When they reached what she assumed to be the bottom, Welles finally spoke.
“Almost there.” Another door appeared, barely discernible in the arc of light from the lamp he held. Welles pushed the door with a hard shove of one shoulder to reveal a wrought iron gate opening into a lovely garden. A fountain bubbled before them and just on the other side sat a carriage and driver.
The moonlight cast Welles in shadow with only his profile visible. She held tightly to his hand, a part of her wanting never to let go. “Elysium has a garden?” she said to break the silence.
“Not open to our patrons. Only Leo and I use it.” He led her through the carefully maintained beds to the carriage. He dropped her hand and spoke quietly to the driver before assisting her inside.
Margaret slid back against the leather. The carriage held Welles’s scent and she inhaled deeply, taking comfort that a part of him would be with her as she returned to her aunt.
“No. You mustn’t.” She held out a hand as he tried to climb in beside her. “If I am caught, I’ll be in enough trouble. Please instruct the driver he needs to drop me a block from the house. I’ll walk the remainder of the way. You can’t be seen with me, Welles, for both our sakes.” She bit her lip, not knowing what more she could say. “Especially with my…upcoming plans.”
He raked a hand through his hair, frowning at her.
“Please, Welles.” Her voice broke. “If you care for me even a little—”
A disgruntled sound came from him as he looked away.
Margaret pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t have said that. It sounded as if she were begging him to admit to feelings he didn’t have. “What I mean to say is, I would appreciate it if you don’t interfere with what I need to do.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I should never have presumed upon our acquaintance in such a way nor asked for your help. I hope you can forgive me for having to be slightly dishonest in my dealings with Carstairs. I’ve little choice. All I wished was for my aunt to leave me in peace, allow me to become a spinster, and play the piano. But I threw up into my aunt’s rose bushes as Winthrop proposed. I cannot go the rest of my days doing such.” God, she sounded pathetic. Pitiful. Like the little mouse everyone thought she was. “And he doesn’t even own a piano,” she said with a small laugh. “Can you imagine?”
20
Tony didn’t wish to imagine Maggie wed to either Winthrop or Carstairs.
He should be thrilled he’d barely had to crook a finger to entice the object of his obsession into his bed. Maggie had climbed in of her own accord, with very little persuasion on his part. She’d come to Elysium, titillated by his improper request, just as he’d originally wished. Better yet, she expected nothing from Tony because she was intent on marrying another man.
A pinch of pain crossed the region of his heart.
Carstairs was honorable. If she managed to compromise herself with him, which Tony had no doubt she would, Carstairs would marry her instantly. Hell, Carstairs would probably have offered for Maggie on his own if Tony hadn’t interfered and sent his friend on a make-believe errand. Jealously had made him behave badly. The day he’d seen her with Carstairs at the stream had filled him with such an ugly, cloying jealously he’d had to leave abruptly to avoid doing Carstairs violence. Then he’d sent Carstairs to the country, inadvertently pushing Lady Dobson to betroth Maggie to Winthrop.
All Tony had wanted was Maggie away from Carstairs. He’d never even considered the cost to her.
What a selfish prick he was.
Just like your father, a voice whispered.
Another bite of pain crossed his chest.
As the carriage pulled Maggie away from Elysium and him, the awful tugging of his heart in her direction increased tenfold. He wasn’t even aware of the damn thing most of the time and hadn’t used it in years.
I’m bloody well aware of it tonight.
Surprising how much it hurt.
His cock hadn’t been the only organ engaged in the ruination of Miss Margaret Lainscott. Tony himself was compromised in a way he’d never anticipated. His fingers fluttered, still feeling Maggie’s slender hand in his, already missing her.
She wants Carstairs. His fingers curled into fists at his side. And it was just as well she did.
“Who is she?” The words floated in the night air along with the smell of a cheroot.
“No one,” Tony said to his brother. Leo was almost invisible in the darkness. “You should have announced yourself.”
“Why? And spoil your farewell? I also beg to differ. That was someone,” Leo said as Tony walked to the stone bench where his brother sat and settled next to him.
“It doesn’t matter.” In the grand scheme of Tony’s life, the virtue of an almost spinster who played the piano shouldn’t be of any importance, especially when weighed against the rage and bitterness he wielded like a sword against the Duke of Averell.
“I think it matters quite a bit. I think she matters.”
“Shut up, Leo.” Tony didn’t want Maggie to matter. That was the problem. “She’s just a young lady whom I was trying to entice into bed. I’ve decided she’s not worth the effort. I’m sure she’ll make someone an adequate wife.” He lied smoothly, hating the way his heart rebelled at his own words.
“Just not yours.”
“God, no.” He snorted. “The line of the Duke of Averell ends with me. My final revenge on our father. Besides, I’m morally bankrupt, as all of London knows. What would I do with a wife?”
Smoke hovered in the air from the cheroot before Leo said in a quiet voice, “He’ll be dead soon, Tony. When he is, will it matter that you denied yourself something you clearly desire?”
“Who said I wanted her? I’ve just told you—” Tony sat back. Sometimes Leo just needed to shut up. “I might say the same to you.”
Leo said nothing for a few moments. “My situation is much more fraught with difficulty. Who is she?”
Tony turned, trying to make out his brother’s features, so like his own in the dark stillness of the garden. For the first time, Tony had something he didn’t want to share with Leo. He was confused. Wounded and raw as if he were bleeding. More unsure of everything with each passing day.
“A dalliance only,” Tony heard himself say, nearly choking on the word. “I doubt I’ll remember her name in another week.”
“Who are you attempting to convince? Yourself or me?” Leo flicked his cheroot to the ground and tamped it with the heel of his boot. He stared at Tony for a moment, as if considering his words, before he said, “Nothing you do to the Duke of Averell will bring Katherine back.”
Tony stiffened at the mention of his mother. “This discussion is over,” he hissed. How could Leo bring her up?
Leo stood and made his way back inside Elysium, pausing beside the door to look back at Tony. “In all the years we’ve owned this establishment you’ve never once entertained a woman in your private rooms. Never played the piano for any female you were trying to seduce. I think that makes her someone to you, whether you realize it or not.”
21
Margaret shifted on her feet before the mirror as Eliza moved around her, putting the finishing touches on her coiffure. The pale gold silk had rows of tiered fabric, lined with brilliants, glittering in the light as the full skirts belled around Margaret’s ankles. She even had matching slippers.
Eliza gave a final pat. “There, that should do it.” The maid had arranged Margaret’s hair in heavy coils, pinned up in the back and threaded with silk cord. “The dress brings out the gold in your hair. You look lovely, miss.”
Margaret had to agree, for once not feeling the least plain or beneath notice. Tonight, she spun before the mirror like a fairytale princess. Or, more appropriately, a woman courting ruination.
I’ve already been ruined. Compromised. In the most beautiful way possible.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, whispering to her heart to be still. Her energies and focus needed to remain on the upcoming e
vening and maneuvering Carstairs into a compromising position, not on Welles.
She caught another glance of herself clothed in gold. The gown had arrived, swathed in mountains of tissue, from one of the most exclusive modistes in London. The note accompanying the box only stated the gown and matching slippers were a gift from the duchess, a gift she hoped Margaret would wear to her upcoming ball.
Margaret knew the moment she held the luxurious gown up to her shoulders that it would fit her perfectly. Romy already had her measurements and had probably shared them with her mother. The unexpected kindness of the gift touched Margaret deeply. She hoped after creating a small scandal with Carstairs tonight, the duchess and her daughters would still wish for her company.
Aunt Agnes was less than pleased that the duchess held Margaret in such affection that she’d sent her a gown but could hardly send it back without offending her. Instead, she satisfied herself with making disparaging remarks that Margaret’s skin would appear sallow against the gold of the gown.
Margaret kept her features composed and docile while her aunt threw a host of barbs in her direction, enjoying her aunt’s displeasure. Aunt Agnes would be even less happy after Margaret compromised Carstairs.
“Thank you, Eliza. That will be all. Please tell my aunt I will be down in a moment.”
As the door clicked shut, Margaret took a deep breath, or as deep as she could. Eliza had laced her stays incredibly tight. She wished she could play the piano, if only for a short time. Music would calm her frayed nerves. Thankfully, Winthrop hadn’t called today, although neither had Carstairs. Margaret’s fingers clutched the silk of her skirts, wrinkling the fragile fabric as a bolt of longing for Welles struck her.
Calm yourself.
Carstairs had sent a note, apologizing for being detained; he had left town on unexpected business. He begged her forgiveness for not sending word sooner and looked forward to seeing her this evening at the duchess’s ball. Margaret had read his message twice just to reassure herself of his attendance. Now she only had to figure out how to get Carstairs alone, somewhere private, and then make sure they were discovered. She hated to repay the duchess’s kindness to her with a scandal, but there was little help for it.
After returning to her aunt’s house without incident after the night at Elysium, Margaret had avoided visiting the duchess and her daughters. It was cowardly of her, to be sure, but she thought it in the best interests of her own self-preservation to avoid Welles. Tonight would be difficult enough.
Last night, she’d dreamt of playing the piano again for Welles, this time in a field of wildflowers. She’d been completely naked. He’d been smiling down at her, the blue of his eyes so startling, her fingers had frozen on the keys. Welles had tickled her beneath the chin with a daisy before his mouth fell on hers.
The woman reflected in the mirror before her was blushing furiously.
She clasped her hands and took a deep breath, determined to regain her composure. It was either Carstairs or accept a marriage to Winthrop. Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written a better tragedy. She would compromise herself with the friend of the man she was in love with, in order to avoid marriage to a gentleman Margaret abhorred. Aunt Agnes would be playing the part of the villain.
“Bollocks,” she swore softly, stepping away from the mirror.
Guilt caused a slight tremble in her hands. Carstairs would be happy with her, even if she had to trudge through every bloody stream in England carrying a wicker basket full of fish. It was a solemn vow Margaret had made to herself. Carstairs would not regret marrying her for a moment. She meant to be the perfect wife and partner.
Winthrop would be furious at losing her dowry and probably sweat more profusely than usual. The betrothal to Margaret hadn’t yet been announced nor the contracts finalized, so Winthrop would not suffer the shame of being jilted, though his feelings, if he had any, were the least of her concern. Miss Turnbull would not be pleased, but she would easily garner a score of other offers by the end of the season. Aunt Agnes would be fine as well, as she only wanted Margaret gone.
As Margaret made her way down the stairs to join her aunt, the sound of a male voice met her ears. Her slipper halted on the next step, refusing to move forward.
“There you are.” Aunt Agnes looked up at her. “We’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour, though I see the time has been well spent.” Her thin lips pulled back to show her teeth in a facsimile of an indulgent smile. “Doesn’t she look appealing tonight, Lord Winthrop?”
I’m not a bloody iced biscuit.
Margaret pasted a polite look on her face and a shy smile on her lips. She only had to endure him a bit longer. “Lord Winthrop. I didn’t realize you were joining us this evening.”
This was an unexpected fly in the ointment or rather, in the case of Winthrop, a giant pear. She hadn’t planned for Winthrop to be present for her little tableau tonight, but maybe it was for the best. Still, enduring his company when she was already so anxious didn’t make Margaret happy.
Her stomach pitched and she pressed a hand to her midsection.
Winthrop held out a gloved hand. “We’re to be married. Your aunt assured me it was proper for me to escort you both this evening.”
Of course she did. Margaret had to keep herself from knocking the blood-red turban from her aunt’s head. Devious Aunt Agnes. Why did she find Winthrop to be so suitable?
“How kind of you.” She kept her eyes downcast lest Winthrop see her distaste in them. Lately, Margaret was finding it harder to maintain her docile, timid manner.
Winthrop took her hand.
She swallowed in disgust at his moist touch.
“Margaret is quite recovered from her earlier illness. I believe it was the excitement over becoming your wife which led to her earlier distress,” Aunt Agnes assured him.
“I’m certain of it.” Winthrop flashed Margaret a bland smile, but anger tightened the lines around his mouth and eyes. She’d been correct. He was stupid and cruel, a combination found most often in wild pigs. He considered Margaret to have committed a grave offense by puking during his marriage proposal.
It was intended as an insult. So is the assumption he thinks I’d be pleased to marry him.
Winthrop waddled, girlish shoes turned outward so that he resembled more a duck than the pear he was, down the steps to his waiting carriage. He’d taken her aunt’s arm, pointedly ignoring Margaret, leaving her to trail a few steps behind. She took in the bottle-green coat and matching trousers Winthrop wore along with the feminine shoes and wondered if his valet didn’t burst into laughter when dressing his master. She thought the unknown valet’s care of Winthrop to be a much greater sin than Margaret tossing up her breakfast at his marriage proposal.
Entering the carriage, Margaret seated herself next to her aunt while Winthrop settled opposite them. He mopped at his brow, pushing the stained handkerchief into an unseen pocket and plopped down, rocking the carriage with his weight. He stretched out his legs in her direction, crushing the edge of her gown. Purposefully.
Margaret dared a glance in his direction.
Winthrop’s eyes ran over Margaret with unconcealed dislike, promising future punishment for all the ways she’d offended him. He couldn’t wait to make her miserable; she could see the truth of it in every line of his sweating body.
He detests me.
She looked away, pretending to observe the view outside the window.
“I don’t think a long engagement is necessary do you, Lord Winthrop? Given the age of the bride?”
Must Aunt Agnes sound so hopeful?
Winthrop gave a soft chuckle. “Margaret and I are mature adults. I’m sure a short engagement would suit us both.” He shot her a pointed look, daring her to object.
He is already calculating how to spend my dowry.
“And I would like an heir before the end of the year.”
The mere thought of Winthrop bedding her after she’d been with Welles was so repulsive Margaret
’s hand fell to her stomach to stop the sudden roll of nausea. She cautioned herself to remain perfectly still and keep her features composed.
“As well you should.” Aunt Agnes concurred, searching Margaret’s face for any reaction she might take issue with.
Margaret’s eyes fell to her lap, reminding herself not to flinch as they continued to speak about her as if she were merely a broodmare for Winthrop to sweat on.
Her eyes fluttered closed, remembering Welles pulling up her chemise, pressing his mouth to her skin as he moved up her prone body, worshipping every inch of her. She doubted Winthrop would show any woman such care.
Focus, Margaret.
She forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand, opening her eyes to see Winthrop watching her. His escort presented a small problem in that he may stick to her side like an immense burr beneath a saddle, perspiring over everyone, especially Margaret. She would need to escape his attention and that of her aunt for a short period of time to be compromised properly. The duchess would have gaming tables set up. Winthrop liked cards, though according to rumor, he wasn’t very good at faro or whist.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to think of how to get rid of Winthrop. If she was lucky, her pear-shaped problem would take care of itself.
22
Tony stepped into the Averell mansion and immediately into the embrace of his stepmother. Amanda smelled of lilies and powder as she offered her cheek for his kiss. She was resplendent in an emerald-green gown, her wrists and ears dripping with Averell diamonds. She even had a tiny tiara atop her red-gold hair.
“Welles. I’m so glad to see you this evening. I became worried you wouldn’t come.”
He was a trifle late, but not overly so. “I would never miss your ball, madam.” He took her hands. “You look stunning. I will have to keep an eye out for any rogues who may approach you.”
She blushed and shrugged off his hands. “My son, ever the charmer.”
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 15
