“Or you’ll tie me?” She sat up on her elbows and regarded him with her lips twitching.
Naughty thing.
“I was correct, Lady Welles. You aren’t nearly as nice as you appear.”
34
Margaret awoke the next morning to a slow crawl of butterfly kisses against her eyes, her lips, her cheek, the curve of her ear and her neck. The kisses moved lower, circling her naked breasts and her stomach. Somehow without waking her, he’d managed to pull the sheets off. Margaret was sprawled naked on the bed, her hair spread over the pillows. She’d fallen asleep last night as soon as Welles had carried her from the tub, fed her, and made love to her again.
Welles looked down on her, impossibly handsome, the sapphire circles making up his eyes clearly discernible in the early morning light. One leg was thrown over her so she couldn’t move. A tactic of his, she was learning, so Welles could position her any way he wished.
“Welles.”
“Tony.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“Tony,” she said, her head falling back as her husband’s mouth latched around one taut nipple. “Should we not speak—”
“No. I’ve other things on my mind.”
Margaret immediately softened at the caress of his fingers through the soft down at the apex of her thighs. Welles would have to talk to her at some point. He couldn’t pretend the Duke of Averell didn’t exist except as an object of hatred. Her husband must come to terms with a great many things if they were to be happy. But Welles was stubborn. It would take time.
I won’t give up.
He made love to her slowly, taking his time, every touch and caress drawing Margaret’s blood to the surface of her skin. He brought her to the edge of her senses repeatedly, until she was writhing on the bed, her wrists captured above her head in one of his hands, begging him.
When he at last thrust inside her, agonizingly slow, and released her hands, Margaret wrapped them around his neck, meeting each stroke with the tilt of her hips.
“I love you, Tony,” she whispered. “I love you.” It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t say it back; she could no longer contain the feeling of her heart. He needed to know, even if he didn’t feel the same. But Margaret hoped he would come to love her one day.
Much later, Margaret dozed off, her head on Welles’s chest. Music played in her mind, the beating of his heart keeping time while the notes and colors floated about them, becoming bright once again now that he was with her.
A lingering fear tempered her happiness, hovering just behind Margaret like a dark shadow. No matter how much Welles cared for her or promised never to leave her, he had still not completely let go of his anger toward his father.
Or her.
35
“There you are. Up to mischief, I expect.”
Margaret looked from her stack of chips to the sapphire of her husband’s eyes. Welles leaned against the card table, a glass dangling from one hand. His gaze dipped to the bodice of her dress which was rather modest in comparison to Lady Masterson’s.
“I’m teaching her faro,” Georgina said. “She’s quite good, Welles.”
Her husband leaned over and pressed a kiss to Margaret’s temple. “I expected she would be. Lady Welles is quite intelligent and very accomplished. She also takes instruction with enthusiasm.”
Margaret’s cheeks warmed. “It depends on the talent of the instructor, my lord.”
Welles gazed back at her, fire sparking in his eyes. He trailed a finger along her collarbone, chuckling softly.
If the onlookers at Elysium were surprised to see the infamous Lord Welles, consummate rake and libertine, doting over his bride, a woman most had dismissed earlier as too plain and unassuming to garner much attention, they didn’t show it. No one at Elysium dared ask why Welles didn’t stay out until dawn drinking as he used to, nor why he’d declined to take another mistress.
“I’ve won handily.” Margaret’s hand reached up to tug at the lapel of his coat. Indigo, of course, though her suggestions to wear another color resulted in only black and a brown so deep it was nearly black. She supposed it didn’t matter. Dark colors, with little decoration, left his masculine beauty to shine like a jewel. There were times Margaret felt like a drab little mouse next to her stunning husband.
“Indeed, you have, Maggie.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I’ve got to speak to Leo, but then we should head home.”
“Welles, it’s early. You’ll spoil all her fun.” Georgina laughed.
“Oh, Maggie will have fun tonight, won’t you?”
“I expect I will, my lord.” She shot her husband a saucy look.
“She’s promised to play another duet with me.” A low, amused rumble came from Welles. “I quite enjoyed the last one.”
The previous ‘duet’ had resulted in Margaret on top of the Broadwood with Welles’s dark head between her legs. A maid had nearly walked in on them. She blushed furiously and looked away.
“Good Lord, Welles,” Georgina said. “What on earth are you doing to Maggie? I wasn’t sure a person could turn such a shade of red.”
Her husband ignored the question, his heated eyes still fixed on Margaret. “I’m entrusting her to your care, Georgina.”
“Do you think that a good idea, my lord?” Margaret said. “There’s no telling how I will corrupt Lady Masterson.”
He laughed at her reply, a glorious bubbling sound that never failed to awaken butterflies in Margaret’s stomach. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before striding off, headed in the direction of the stairs, and up to Leo’s office. When Welles reached the steps, he turned and paused, his eyes lingering on her before he continued up the stairs.
“Dear God, he’s in love with you,” Georgina said under her breath. “You’ve ruined him.” Draining her wineglass, she motioned to a nearby servant for another. “I never thought I’d live to see such a thing.”
“He cares for me, but it isn’t love.” Since their reconciliation, Margaret had whispered her love for him many times, but he’d never said the words back. It bothered her, but she remained hopeful.
“Any idiot can see it. That pea-wit certainly does.” She nodded toward a stunning redhead who was looking at Margaret as if she were something distasteful. “Lady Isley.” Georgina waved in the woman’s direction with a false smile. “Bitch,” she said, smiling.
Lady Isley’s lip curled.
“I’ve no complaints,” Margaret said.
Georgina raised a brow. “I know you don’t believe me.” She rolled her shoulders and Margaret watched in horror as one of Georgina’s breasts appeared to break free. “I will admit you’ve some work to do in regard to his father, the duke, though Welles seems to have reconciled himself to marriage, at least.”
Welles still refused to discuss his father. When a letter arrived from Cherry Hill, whether from Amanda or one of his sisters, her husband’s mood would shift ever so slightly. Sometimes she would hear him in the study, in the middle of the night, playing the piano as he tried to make peace with himself.
“Reformed rakes do make the best husbands.” Georgina wiggled her brows.
“So I understand.” Yet another topic Margaret hadn’t broached with her husband. The vast majority of men took a mistress at some point in their marriage. She wasn’t sure he hadn’t done so. She looked down at her cards. Though she couldn’t imagine where he’d find the time. And his attentions toward her had only intensified.
“He’s terribly complicated. But if anyone can…mend him, it will be you, Maggie.” Georgina lifted her glass. “I’ve known Welles a long time and this is the first I recall him actually being…happy.”
“I appreciate your faith.” Margaret thought she would be in need of it. Shortly after they had reconciled, Welles had produced a card with the address of an apothecary, instructing Margaret to visit the establishment and ask for items to prevent a child. At first, she thought he was joking.
The look on his face told h
er he was not.
“You are a good friend, Georgina,” she said.
Georgina took her hand. “I adore you and Welles.” She tapped her finger for the dealer to give her another card. “But what brought on such sentiment? Because I went with you,” she lowered her voice, “to find those little sponges? I’ll admit I never knew Mr. Coventry’s establishment existed let alone what sorts of interesting items could be found there.”
“Among other things.” Georgina had gone with Margaret to the apothecary. For a woman who all of London thought little more than a harlot, Georgina was surprisingly prudish. Margaret had purchased several small sponges, trying not to fall to the floor in mortification when the wizened elderly man instructed her on their use. She never told Georgina Welles had sent her there, though Georgina had surely guessed. He was determined to remain childless, despite his appetites in the bedroom.
“You’re turning bright red, Margaret.” Georgina nudged her shoulder. “Good Lord, what does Welles do to you that has you constantly blushing?”
Everything. Anything. Apparently, she was wanton.
A scuffle sounded from the front of Elysium along with a string of curses. The giant who stood guard at the door, Margaret had learned was named Smith, had a hold of a rotating blob of velvet-covered, pear-shaped flesh by the arm.
“I’m a member and I demand to be let in. You will release my arm. Don’t you know who I am?”
Margaret looked up from her cards and froze. “Bollocks.”
Georgina never even raised her chin. There was always at least one altercation in the evenings at Elysium. “What is it?” She tossed a card toward the dealer.
“You tell Murphy I’m here.” Lord Winthrop wailed and thrashed at Smith like a worm on a hook. “I am once again a member in good standing.”
“You aren’t on the list. Send a runner,” Smith grunted to another one of Leo’s employees standing near, his arm muscles bulging as he held the struggling Winthrop.
Georgina’s admiring gaze settled on Smith. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an arm muscle so large.”
Margaret barely heard her friend’s admiration for the giant doorman. She was too unsettled by the appearance of Winthrop. Hopefully, he wouldn’t spot her and try to renew their acquaintance.
“May I have a scotch, please?” she asked, stopping a passing servant. Something stronger would be required if Winthrop’s presence was to be tolerated. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the night of the duchess’s ball when Welles had compromised her.
“I tell you, my debts are cleared.” Winthrop’s eyes roamed over the room, passing by Margaret before he uttered an oath and his gaze moved back to her. His florid face scrunched into dislike. “Taken care of by Lord Welles.” He shook off Smith’s arm.
“I wondered where you’d gone, Lord Welles. I’ve been looking for you.”
Tony paused at hearing the voice of Lady Isley on his way up the stairs to his brother’s office. He meant to speak to Leo about the merchant who supplied the wine for Elysium before taking his wife home. Tony had found an irregularity in the accounts and suspected the man was skimming off the top. The last thing he wished to do was be accosted by a former lover, especially when Maggie sat downstairs.
“Good evening, Lady Isley. You shouldn’t be up here wandering about unsupervised.” He took her elbow to escort her back down to the first floor. This part of the second floor was off-limits to patrons, as Lady Isley was well aware.
“I thought,” Lady Isley purred, “we could make use of one of Elysium’s private rooms as we have in the past.” Her skirts twisted around his legs as she pushed against him, the floral scent of her perfume flooding his nostrils.
“I don’t think so.” Lady Isley had been an occasional lover of his, but nothing more. “I thought you’d retired to the country, Lenora.” He tried to steer her in the direction of the stairs.
“I found I missed the delights of London.” Her fingertips trailed down his chest. “When I heard the rumor you’d married,” she said, “I didn’t believe it at first. You’ve always had an abhorrence for the institution. I was shocked to find out your little bride was Lady Dobson’s niece. The tin miner’s daughter.”
Tony disengaged her fingers. How had he ever found Lenora remotely interesting? He couldn’t recall one conversation they’d ever shared or anything remotely intelligent coming from her mouth. Lenora was painted and primped, like an overdone cake. Or a tart. He no longer found her appealing.
“I must decline, Lady Isley.” A number of beautiful women had tossed themselves in his direction since his marriage, with similar results. Tony had no interest in any of them. He only saw Maggie.
His marriage didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it had a few weeks ago. Instead, wedding his little pianist now gave Tony a deep sense of peace.
Lady Isley’s eyes widened slightly, surprised her charms were having no effect. “You don’t need to pretend to be the dutiful husband. We all know you had to marry her, Welles. You, of all people, getting caught in an indiscretion and then having a burst of honor.” She leaned closer. “Which we all know you don’t have.”
Tony’s jaw tightened. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Isley, I need to return to my wife.”
He dropped her arm, not caring if she found it impolite. One of the runners could be sent upstairs to escort Lady Isley back to the public area. Before he could turn, she grabbed the lapels of his coat, stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
36
Margaret glanced down at the table, making herself as small as possible lest Winthrop decide to come her way, and attempted to hide herself behind Georgina.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Georgina glanced toward the door, noticing for the first time, not Smith, but the man the giant actually held in his grip. “Oh, dear. Winthrop. I was certain he’d been banned.”
Margaret snuck a peek around her friend’s shoulder. Her former suitor was mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief and scowling. Garbed in a brown velvet jacket trimmed in gold braid, he looked like an oversized chocolate truffle wrapped in foil and spoiling in the sun.
“Good Lord, he’s terrible,” Georgina said with a glance down at her cards. “Your aunt meant to give you to that sweating mass of velvet?”
“Yes,” Margaret said, scanning the room behind her, looking for Welles. Movement caught her eye on one of the second-floor balconies. A woman pressed herself rather seductively into a gentleman who didn’t seem to be resisting her. Lady Isley and—
Bile turned her mouth bitter. Surely not.
Lady Isley, the redhead who’d so scornfully examined Margaret a short time ago and found her wanting was now on the balcony directly above the gaming floor, locked in a passionate embrace with…Welles. Margaret’s head whipped back down sharply, Winthrop and the faro game forgotten.
“Maggie? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
She looked down at her hand of faro, disinterested in the remainder of the game. And she was even wearing one of the new gowns her husband had chosen for her. A deep, jeweled sapphire that matched his eyes. Jerking her head in the direction of the landing, she lifted her glass, draining the contents.
Georgina followed the motion, her eyes widening as she caught sight of what was transpiring on the landing above them. “Maggie, I’m sure it isn’t—”
“I need some air. Please excuse me.” She closed her eyes for only a moment but even when she did, Margaret could still see Lady Isley and Welles. Pushing away from the table, she brushed off a startled Georgina and started through the gaming floor. Weaving her way between various card tables, roulette, and dice, Margaret’s only thought was to get as far away from Welles and Elysium as she could.
At least I won’t wonder any longer about Welles taking a mistress.
Wounded and angry, Margaret was at the far end of the floor when the horrible smell of talc and sweat filled her nostrils. A giant, pear-shaped form blocked her way, looming over her in brown velv
et.
“You.”
Tony turned his head and Lady Isley’s mouth landed on his chin. He pushed her away in annoyance, nose wrinkling at the overabundance of perfume she wore.
She made a poof of surprise at his rejection, the look on her finely sculpted features almost comical.
Had the circumstances been different, Welles might have laughed out loud at Lady Isley’s shock. But Winthrop’s whine of indignation reached his ears, so loud it could be heard above the din of the gaming tables. The man sounded like a screeching rooster.
Lady Isley pouted. “What is it? Her? Oh, come now Welles, we can be discreet. My understanding is she’s a timid thing at best.”
Timid was the last thing Welles would have called his wife. Quietly determined would be a better description.
“I have a room set aside for us,” Lady Isley continued. “And a friend downstairs who can join us, if you like. You’ve enjoyed such things in the past. Surely you need a change from the little…sapling you’ve been—”
“Lady Isley,” he said in a chilly voice, “I bid you good evening.” He had caught a glimpse of his wife’s petite form as she sidestepped Winthrop and continued toward the far end of the gaming floor, apparently unaware Winthrop continued to stalk her from behind.
“Welles—” Lady Isley tried to stop him, and he shook her off.
Tony strode quickly down the hallway to the back staircase, intent on intercepting Winthrop before the man could catch up with Maggie again. His wife wasn’t in any real danger from her past suitor; Leo had runners all over the floor who all knew Lady Welles. Even now, he saw Peckam cross the floor, his head turned in the direction of Maggie. Nodding to two other runners, the three men spread out to flank Winthrop.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 22
