A flutter started low in her stomach at his amusement, the sound filling her senses with a harmony of swirling purples, blues, and greens. “I don’t think we are acquainted enough, my lord, for you to infer such a thing.”
A quiet snort of disbelief followed her declaration. “True, Miss Lainscott. But during our brief time together at Gray Covington, you made an indelible impression upon me and it was not that of a timid, reserved young lady.”
She had made a cake of herself during the house party with her performance on the piano; still, Margaret couldn’t, for the life of her, remember making any sort of impression on Lord Welles. The thought caused another round of fluttering inside.
The pale light of the moon shifted across his eyes and she caught a glimpse of sapphire.
Margaret purposefully looked down to study the toe of her slipper, not willing to meet his gaze. His eyes were famous among the women of London. She’d heard young ladies swooned at only a glance from Lord Welles. Margaret was glad she couldn’t see the startling rings of blue, each one successively darker as they neared his pupils, the deep color flecked with bits of gold. One pea-wit debutante had even written a poem about Welles and his eyes, much to the ton’s amusement.
“Your performance at the piano, the passion you exhibited…” He halted for a moment as if weighing how to express himself. “I found it all quite captivating.”
Welles had the most glorious tonal quality to his voice, as if Margaret were being addressed by a large cello. She could have stood there and listened to him speak all night.
“It was the highlight of my stay at Gray Covington,” he finished.
And meeting Welles had been the highlight of Margaret’s stay at the Cambourne estate. The invitation to the house party at Gray Covington had been unexpected but welcome. At the time, Aunt Agnes had wanted to dangle Margaret before the Earl of Kilmaire who was seeking a wife and would be in attendance. Her aunt’s idea had been to have Margaret give the guests an impromptu performance on the piano to gain Lord Kilmaire’s attention, a futile effort because the earl was already in love with Lady Miranda Reynolds, whom he’d married not long after the party.
The performance had been a disaster.
“I fear I may have played a bit too…forcefully,” Margaret said, understating the truth. The impromptu recital had resulted in embarrassment to both herself and Aunt Agnes. Margaret did play with passion, so much so that she sometimes forgot everything but the music. She and the piano would fuse together as her fingers flew over the keys, the notes pulsating through her.
I may have writhed against the piano bench.
“My aunt was not pleased with my performance.” Heat washed up her cheeks.
“I don’t imagine she was.”
Margaret had been banned from the piano for the remainder of their stay at Gray Covington. She’d been made to embroider instead. It had been pure torture.
“You are masterful on the piano.” Welles had moved a step closer to her, trapping her amid the wisteria.
“I didn’t realize you cared so much for music. Do you play?” Certainly her…emotional display while playing had been mortifying, but she couldn’t fathom why Lord Welles had found it so memorable. Even before coming to London, Margaret wasn’t the sort of young lady who attracted attention from a man like Welles. Aunt Agnes claimed Margaret to be so drab, she faded into the wood panels of the dining room during a dinner party.
“I learned as a child. My mother adored music.” A frown tightened his wide mouth. “But I’ve never played as you do. That is a level I could never hope to achieve.”
Welles had been enamored with the music. Even as absorbed as she was, she’d noticed him watching her, his eyes half-closed in pleasure while his friend continued to speak to him.
His friend. The dim-witted gentleman she’d met at Gray Covington. He’d been in the company of Lord Welles.
“Carstairs,” she abruptly blurted out.
“I beg your pardon?” His mouth curved upward, brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.
Finding Welles hiding in the wisteria was far better than the plague of locusts she’d been wishing for earlier. He was an associate of Lord Carstairs. “The gentleman who accompanied you to Gray Covington. Lord Carstairs.”
“I know who Carstairs is, but what has he got to do with anything?”
Footsteps sounded on the terrace. Winthrop.
“I beg your discretion, my lord.” Margaret placed a hand on his forearm as she peeked through the wisteria at Winthrop.
“Why, Miss Lainscott, are you being hunted?” Welles shot a pointed look at her fingers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “And I stand corrected. You are incredibly timid.”
Margaret snatched her hand back and lowered her voice. “I have a strong desire to renew my acquaintance with Lord Carstairs.”
Welles hovered over her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his larger form.
“For what purpose?”
“Marriage. To me.”
“I see.” Welles sounded more amused than outraged by her admission. His smile stayed in place as he nodded. “Do go on. I confess I’m speechless.”
“I know this isn’t exactly the type of thing to discuss at the present time,” she waved her hands about, “while hiding from Lord Winthrop in the wisteria.”
“You are hiding. I was merely enjoying a cheroot.”
“I would ask your assistance in reintroducing me to Lord Carstairs—”
“For the purpose of marrying him, due to husbandly qualities which I can only assume at this point?”
“Miss Lainscott?” Winthrop called from the terrace. “Are you in the garden?”
“Damn and blast,” Margaret swore under her breath as she glanced at Winthrop and then back to Welles. “Yes, my lord. Please pay attention. I haven’t much time to make my point.” She stamped one slipper-clad foot.
Welles chuckled softly. “There she is.”
“There who is?” She had only precious moments to spare before Winthrop’s velvet-clad form pounced upon her with lemonade clutched in one moist hand.
“A most interesting young lady.”
“I’m not at all interesting, my lord.”
“I beg to differ.”
“My aunt has decided I must marry, and I fear her choice for me is Winthrop.”
“I can see why you would be less than enthusiastic about such a match. And your aunt’s desire to marry you off is common knowledge.” His voice lowered, humming deliciously in the small hollow of the wisteria. “I’m not sure what your requirements are, but I’ll assume Winthrop doesn’t meet any of them?”
Margaret was rapidly becoming horrified at the turn in conversation and slid further into the blooms and vines. This was the last thing she’d ever thought to discuss with Lord Welles. “He only meets one of my criteria.”
“Lack of intelligence? Poor choices in footwear?”
A sound of surprise escaped Margaret at his correct assessment of the situation. Lord Welles was not only handsome but astute as well. “And Winthrop is…oddly shaped,” she added, casting him a look to see if he took offense from her description.
“Don’t forget his overuse of talc; certainly that detracts from his suitability.” Welles brought a tapered finger to his lips as if deep in thought. “I wish to make absolutely certain I understand. You find Lord Carstairs attractive, and not the least bit shaped like a pear; you are relieved he prefers boots and most importantly,” he leaned down, close enough Margaret could smell the light scent of his shaving soap, “he’s not nearly as intelligent as you are.”
With his face in shadow, Margaret could only see the outline of Welles’s patrician nose and the curve of his chin. If he neglected to move for a few moments, he could easily be mistaken for one of her aunt’s Grecian statues. Possibly Zeus or Apollo.
Hades would be a better comparison.
“Am I correct, Miss Lainscott?”
His breath tickled the fine hairs danglin
g above the curve of her ear as the low timbre of his voice slid down the length of her neck. The fluttering inside her stomach increased.
Definitely Hades.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to think with Welles so close to her. Everything about him was seductive, from his scent to the decadent richness of his voice. Margaret prided herself on not being just another pea-wit young lady, but even she had her limitations.
“Yes, my lord. Your assessment of my situation is correct.”
Winthrop was coming closer. She could hear his ridiculous shoes striking the pavement.
“I realize I am being presumptuous. We don’t know each other well enough for me to ask for your assistance.” She hurried her words, ignoring the way her skin was tingling from Welles’s nearness. “But I would beg your indulgence. I’ve not seen Lord Carstairs at any functions I’ve attended.”
“Miss Lainscott?” A peevish voice bellowed into the darkness. “Is that you in the wisteria? I have your lemonade.”
“Damn,” she uttered without thinking.
Welles laughed softly, more beautiful than any human being had a right to be. “Don’t worry, Miss Lainscott. I’ll make sure you get away.” Snaking an arm about her waist, he pushed Margaret deeper into the wisteria. His hand, warm and strong, flattened against the small of her back then slid down across the tops of her buttocks and squeezed gently.
Margaret gasped at his boldness.
“Don’t make a sound, Miss Lainscott,” Welles admonished. “You wouldn’t wish Lord Winthrop to spot you.” The large hand slid up to the small of her back. He gave her a gentle shove in the opposite direction.
“You’ll help me?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped out of the wisteria. “Winthrop? Are you spying on me?” Welles managed to sound imperious and outraged.
Margaret slid beneath the vines, listening to Winthrop sputter like a teapot at the implication that he’d interrupted an assignation. At least she wouldn’t have to endure him again this evening.
“Thank you,” she whispered before slipping through the gate, wondering at the wisdom of confiding her plans to Lord Welles.
2
“Oh, miss. If your aunt finds you gone…”
Margaret gave an exasperated sigh and placed a hand on her slender hips. “She won’t find me gone unless you tell her, Eliza.”
“What if something happens?”
“Nothing is going to happen.” Margaret was not about to be deterred. Today was very important. Much more important than whatever punishment Aunt Agnes would mete out if she found her gone. “She won’t even know I’m not here. All you need to do is lock the door behind me.” She tied the bonnet snugly beneath her chin.
“Miss, what if Lord Winthrop calls?”
Margaret hesitated. “He won’t.” Winthrop had called the day after her aunt’s ball to take her for a ride in the park. The entire experience had been awkward. Uncomfortable. Intolerable. He’d returned just yesterday to repeat the horror by taking tea with her and Aunt Agnes. If anything, the two instances had solidified Margaret’s determination not to allow herself to be married to Winthrop.
“Eliza, I am leaving. Lord Winthrop has already paid two calls on me this week. He won’t do so again. If anyone knocks, which they won’t,” she assured her maid, “remind them I’ve a terrible headache today. You already made such known when you brought up my breakfast tray, didn’t you?”
The maid nodded.
“Then no one will disturb me. I’ll be back for tea. Possibly. I’m not certain.” Margaret shrugged and walked to the door. “Lock this behind me,” she instructed the maid again.
The maid nodded. “Yes, miss.”
Margaret slipped out into the hall and made her way downstairs and through the kitchen, avoiding anyone who might remark on her appearance, especially her aunt’s lady’s maid, Oakes. Carefully, she made her way up the stairs of the servants’ entrance and into the early afternoon.
Aunt Agnes wouldn’t ask after her, no matter Eliza’s fears. Margaret’s request for breakfast in her room signaled to the staff that she was suffering from one of her headaches, an affliction she’d convinced her aunt she suffered from over the last two years. Then she’d instructed Eliza to mention her headache to Cook while bringing Margaret tea and inform Oakes that Margaret was ailing. Aunt Agnes would be gone most of the day paying calls and was likely relieved she wouldn’t have to drag Margaret with her. No one would miss her.
Margaret smiled as she made her way around the corner to the mews. She meant to take the alley down to the next street and hail a hack. She quickened her steps in anticipation of the day’s events. It wouldn’t do for her to be late.
3
“It’s much too early for you to be here.”
Anthony Marcus Barrington, Earl of Welles ignored the grouchy tone in his brother’s voice.
“It’s after twelve; I was leaving another meeting and thought I’d stop by.” His ‘meeting’ had been leaving the bed of his latest mistress, a Parisian ballet dancer who had wept rivers of tears as he’d tried to disengage himself from her naked form to leave the bed. Claudette had become needier in the last few months and finding out about her affair with one of her fellow ballet dancers had given Tony the perfect excuse to end their association.
A snort of disbelief came from the man who approached him with a crystal decanter and two glasses. Leo looked well-rested despite his objection to the hour. His brother rarely slept more than five or six hours and never sought his own bed until just before dawn. “Your mistress, I suppose? The French girl. Did you finally end it?”
“Yes.” Tony pulled off his gloves and laid them on the table. “Bring that over here.” He waved at the decanter. “No more pretending to enjoy pretentious French wine for me.”
“You don’t mind if I call on Claudette then, do you?” Leo smiled, showing a row of even, white teeth.
“No, she probably wouldn’t know the difference.”
Tony’s resemblance to his brother was rather uncanny, considering the two weren’t twins. Leo was an inch shorter and slightly broader through the chest than Tony, but the eyes were the same, as was the rich brown of their hair. He and his bastard half-brother looked so much alike most people mistook one for the other, especially at a distance.
Tony took the proffered glass, inhaling the contents with a smile. “Well-aged scotch.”
“I don’t really mean to call on Claudette,” Leo stated. “She’s delicious, but I believe we share enough.”
That was certainly true. “It’s just as well; she’s been tupping one of her fellow dancers.”
“Another ballerina?” Leo sounded hopeful.
“Sadly, no. The leading man.”
“Well, then she definitely has no appeal for me.” Leo settled into the chair next to him and they clinked glasses.
Leo Murphy, not only his brother but also Tony’s closest friend, took a sip of the scotch, shivering as the liquid slid down his throat. “Christ, I wasn’t ready for that.”
He and Leo had spent their childhood together, running through the woods and staging mock battles on the Duke of Averell’s country estate. The duke’s heir and the son of an Irish housemaid had never known they were blood until the death of Tony’s mother. Having had a relationship with Leo’s mother prior to his marriage, the duke decided to keep both his wife and mistress under one roof rather than break things off. Molly eventually became lady’s maid to Tony’s mother.
It was a convenient arrangement for Marcus, the Duke of Averell, until it wasn’t.
“Averell sent me word again. Another letter full of platitudes. Wants to grant me one of his unentailed estates.” Leo’s gaze fell to the fire in the grate. “I wish he’d stop. Give up. I’ve no desire for a relationship with him after everything that happened.”
“The old prick is tenacious, I’ll give him that.” Tony sipped at his drink.
“Fat lot of good it will do him. I didn’t even take
the money he offered me so I could start Elysium.”
Instead, Tony had given Leo the funds for a share of the business. He’d already made his investment back many times over and never regretted it. Besides, the heir to a duchy becoming a partner in a notorious pleasure palace had infuriated the duke.
Molly had been devastated by the death of Tony’s mother, Katherine. Despite her lengthy relationship with the duke and the affair, Molly had cared deeply for her mistress. After Katherine’s death, Molly had become incredibly religious and moved herself and Leo to the outskirts of London. She had then met and married a hack driver who had provided her and Leo with a comfortable home, but little else. Leo didn’t have fond memories of his stepfather, a brutish man who had been free with his fists. Thankfully, the marriage hadn’t lasted. Molly’s husband had fallen down the stairs one night, drunk, breaking his neck.
Tony had serious doubts the death had been accidental. Leo blamed the duke for all of it.
Glancing at Leo, Tony took in his brother’s garishly patterned waistcoat with a small frown of distaste. Leo had always favored such clothing; often it was the only way patrons of Elysium could tell them apart. Today’s waistcoat was particularly loud, consisting of a swirling mass of mustard and pale blue silk stitched with gold thread.
“If you would just capitulate,” Leo continued, “he’d leave me alone. I told him to bugger off. I’ve more than enough money to buy my own bloody estate if I wish to do so. And I don’t. What would I do in the country? Traipse about the gardens? I also don’t need him spouting off to everyone that he’s my father. Other lords don’t acknowledge every extra branch on their tree. Why must Averell do so?”
“I’ve no intention of ever giving him what he wants.” His father wanted Tony to marry and provide an heir for the prestigious Averell dukedom. But Tony was filled with loathing for his father for all the wrongs done to his mother. “I enjoy informing the duke, on the rare occasions we speak,” Tony rolled the glass between his palms, “that I’ll never produce his bloody heir. It delights me to tell him the legitimate line of the Duke of Averell will die an untimely death, just as my mother did. It is my father’s misfortune the title can’t go to some obscure cousin living across the ocean in New York.”
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 2