covington when she’d so horrified her aunt and everyone else with her passionate performance. He hadn’t been impressed with her playing.

  He’d been aroused.

  The realization surprised her. This gorgeous creature, one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen, wanted her. Her joy was eclipsed by the knowledge that he also didn’t want to feel so strongly about her. The thought was painful, but not unexpected after his remarks about his mother and the Duke of Averell.

  “Why are you here?” he asked again.

  “I’ve come to play for you.” She undid the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and lifted her chin. Her chemise was only a thin barrier of cotton between her body and Welles; she was certain he could see her naked form beneath. Her nipples hardened at the low growl of satisfaction coming from deep in his chest.

  “As you requested, my lord. Stockings. Chemise. Piano.”

  19

  Tony’s eyes trailed over every inch of the delicate, slender body barely hidden beneath the thin cotton of her chemise. He wondered if she had any idea of how…magnificent he found her. How he thirsted for her. His cock had hardened to marble in his trousers the moment Johnson had informed him Maggie was at the door asking for him.

  I sent Carstairs away. He wasn’t proud of himself for doing so. His friend’s abrupt disappearance had probably caused Maggie a great deal of anxiety. Is that why she was here? “The request I made of you was improper.”

  “It was.”

  Her eyes were huge and dark. Unfathomable. Maggie wore nothing but chemise, stockings, and a hideous pair of old half-boots, as he’d asked of her. Her breasts were small and exquisitely shaped, the tiny buds of her nipples pushing up against the worn cotton. The dark shadow at the apex of her thighs beckoned for his touch.

  “What will you have me play?” Maggie’s voice had gone low and husky. “More Chopin?”

  My cock. “Whatever you wish.”

  He stood and waved her toward the seat, struggling to keep from touching her.

  “You’re barefoot.” Maggie stared at his feet for a moment before seating herself on the bench.

  “I am.” He didn’t even bother to hide the heavy outline of his erection from her.

  “You have lovely feet,” she said before running her fingers over the keys to warm up her hands. “I didn’t know men possessed such beautiful toes.” A soft heartfelt sigh. “Much like the rest of you.”

  It was one of the most erotic things anyone had ever said to him, having his toes admired. It was all he could do not to simply toss her on the chaise and ravish her.

  The first notes floated up into the air as Maggie started to play.

  Her mind went blank. What sort of musical composition was deemed appropriate for a seduction? Margaret knew full well she wasn’t here to play a song and then have Peckam escort her out.

  The hum beneath her skin threatened to drown out everything else and her thoughts became lazy. Sensual. Every brush of the chemise against her breasts teased the hardened peaks of her nipples. Even the bench beneath her seemed to chafe at the backs of her legs and buttocks.

  The piece she would play came to her in a moment, accompanied by an insistent ache between her thighs. It was for him, after all.

  Two frail notes echoed in the room before she bent forward, allowing the music to flow into her veins, moving through her slender body as if a match had been struck to set her aflame. Greens and purples swirled before her along with great bursts of sapphire blue. The same color as his glorious eyes.

  All she heard was the music, the low vibration of the strings bursting through the keys to her fingertips. She could feel his eyes on her, sensed he was mentally stripping the chemise from her body, and exploring the curve of her spine. When she arched back, Margaret wasn’t surprised at the firm wall of muscle circling her. Welles straddled her on the bench while she played, his strong thighs trapping Margaret’s smaller body. His breath stirred the hair at her temples, his larger form curling around hers.

  When she bent forward, Welles matched each movement, his fingers running over the length of her arms, sending flames down through her fingertips. The burn of his lips pressed against her neck as Margaret struggled t
o focus on the music. His arm snaked around her waist, holding her pressed tight to the hardness at the juncture of his thighs. A warm hand cupped one breast, stroking the underside as if memorizing each curve before rolling the peak of her nipple between his fingers.

  Margaret whimpered as sensation shot from her breast down between her legs. Teeth grazed the side of her neck and she missed a note. The arm holding her loosened as the other hand trailed down the length of her hip gently tugging at the hem of her chemise. Another whimper left her at the touch of his fingers against the bare skin of her inner thigh. When he finally touched the swollen folds at the core of her, Margaret was already shamefully wet.

  A rumble came from deep in his chest. He bent her back slightly, like a bowstring, forcing her legs further apart. When his fingers traveled over her, teasing and stroking, Margaret hit several wrong notes in a row. When he spread her further and pressed two fingers inside, she gasped, struggling to remind her hands to move.

  “Don’t stop,” he whispered.

  Welles was everywhere, above her, around her, inside her. Each intimate press of his fingers drove her mad with need. He became part of the music because he was the music.

  Her music.

  His thumb searched and found the engorged bit of flesh hidden in her folds, a place Margaret had only herself tentatively touched. Stroking lightly, he nuzzled beneath her ear, the wide mouth whispering of his desire for her. When he pushed a third finger inside her and gently flicked against the small nub with his thumb, Margaret’s hands left the keys with a clang. She moaned, flailing against him while pushing her hips up to meet every stroke of his fingers against her flesh.

  “Jesus, Maggie.” Welles’s voice was rough against her throat. He pulled her back against his chest with a groan, lifting her thighs up until she was in his lap. His fingers continued caressing her until Maggie panted, begging him for relief.

  “Please,” she sobbed. Margaret’s entire body throbbed. The fire Welles had stoked within her burned beneath her flesh. His fingers left their ministrations and she heard herself cry out in disappointment. Perhaps Aunt Agnes had been correct, for the combination of Welles and the music had made Margaret a wild, wanton thing. She heard herself beg. “Please.”