Damn it.
Margaret pressed her nose against the window. Carstairs was who mattered. Thankfully she’d made a good impression today and piqued his interest. All her reading on grouse hunting and the handling of firearms had been beneficial, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to Lord Dobson. Carstairs had found her before Margaret had made her way to join Romy and the duchess, asking if he could call on her.
Margaret had agreed immediately. There was no point in beating around the bush.
Through the rain streaming down the window, Margaret could just make out Welles’s large form running across the lawn, his strides wide and graceful. He held the hand of Lady Masterson; even from a distance, it was impossible to mistake the bright fuchsia of her gown. They ran toward the folly, no doubt seeking shelter from the rain.
Margaret turned from the sight, hating how quickly the jealousy she’d experienced earlier had returned.
“I do wish Welles had decided to come back to London with us, but I suppose he’ll find another way home. Or perhaps stay the night, as I’m sure some of the guests are doing.” The duchess leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. “Good Lord, but I’m tired. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be out amongst the ton and pretending to like most of them.”
“Papa would be very proud of you.” Romy grinned at her mother. “You made an effort.”
“I daresay he would be. Even more so since I managed to have Welles escort us.” Sadness flitted across the duchess’s lovely face. “I wish I was as successful in getting him to come to Cherry Hill.”
Romy took her mother’s hand. “I know. Maybe someday Welles will relent.”
Based on her earlier conversation with Welles, Margaret thought it highly unlikely Welles would ever relent. The look on his face when speaking of his father had been one of loathing.
“Welles and his father do not get on,” the duchess said as if sensing the direction of Margaret’s thoughts. “An estrangement borne of a mistake my husband made long ago that he regrets to this day.” Her fingers drummed upon her thigh for a moment before she turned to the window and fell silent.
The sky grew increasingly gray the closer they drew to London, a dismal finale to the bright sunny day and the garden party. Margaret closed her eyes, thinking again of her conversation with Welles. She had the sense he rarely spoke of his mother, and Margaret was deeply honored Welles had chosen to share such a private story with her. Again, her heart tugged strongly in his direction, wishing for something that could never be. He would forever be a rake. Unprincipled. Refusing to marry.
He kissed me.
Her hand came up as the words thundered in her mind, her palm flattening over her chest against her heart.
And I kissed him back.
13
The following day, Carstairs arrived to call on her as promised.
Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the shock on her aunt’s typically sour countenance at the arrival of the Viscount Carstairs. He walked into the parlor, all smiles, with a small nosegay in hand for Margaret, bowing politely to Aunt Agnes.
While her aunt sipped her tea, darting looks of disbelief in their direction, Margaret and Carstairs discussed the merits of rabbit hunting. What was more appropriate? A snare? A rifle? A bow and arrow?
Aunt Agnes bit off the edge of a biscuit and munched loudly.
Lord Carstairs proceeded to spend the remainder of his visit describing in minute detail a hunting lodge he’d once visited. His observations were incredibly detailed, especially in regard to the animals he hunted, and were a trifle gruesome. While not incredibly bright, Carstairs was well-mannered, respectful and, most importantly, genuinely seemed to like Margaret. She could secure Carstairs all on her own with no help from anyone.
With a promise to call at the end of the week, Carstairs departed, bidding both her and Aunt Agnes goodbye.
“Lord Carstairs is a delightful young man,” Aunt Agnes said after he left. “However, we aren’t certain of his intentions and thus must continue to allow Winthrop his courtship as well. It would be best to have more than one suitor to choose from.”
Margaret only nodded demurely.
As if anything would induce her to choose Winthrop over Carstairs.
Carstairs, bless him, called again two days later bearing more flowers, this time for her aunt as well.
Aunt Agnes pursed her lips, giving him a brittle smile, her disappointment Winthrop hadn’t dropped by to call apparent.
Margaret rang for tea, delighted both by his visit and her aunt’s displeasure.
“I confess, Miss Lainscott,” Lord Carstairs said as he accepted a small watercress sandwich, “I had never thought to meet a young lady who enjoys grouse hunting as much as myself. Why, it rivals even Miss Turnbull’s love of trout fishing.”
Margaret’s hand paused as she reached for a sugared biscuit. Miss Turnbull was proving to be troublesome. “I enjoy fishing as well,” she assured him.
Aunt Agnes coughed, her hand pausing over her embroidery hoop. She’d mostly stayed silent at Margaret’s sudden knowledge of the outdoors.
“Splendid. I have an outing in mind. A small stream runs just at the end of a park I know. You and Miss Turnbull can cast your lures.” Carstairs smiled, his face completely devoid of any artifice. “It would be delightful. We’ll make a small party of it, with a proper chaperone of course.” He nodded in her aunt’s direction. “And with your aunt’s permission.”
Aunt Agnes nodded. “My niece does adore fishing,” she said. “Though I’ve never known her to catch anything.”
Margaret went still, clasping her hands in her lap. “Perhaps I’ll prove you wrong, Aunt.”
Carstairs, bless him, seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. Margaret bid him goodbye with assurances she couldn’t wait for the outing he’d proposed.
The following afternoon, Margaret found herself sitting on a blanket, swatting at gnats while praying an unlikely fish would find its way to the hook on the end of her line so she could prove herself to Carstairs.
She, Carstairs, Miss Turnbull, a maid, two footmen, and Miss Turnbull’s elderly and somewhat deaf aunt were all picnicking on the banks of a bubbling stream at the very edge of the park. The clop of horses and carriages on the path above them was muted, drowned out by the sound of the water running over the rocks. The elderly aunt, whose name Margaret had forgotten within a minute of meeting her, had dozed off in the sun. Every so often she would shake with a loud snort, startling Margaret.
Miss Rebecca Turnbull, blonde ringlets trembling coquettishly around her temples, giggled every so often at something Carstairs said, occasionally touching his forearm as if doing so was accidental.
It wasn’t.
Wearing a striped dress of blue and cream, complete with a broadbrimmed hat of straw on her head, Miss Turnbull and Carstairs sat at the edge of the stream, lines tangled together in the water, while her skirts formed a perfect circle of silk, arranged in a fetching manner.
Margaret wholeheartedly wished the lovely Miss Turnbull would fall into the stream and perhaps float away like a tiny boat. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle bubbling of the stream, smiling as the sound formed musical notes in her head along with splashes of color beneath her lids. The hand holding her fishing pole went lax as a melody began to take shape and the annoying giggles of Miss Turnbull faded.
“You need to tug the line on occasion if you wish to catch something,” a deep voice said from behind her.
Margaret’s skin prickled deliciously in surprise. Welles.
He’d been mostly absent in her life since Lady Masterson’s garden party, and she sensed he was intentionally keeping his distance. He had visited the duchess while Margaret was playing with Miss Nelson and Phaedra, but she’d caught only brief glimpses of him. He’d never visited the conservatory when she was present, nor had they spoken.
She turned to him with a look of annoyance, slightly piqued he was here to see Miss Turnbull outwitti
ng her for the moment. But Margaret was terribly happy to see him. He just didn’t need to know it.
Welles sat down beside her, the seams of his leather riding breeches straining across his thighs.
Margaret couldn’t help but look. She was sure he had his breeches tailored in such a way intentionally.
The afternoon sun sparked across the brush of dark hair lining his jaw, giving him a slightly disreputable look. It suited him. A lazy grin pulled at his lips, deepening the creases at the corner of his eyes. “Glad to see me, aren’t you?”
Must he always look so bloody splendid?
“Not in the least,” she said tartly.
He took off his hat and tossed it to the blanket, barely missing the elderly aunt’s feet.
“Who’s that?” He nodded at the snoring woman.
“Our chaperone. I don’t recall her name. Miss Turnbull’s aunt.” Margaret nodded to Carstairs and Miss Turnbull.
“I can see she’s doing an excellent job.” His eyes twinkled down at her. “Here.” He took the pole from her and lowered his voice. “Just a small tug to give the fish something to chase.” Welles jerked back on the line. “Like this.”
“I know how to fish,” she hissed back at him. Margaret was feeling so much better now that Welles had arrived.
His wide mouth tilted up on one side. “I’m sure your fishing skills are as incredible as those you use for grouse hunting. Alas, your lures don’t seem as attractive as Miss Turnbull’s.” He pressed a finger to his lips as if he’d made a faux pas. “I meant her fishing lures, of course, Miss Lainscott.”
“I’m doing fine without your help.” She wasn’t and he knew it.
“Of course, you are.”
Margaret looked up to see Miss Turnbull clinging to Carstairs’s arms as she landed a fish, squealing in delight as he reeled it in. Their heads leaned into each other so close, Margaret thought the younger woman might throw caution to the wind and kiss Carstairs. Shouldn’t her aunt be paying more attention? She glanced over at Aunt…Bollocks. She racked her mind for the elderly woman’s name.
“If you have come to mock my effort to avoid a marriage that will make me miserable, please leave.”
“I would never mock you, Maggie. Nor do I think this a lark for you.” The smile left his face.
Margaret’s hands stilled against the blanket. No one had called her Maggie in a very long time. Not since the only man who had ever loved her, her father, had died. A lump formed in her throat. “What are you doing here? Do you have another improper request to make of me?”
“I was out for a ride and happened to see the carriage and recognized it as belonging to Carstairs. I thought I’d see what he was up to. No need to be so suspicious,” he answered.
She looked behind her to see a horse tethered some distance away.
Miss Turnbull’s high-pitched giggle filled the air.
“Ho, Welles.” Carstairs held up the tiny fish struggling on the line. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Margaret looked up at Welles. “A remarkable coincidence.”
Welles contemplated her for a moment before saying, “Don’t you know, Miss Lainscott, there is no such thing as coincidence?” Welles stood as Miss Turnbull and Carstairs stumbled up the slight incline.
“Miss Turnbull.” He charmed her with a smile. “How lovely you look with a fishing pole in your hand. And you’ve caught something.”
Margaret grit her teeth, knowing Welles was referring to Carstairs and not the fish.
The younger woman was quite pretty with her wide blue eyes and broadbrimmed hat, tied with a large bow beneath her chin. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a bloody Gainsborough painting. Miss Turnbull’s appearance only added to Margaret’s irritation. She swatted at the cloud of gnats determined to bite her.
“Now that you are here, Welles, you must join us for our picnic.” Carstairs nodded and the two footmen rushed forward, each carrying an enormous wicker basket. Two chickens, sliced apples, berries, fresh-baked rolls, an assortment of cheeses, and two bottles of chilled white wine appeared on a tablecloth spread out on the grass.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Welles deferred.
“Yes, you do,” Margaret said under her breath.
A smile tugged at his lips. He’d heard her.
“Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding in the least.” Miss Turnbull gazed at him with awe, dazzled that the glorious Lord Welles would picnic with them. “We’ve enough food to feed half of London, I’ll warrant. Douglas,” she blushed prettily and put a gloved hand to her mouth, “I mean, Lord Carstairs, has a robust appetite.” She lifted her chin in challenge, eyes meeting Margaret’s.
I really should have pushed her in the stream myself.
“Then I’d be delighted.” Welles escorted the laughing young lady back to the blanket where Margaret sat. He bent and plucked the rod from Margaret’s hands and she caught a whiff of clean male and sunshine. “I’ll just brace this over here.” He walked to the stream and made a small pile of rocks. “Perhaps you’ll get lucky and your lures,” he intentionally emphasized the word, “will do the trick. If not, I’m happy to help.” He winked at her.
The audacity. Her insides shivered in response.
Welles’s strides were as graceful as the rest of him and unconsciously sensual. She imagined he danced or sat a horse the same beautiful way. Her gaze flicked to Carstairs and back to Welles. There really was no comparison. Carstairs was attractive, but he wasn’t Welles.
The four of them sat around the enormous mound of food while Miss Turnbull’s aunt snored softly.
Carstairs, kind to a fault, asked if he should wake her.
“No. Auntie Louise likes a nap in the afternoon. Which is why I had Cook pack us this delicious wine.”
Miss Rebecca Turnbull wasn’t quite as innocent as she appeared. Nor as unintelligent. Margaret accepted the glass of wine from one of the footmen and assessed her competition with a keen eye.
Welles sat down next to her, stretching out his legs, and munched on a chicken leg. Margaret watched in fascination as his teeth tore at the meat before he swallowed.
Blue eyes sparkled back at her. Welles was very aware of his effect on women. Even Miss Turnbull, as besotted by Carstairs as she was, watched him as if he were some exotic creature who’d wandered into their midst.
Carstairs, bless him, was oblivious to the fact he’d invited the fox into the hen house.
The meal passed pleasantly enough. Carstairs spoke of hunting a red deer in the Scottish Highlands. His description of the event, down to what he wore and the way he’d crouched in the undergrowth while rain battered him, held Miss Turnbull rapt with attention; Margaret, however, after two glasses of the excellent wine, was humming to herself while she listened with half an ear.
“What a beautiful song,” Welles said from beside her. He wasn’t listening to Carstairs either. “I don’t recognize it.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s a sonata I’m working on,” she answered with a shrug.
“You mean composing?” He kept his voice low so Carstairs and Miss Turnbull wouldn’t overhear. Elderly Aunt Louise had recently awoken and only cast a mild frown at the empty wine bottles as she munched on a slice of apple.
“Yes,” Margaret answered him. The wine had given her a light, floating feeling. “I studied composition for a time with Mr. Strauss, our neighbor in Yorkshire. He was once part of the Bavarian court and composed for King Ludwig. I learned much from him.”
“I see why you are so enamored of Mrs. Anderson,” he said, referring to the pianist who was friends with the duchess and had become something of a mentor to Margaret. “And Mrs. Mounsey. Is it your hope to compose and perform as those ladies do?”
“I,” she shrugged, “well, I think I would want to emulate them in some way. I don’t really like performing for large crowds, but I love playing.”
“Why don’t you like performing?” His brow wrinkled, honestly confused.
“I don’t like
all the attention. I tend to get carried away. You saw me play at Gray Covington.”
Heat flared between them. “A most enjoyable performance.”
“Only because you didn’t have your music privileges rescinded afterward. My aunt forced me to embroider for the rest of our stay. I wasn’t allowed near the piano.” Margaret stuck out her tongue. “Embroidery is torture. Pure and simple.” She looked down, feeling a tug on her skirts.
Welles was absently running one forefinger along the hem, pulling gently on the sprigged muslin. “I’m sorry she did such a thing to you. Cruel.”
“Yes. The worst punishment anyone could give me. Music is,” she gave a careless wave as he watched her intently, “a balm for my soul. I see a field of flowers, but I also hear the music each daisy or buttercup makes.” She shrugged, embarrassed by her confession. “I suppose that sounds as if I’m daft. It doesn’t really make sense.”
“Of course it does. You and I might see only a sack of flour, but a baker sees a magnificent three-tiered cake. A bolt of shimmering green fabric stuck on a rack at one of the shops on Bond Street becomes a ballgown for a queen in Romy’s eyes.”
“You do understand,” she whispered, her heart wishing to leap out of her chest to his.
“I see you, Maggie.” Welles gave a careful tug on the tiny bit of her skirts he held between his forefinger and thumb. “No matter how you attempt to hide.”
“I’ve not given you leave to address me in such a way,” she whispered, wondering at the odd intimacy growing between them. The skin of her legs and arms grew warmer and Margaret knew it wasn’t from the dappled sunlight coming through the trees surrounding them. It was Welles.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 9