“Averell sent me a congratulatory note. Did I tell you, Leo?”
“I thought he might.”
The note, written in his father’s shaky hand, had set a match to Tony’s already combustible emotions. He’d exploded, sending bits of verbal shrapnel all over the one person who least deserved it. Rage at his father and guilt over betraying his mother led him to accuse Maggie of conspiring to trap him in marriage. She’d stood fearlessly in the face of his hostility and with a smile on her face told him she preferred Carstairs.
Brave little thing. A bolt of longing for her shook him.
“I wondered what had set you off.” Leo shot him a look of empathy. “So he sent you a letter. What of it? You went to great lengths to marry her, but now you don’t wish to be under the same roof as she? Seems a waste.”
“We can have a politely distanced marriage. Many do.”
“True. But why marry her at all if you weren’t going to have her?” Leo shook his head. “You realize, Tony, that every impoverished, anguished artist with mediocre talent is sniffing about her ankles under the auspices of wanting her patronage.”
Tony knew his wife was carrying on splendidly without him, hosting small gatherings to discuss art and music, garnering a host of admirers. He received regular reports from Fenwick. Maggie had finally blossomed without him, earning a reputation as a charming and witty hostess in the weeks they’d been parted. Her true self had finally been revealed, and she was touted for it.
I always saw who she was. Always.
“Yes, she’s busy turning my home into a refuge for parasitic musicians,” he snapped at Leo. “What of it?”
“Especially one impoverished parasite by the name of Henri Bouvard.” Leo watched him closely. “I’m told he plays Chopin with much passion.”
Jealousy sparked and flared inside him. “She’s free to do as she wishes,” Tony heard himself say, knowing his brother was deliberately goading him. “As am I.” He’d tried to return to his former state of rakishness after their marriage, but Tony was having little luck doing so. Not one woman who propositioned him could play the piano, and only two possessed more intelligence than a potted fern.
“The duke is dying, Tony. Your wife is very much alive.” His brother shook his head. “For the love of God, go home. Christ, you’re miserable.” Leo stood and walked toward the door. “But if you are so stubborn as to stay, take my advice, and at least bring yourself a proper bed.”
Tony waved his brother out. “I’ve work to do. Your concern for me is duly noted.” He didn’t need or want his brother’s advice. What did Leo know anyway? Tony would be perfectly content living at Elysium, bed or not. He could avoid his wife forever. Pushing the conversation with Leo aside, Tony bent again to his task.
Another sharp pain of longing struck him.
He stared at the ledger before him for a good thirty minutes after Leo left him, not seeing the lines of numbers or lists of transactions.
All he saw was Maggie.
33
Her husband had returned home.
After weeks of living apart with no communication from Welles, Margaret had gotten used to her more solitary existence and her independence. She was content. Not happy, but happiness was overrated. Purpose and passion were what mattered.
In control of her inheritance, finally, Margaret had recently made a large contribution to the Royal Society of Female Musicians and had even hosted a very small, charitable event in support of the organization. She’d played the Broadwood, much to the admiration of the guests in attendance, although her performance lacked some of the passion with which she usually played. The colors of her music had become less vivid. Muted. Dimmed.
She blamed Welles.
Today after paying an overdue call to Mrs. Anderson, Margaret was greeted by Fenwick with the startling news that Welles was back in residence.
About bloody time.
She looked at the doors separating their rooms, wondering if Fenwick had been mistaken. No sounds emanated from behind the door nor did she hear Welles in the house.
Perhaps he’d only come back to collect his things.
The thought was as painful now as it had been on their wedding night, but Margaret refused to go to Elysium and retrieve her husband. If Welles was determined to be stubborn, so could she. After instructing Fenwick to have a dinner tray brought to the study and intentionally not asking after her husband, Margaret made her way downstairs. She often had dinner with the Broadwood before a warm fire, finding that doing so made her feel closer to Welles and helped heal the pain of the separation he’d forced upon them both.
She swung open the door, glad to see the fire was already crackling merrily in the hearth, and the candles lit. But there was no dinner tray in the usual place. Wondering if she’d beaten Fenwick to the study, Margaret turned, meaning to go in search of the butler.
“Hello, Lady Welles.”
Margaret halted at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t heard the low, rumbling baritone in so long, she thought, for a moment, that she’d imagined it. Ignoring the sudden fluttering of her heart, she turned and made her way to the piano bench, meaning to sit down.
“Were you expecting Henri, perhaps? Or another one of your destitute artists?”
“What are you doing here, Welles?” He’d been lying in wait for her, that much was obvious, but Margaret assumed he would choose the drawing room or even her chambers should he wish to speak to her. But not this room.
“I live here. Christ, what have you done to my study, Maggie?”
This was now her conservatory and to that end, she’d replaced some of the starkly masculine furnishings with lighter pieces of furniture and redecorated. The room was now all pale blues with only a touch of brown and she’d replaced the heavy velvet curtains with a wispier fabric.
She came toward her husband. Welles was glorious, as usual. He sprawled across one of the dainty chairs she’d recently purchased, his big frame far too large for the delicate piece of furniture. One long leg was hooked over the arm. There was no coat of indigo tonight, only a stark white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, half-tucked into a pair of leather riding breeches. Her heart twisted pleasurably at the sight.
“This is now my conservatory, my lord. I entertain guests here.”
“Oh, yes, your hordes of penniless musicians. Like Henri.”
There wasn’t anyone of Margaret’s acquaintance named Henri, but she didn’t bother to mention that to him. An open bottle of wine sat on a side table to his right; a Bordeaux. Welles held a glass of the jewel-toned liquid, while another sat waiting for her. Margaret picked up her glass and took a seat in the chair beside him. Her heart was beating madly, unsure what his presence here meant.
“I am a supporter of the arts.” She took a sip of the wine.
“I’m glad.” He gazed at her intently, as if considering what else to say. Welles was rarely at a loss to be charming or conversational. It was unlike him to be so hesitant with her.
Margaret stared into the fire. She was still hurt from their last encounter, bruised and bleeding from the accusations he’d thrown at her, even though she knew the source of his anger. The remnants of the letter from the duke, which had sent him from her, had been sitting charred in the fire grate for her to find after Welles left the house that night.
Welles reached out and took her hand in his, surprising her. He laced their fingers together. “I miss you.” The words were low and thick. “I don’t want to, but I do.”
The room grew silent except for the sound of the fire.
“Now would be the appropriate time for you to say you’ve missed me as well.” He turned to her.
“Why did you marry me, Welles?”
A log popped in the fire. “Because I wanted you,” he said, confused. “You know that.” The dark waves of his hair fell to touch his cheek. “All of you. Not only the naughty bits, although they are very lovely indeed.” A deep sigh. “I’m making a mess of this.”
“I don’t want you to be here in spite of yourself, Welles. I don’t wish to be the source of your resentment especially since I would have been perfectly happy with Carstairs.”
“Would you? Been perfectly happy? I think not.”
“If you have come to lay blame at my feet again, please rethink your position. We can continue to have a distant marriage. I’d prepared myself for such a thing before I met you. I find I enjoy my independence with no husband underfoot.”
He put down his wine glass and stood. For a moment, she thought he meant to leave her again, with the Broadwood and her hopes, but instead, he came to her, kneeling at her feet. His hands went to her thighs as he placed his head in her lap, nuzzling at her stomach.
“I was gone overlong,” he whispered, the words vibrating down between her thighs. “Forgive me.”
Margaret shook her head, all her pain over their separation coming to the forefront. A tear ran down one cheek. “You were,” she choked out before sinking her fingers into the dark waves of his hair. “We should talk, Welles. There are a great many—”
“No. Later. No talking.”
Hands dipped beneath the hem of her dress. The warm caress of his fingers traveled up her silken-clad legs to her thighs where he toyed with the tops of her garters.
The slow rush of Welles crawled up her skin, his very nearness more potent than any drug. Nothing between them had been settled, although apparently his promise never to consummate their marriage was about to be broken.
The warmth of his hand moved against the inside of her thigh. His fingers trailed through the soft hair of her mound, teasing the very top of her crease and the small bit of flesh hidden there, already swollen and aching.
“Lady Welles, it appears you are much happier to see me than you originally let on.” His finger dipped through the moisture coating her flesh. Gently he pressed two fingers inside her as Margaret shivered in response.
Her forehead fell against his shoulder. Brazenly she tipped her hips in the direction of his questing hand and heard a low chuckle in his chest. “I’m still angry,” she breathed.
“Good. So am I.” He lifted his chin, mouth seeking hers for an urgent kiss that spoke of his ultimate possession of her. Coaxing her lips to part, his tongue sought out hers, deepening the kiss until Margaret went limp. His mouth moved from hers. “But I won’t leave you again.”
Pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, Welles stood, despite her protests, taking her with him. His mouth trailed over the skin of her neck as he turned her to face the chair. “Get on your knees,” he whispered.
Shaking, Margaret did as he asked. Her breasts pushed against her bodice painfully, her nipples hard and aching. His hand ran up and down the length of her spine. “Stay, Maggie.” Fingers toyed with the delicate hairs at the base of her neck. “Don’t make me tie you,” he murmured. His lips brushed against her ear. “Though I admit, I wouldn’t mind doing so. Especially if I find out Henri is your lover.”
“Welles—” Why did he think she had a French lover?
“Is that why you came home?” She gasped as he started lifting her skirts. “Because you thought I had a lover?”
“No, Maggie. I came home because I can’t stay away from you.” Another kiss. “So many petticoats.” She heard a rip as material fell away from her backside. “A waste of good cotton, in my opinion. But not to worry. I’ll buy you a whole slew of new underthings if you like.”
The air of the room touched the bare skin of her buttocks as he traced the base of her spine to cup one cheek.
“Christ, you’ve a lovely, beautiful ass, Lady Welles.”
His declaration was followed by the press of his lips against her skin, then the graze of his teeth. Fingers ran the length of her slit as Margaret struggled to breathe. Waiting. He had aroused her so thoroughly with the barest touch, her entire body was throbbing. Perhaps she’d been wanton her whole life and never realized it until Welles.
Margaret reached out, her fingers digging into the cushions of the chair.
“Good girl, Maggie.” He kissed the exposed skin of her lower back. “You’ve ascertained I’ll be breaking my earlier promise never to consummate our marriage?”
“Yes,” she breathed as the heat coiled within her.
“I find it an unacceptable way to live, not being inside you.”
He moved his fingers along the slick folds of her crease, his movements measured. Controlled. Intentionally avoiding the one spot which would give her the most pleasure. She bit her lip to keep from begging. “You still blame me.”
“I am working through that. Your current efforts to meet me halfway are helping immensely.” He nipped at her skin.
She whimpered, pushing back with her hips against the pressure of his fingers.
“I know, sweetheart.” The rustling sound of his clothing met her ears.
Her cry echoed loudly in the study as Welles drove inside her with one, hard thrust, pushing her face against the seat of the chair. One arm gripped her around the waist, holding her so she couldn’t move. The other hand moved between her thighs, fingers brushing with the lightest of touches until Margaret was begging, shamefully, for release.
Welles took her roughly, his pace steady and hard. If this was her punishment for making him want her, it was a price she would gladly pay. Her entire body sharpened, honed to a fine point as her muscles clenched in anticipation of her release. Margaret hung on the edge of the precipice waiting for the fall.
Welles stopped moving. Stopped the gentle caress against her.
“Please.” She pushed back futilely against him. She tried to press herself against the chair to relieve the ache, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Oh, Maggie.” Gently he kissed the back of her neck and the curve of her shoulder before pressing his forehead against her back. He was saying something, repeating a string of words into the silk. The same cadence as what he’d whispered to her at Elysium.
He withdrew and pressed forward until she moaned.
“Whatever our souls are made of,” she heard him say softly against her back as his fingers moved against her flesh again, “hers and mine are the same.” He kissed the skin of her back and then gently pinched the tiny bud where her pleasure pooled between his fingers.
Margaret screamed out his name as the release roared through her. Her hips bucked wildly against him, the ridge of her teeth biting into the chair cushion. Welles held her tightly, groaning at the clench of her muscles pulling him deeper inside. The pleasure was so exquisite she couldn’t think how she’d survived these last weeks without him.
Welles thrust hard into her again. Each stroke deeper than the last until, with a muttered oath, he withdrew, and warmth splashed across her buttocks.
Jesus.
Maggie still trembled, her body shaking with the intensity of her release. He’d wanted nothing more than to stay inside her as his own climax ripped through him, but he couldn’t. Tony may have come to terms with his marriage and his need for the small woman beneath him, but his mind refused to contemplate a child.
Taking a ragged breath, he laid his head against her back, struggling to regain control of himself. He told his racing heart, in no uncertain terms, to stop stretching in her direction. The sensation was bloody painful.
This was why he’d never sought her out after the house party at Gray Covington. Maggie had an inconceivable amount of power over Tony which was, frankly, terrifying. He’d come to the realization after staring at the account books and having no idea what was written. He was in love with her. It would take some time to get used to the idea.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
It was a quote from a torrid love story his stepmother had been reading years ago that he’d happened upon in the library. She’d underlined the passage, probably thinking of Tony’s father. Tony had shaken his head at Amanda’s romantic nature even as the quote stayed with him. The words had spilled from his mouth tonight and when he’d mad
e love to Maggie at Elysium, speaking his heart’s truth.
Gently, he turned her over and cupped her face, pressing their foreheads together. “Did I hurt you?”
Her eyes were heavy-lidded and dazed. The plump lips of her mouth turned in a seductive smile. “Not in the least. I am much sturdier than I look.”
Tony’s chest contracted. “I know.” He pressed a tender kiss to her mouth. It was one of the reasons he felt so strongly about her. Maggie was a tiny ship, who though pitched about with sails shredded, nonetheless weathered all storms. She was far stronger than he would ever be.
“I think,” he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “we should have something to eat and continue this conversation upstairs.” Taking her torn petticoats, Tony wiped gently at her buttocks and thighs. He picked her up, gratified when she didn’t object and instead hid her head in the curve of his shoulder, clinging to him like a small monkey.
“Would you like a bath?”
She nodded.
“With me?” He nibbled at her earlobe. She would want to talk about their separation and his feelings for the Duke of Averell. But Tony had decided one had little to do with the other.
“Definitely.” She kissed his neck.
Holding on to her, he grabbed her ruined petticoats with one hand and tossed them into the fire. He walked to the door, smiling as she glanced over his shoulder at the Broadwood.
“You can play the piano tomorrow.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “There’s another instrument I wish you to play tonight.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve missed your improper comments.”
“Henri doesn’t ply you with flirtatious innuendo?”
Maggie cupped his face between her slender hands. “There is no one but you, Welles.”
He knew that. There was no one else for him either.
Carrying her upstairs, Tony saw her surprise as he bypassed her room in favor of his. Tossing her on the bed, he stood over her, skirts spread out with her torn petticoats sticking out from beneath the hem, admiring the shape of her calves and ankles. “I’m going to find Fenwick and have the bath and food sent up.” He leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Stay where you are.”
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 21
