The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1)

by Kathleen Ayers

  A giant, moist pear. Margaret kept herself perfectly still, determined not to shirk from him in disgust. Such a thing would delight her aunt and would not halt the proceedings.

  Winthrop waddled forward, greeting her aunt politely. “Lady Dobson.”

  “Lord Winthrop, what a surprise to have you call,” Aunt Agnes said. “Margaret and I were just about to have tea. Please join us.”

  “Miss Lainscott.” He took Margaret’s hand. “You are looking especially lovely today.”

  Margaret could do little more than stare at Winthrop and try to rein in her mounting horror at what was about to occur. She thought briefly about suddenly developing a headache, but Aunt Agnes would see through such a ploy. Could she faint? Perhaps collapse over the tea tray?

  Winthrop settled his heaving form next to Margaret, making his appearance here even more glaringly apparent.

  No. No. No.

  She told herself to remain perfectly still and to keep her eyes trained on her lap. She managed not to cringe as he leaned in her direction.

  “Would you like tea, Lord Winthrop?” Aunt Agnes was practically dancing a jig she was so pleased.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Margaret, please pour.” Her aunt was still smiling, almost daring Margaret to defy her or attempt to escape her fate.

  Margaret nodded, her manner docile, and poured tea, pausing only when Winthrop instructed her on the amount of milk he liked in his. Taking a deep breath, Margaret composed herself while her mind ran through a series of excuses she could use to leave the room and never return.

  Perhaps she was wrong, and Winthrop was only here to pay one of his annoying and awkward calls upon her. She took in his elaborate coat and carefully styled hair. He wasn’t paying a casual call. Winthrop was about to pounce.

  Winthrop and Aunt Agnes exchanged pleasantries while Margaret poured her aunt’s tea and tried to make herself as invisible as possible. Maybe they would forget she was there. Her aunt claimed Margaret to be so unmemorable, barely anyone recalled her presence. Wishful thinking in this case.

  Panic roiled her stomach. Winthrop’s smell only contributed to her mounting nausea.

  After demolishing two plates of tiny sandwiches, Winthrop put down the delicate porcelain plate he had clasped in one sweating paw. His eyes ran over Margaret with resignation.

  “Miss Lainscott, would you care for a walk about the gardens? There is something I wish to discuss with you.” He inclined his head in the direction of her aunt. “With your permission, of course, Lady Dobson.”

  No. No. No.

  Margaret glanced at him from beneath her lashes, not trusting herself to raise her head. There was a crumb dangling at the corner of his mouth, stuck to the dampness that was Lord Winthrop. Margaret felt very light-headed. Perhaps she really would faint and land atop Winthrop’s hideous shoes. The pair he wore today were burgundy, to match his coat, with ornate silver buckles sporting tiny burgundy bows.

  Oh, dear God.

  “My gardens are lovely especially this time of year. And it is a perfect day for a walk. Margaret would be happy to take a turn with you. My roses are in bloom.” Aunt Agnes motioned for her to rise, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  Standing, Margaret forced herself to keep still as Winthrop took her hand, tucking her fingers into the fleshy meat of his forearm. The velvet he wore was already damp. What would it be like to be trapped beneath this…monstrosity? She could barely stand to be near him. The horror of the future her aunt planned for Margaret nearly made her faint.

  Blinking at the sunshine as they moved outside, Margaret took in the garden. Birds were singing. The smell of roses filled the air. A perfect day and place for a marriage proposal.

  Her stomach, already unsettled by the smell of Winthrop, lurched and pitched. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast and the moment the sweating pear had appeared, Margaret had lost all interest in the tea tray. She placed a hand against her mouth. A hysterical scream was threatening to bubble up her throat as well as her breakfast.

  “Miss Lainscott, I have come to know you quite well in the short time we’ve been acquainted. I feel we would get on well enough.” A beaded drop of sweat ran down the side of his nose.

  At least he has the decency not to drag this horrifying situation out with a romantic declaration.

  “I have come to the conclusion we suit, despite your background.”

  I’m in desperate need of your dowry, though you are the daughter of a tin miner.

  “I admire your maturity.”

  A bit long in the tooth, nearly on the shelf, so I feel certain you’ll get no other proposal.

  “Your aunt is in agreement.”

  She doesn’t wish to fund another season nor wait to see if Carstairs reappears.

  “I see,” was all Margaret managed to choke out. The aroma of the roses mixed with the smell of Winthrop’s talc invaded her nostrils and pores.

  Oh, God, I’ll be smelling him the rest of my days.

  “Miss Lainscott.” He mopped his brow with a hastily procured handkerchief already stained with sweat.

  A bitter taste filled her mouth.

  “I would be pleased if you would consent to be my wife.”

  “I—” She swallowed and removed the hand at her mouth to press her fingers against her stomach. Margaret had one glance at Winthrop’s horrified face before she turned to the rose bushes lining the path. Leaning over the pale pink buds about to bloom, Margaret tossed up her breakfast right into Aunt Agnes’s prized rose bushes.

  16

  “I should die from embarrassment.” Aunt Agnes shut her eyes tightly as if to block out the sight of her unfortunate niece. Her painfully thin form stalked back and forth over the Persian rug in Margaret’s room, fingers curled into her skirts, like an agitated scarecrow.

  Margaret shot her aunt a baleful glare from the comfort of her bed. It would be far too much to hope Aunt Agnes would perish from mortification.

  “Breakfast didn’t settle well this morning. Perhaps the butter had spoiled, for I only had toast. I can’t imagine what else could have caused such a reaction.” Margaret congratulated herself for saying such a thing with a straight face.

  “Apparently, your unsettled breakfast did not keep you from visiting the duchess earlier today. Henderson claims you seemed well enough when you arrived home.”

  “At least I didn’t cast up my accounts on Lord Winthrop.” The rose bushes had paid the price for her dislike of the pear-shaped lord and her utter horror at his marriage proposal. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to become ill in the rose bush instead of all over Winthrop’s expensive, silly shoes.

  Winthrop had sputtered, his pear-shaped form jumping back in horror at her distasteful display. He’d barely had the presence of mind to toss his well-used, sweaty handkerchief in her direction, the smell of which had caused Margaret to retch again into the roses. The bit of linen was still stuck among the thorns in her aunt’s garden.

  Margaret had murmured an apology of sorts, while Winthrop made sounds of disgust, and rushed up the stairs to her room. After washing her face and rinsing her mouth, Margaret felt somewhat better as Eliza had helped her to bed. She lay, staring at the ceiling, dread slowly seeping into her core. A short time later, Aunt Agnes had appeared, turban tilting dangerously and peacock feather quivering with indignation.

  “Winthrop was horrified, Margaret.” She stopped and put her hands against her hips, the bones of her knuckles poking through her skin. “As am I. Thankfully, he is an understanding gentleman. Much more than you deserve.” Aunt Agnes scuttled about Margaret’s bedroom like a tiny beetle, peering at the space as if expecting to find something else to chastise her niece for.

  Margaret had been right to secret away her things earlier.

  “I assured Winthrop his suit is welcome. The contracts will be sent over from his solicitor to mine. There are a few more points to be agreed upon. Minor things. But once I sign, you’ll belong to Winthrop.”


  She swallowed back the bile hovering in her throat. “But I haven’t accepted him. I have another suitor, Aunt. I am expecting Lord Carstairs—”

  Her aunt’s head snapped around so swiftly, the ridiculous turban nearly slid from her head. “Your agreement to Winthrop’s suit isn’t necessary. His proposal was only a formality. Lord Carstairs hasn’t called in two weeks. I’ll admit, I was overjoyed when he seemed to pursue you, but as with most other gentlemen who come to know you, you’ve alienated him in some way.” She threw up her hands. “No one wants you but Winthrop, Margaret.”

  Margaret knew that to be somewhat true, but it was still hurtful to hear the words aloud.

  “You fail to acknowledge I am your legal guardian.”

  “Surely my father—”

  “Meant for me to guide you. He knew I would save you from the same mistake your mother made in marrying him. Your future is mine to do with as I please and it pleases me to give you in marriage to Winthrop.”

  Margaret took a sharp inhale of air. If she had to plead with her aunt, so be it. “But why him? Why are you so set on Winthrop? Please, I only ask for a bit more time. Once I see Carstairs at the Duchess of Averell’s—”

  “Carstairs is gone, Margaret, without offering for you. The only way you would garner another wedding proposal this late in the season would be if you were compromised.” Aunt Agnes gave a short, bitter laugh. “And we both know I have a greater chance of being compromised than you.”

  Margaret didn’t think her chances were all that terrible; after all, she’d been propositioned by Lord Welles. “But—”

  “The only wise thing Walter Lainscott ever did, besides marrying my sister to further his lot in life, was to entrust your future into my capable hands.”

  Margaret often wondered why he had done so. She had been barely twenty-three when her father had died. Perhaps her father had thought he was doing the right thing. He’d wished her to marry and had never been comfortable with the idea of his only child becoming a spinster. While he’d not liked Aunt Agnes, her father had appreciated her fine breeding and connections.

  Oh, Papa. Your intentions were honest but misguided. Margaret felt tears well behind her eyes and hastily blinked them away. She refused to weep in front of her aunt, who would seize upon any weakness and use it to her advantage.

  “You are too much like my sister, Clara. Flighty and empty-headed.”

  “I am not empty-headed.”

  “So timid you can barely meet a gentleman’s eye, let alone garner his attention. So lacking in distinction one forgets you in a moment.” Aunt Agnes continued. “The only thing you care for is playing the piano. No wonder no one wants you.”

  Resentment boiled up within her. Margaret had played the shy, reserved young woman in order to avoid marriage to a man like Winthrop and not antagonize her aunt into taking her music away. It was a means to survive until she could figure out a way to escape her situation. Margaret could now see doing so had been a mistake. Aunt Agnes thought her to be weak-willed and docile, much like Clara. But the only thing Margaret had had in common with her mother was music.

  “I’m nothing like my mother,” she said, her tone glacial. Clara Lainscott had been flighty. Easily distracted. A beautiful woman who needed someone to care for her and make difficult decisions. She needed servants. A maid.

  Margaret needed none of those things. Only her music and a modest income to live on.

  Her aunt’s head snapped back, surprised at the vehemence in Margaret’s words.

  “My father was wrong.”

  Aunt Agnes skewered her with a hostile look. “Really? Is that why he left you to me?”

  Margaret looked down at her hands, hating her father for his betrayal. How could he have left this woman in control of Margaret’s future?

  “I gave you an entire season to make your own choice and what did you do? Wasted it. You sat in this house, incessantly playing the piano. Scribbling in that leather-bound book as if anyone would ever even look at anything you composed.” A nasty chuckle left her. “Your head has been in the clouds instead of paying attention to what is around you.” She snorted. “This season I took a more active role in ensuring you would find a suitable match. But once again you frittered away your time, playing the piano for the Duchess of Averell like some paid entertainer. Meeting with those women. Mrs. Anderson.”

  Margaret’s fingers tightened on the sheet at the mention of the Royal Society of Female Musicians. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Aunt Agnes gave a derisive snort. “Did you think I didn’t know about your little club? No doubt you plan to give them a large donation once you are married. Those women are nothing but a bunch of parasites who wish to bleed you dry. You stupid girl. Luckily, Winthrop has assured me he will manage your funds.”

  “That isn’t true.” Margaret raised her voice. “There are female musicians who are in need of assistance. I wish to help. It is a noble cause. And there is money set aside for me alone once I marry.”

  “You can’t be trusted with such a sum else you’d give it all away. What next? Will you roam Covent Garden and toss coins to the jugglers and fortune tellers? The only reason such women would curry your friendship is for your money, Margaret. Are you so blind? Winthrop will ensure not one penny goes to fund such a ridiculous cause. As his wife, you will be expected to support a charity much more meaningful. Orphans, for example.”

  No. This could not be happening. Her stomach heaved again.

  “You know that isn’t true, Aunt. The duchess is a supporter. Mrs. Anderson is an eminent pianist and teacher in her own right. She has encouraged me to compose and nurture my talent.”

  “What you mean is she encourages you to behave like a harlot. Anyone who has seen you play bears witness of your base nature. I wonder that the duchess has allowed you around her daughters.”

  “I play with passion,” she choked out, her throat thick with emotion. “I have talent.”

  “Your mother was exactly the same. Her passion for music resulted in you. I can still see your father groping her at the piano. Touching her. Debasing her. A miner.” Her aunt’s chest heaved with fury, her bitterness toward her late sister and Walter Lainscott all too apparent. “Clara was the daughter of a viscount. A noble title that was tainted by your father. After their marriage your mother was not received, did you know that? She was shunned by all her former friends and acquaintances. My own prospects were dimmed by her selfish decision to marry Lainscott. Our mother’s heart was broken. My father was devastated that she would elope with such a man. But I will not allow the same to happen to you.” Spittle had formed at the corners of her aunt’s mouth as she hissed her venom at Margaret.

  “Aunt Agnes, please.” This was why her aunt disparaged Margaret’s passion for music. This was why Margaret’s talent was only trotted out for special recitals when Aunt Agnes was pressured by her friends to do so. Or when she wished to impress someone. No wonder her aunt detested her. She blamed Margaret for all of Clara’s mistakes. “I am not Clara. Please give me a chance to find another suitor.”

  “You cannot be trusted, Margaret. One day you will be carried away by music and find yourself seduced. I won’t stand for such a thing.” Her aunt’s eyes had become wild, her breathing ragged and full of rage. “I will not suffer the humiliation of another scandal.”

  “Please don’t marry me to Winthrop,” Margaret pleaded, cringing at having to debase herself before her aunt. “Please.” Margaret sat up, hands reaching toward her aunt. “I find him to be repulsive, Aunt. He disgusts me. I would have some affection in my marriage.”

  “Affection? I had none in my marriage. Your mother’s impetuous decision saw to that. But in hindsight, wedding Lord Dobson was all for the best. We were partners, combining our contacts and wealth to improve our status. A much more logical way to determine one’s future spouse than affection. Look where love got your mother. Your father wished for something better for you. A title.” Aunt Agne
s shook her head in disbelief at what she clearly considered to be Margaret’s idiocy.

  “You’ll be the wife of an earl, a countess, and will rise above your mother’s station in life. You’ll have a place in the ton. I know what is best for you, Margaret. And it’s Winthrop.” The turban nodded at Margaret. “He is in agreement that music will be a waste of your time as Lady Winthrop. You won’t even have so much as an out-of-tune piano in his household to take your attention away from your husband and children. Or the care of his sickly mother.” A thin, ugly smile crossed her lips. “One day you’ll thank me.” With a final look, Aunt Agnes disappeared from the room in a swirl of indignant skirts, slamming the door behind her.

  “I’ll never thank you,” Margaret whispered as she stared into the canopy above her bed, wishing a hole would appear to swallow her up. After seeing her aunt rage about the bedroom, spitting out her vitriol against Margaret’s parents, Margaret knew there wouldn’t be any swaying her aunt’s decision. Her mind was set. If her aunt had her way, Margaret would never have her music, nor would she be able to help her fellow musicians.

  Both situations were intolerable. Winthrop was intolerable.

  She allowed herself exactly two hours to wallow in a horrific bout of self-pity, sobbing out her fear and anger into her pillow before resolving to find a way out of this mess. There was absolutely no way she could marry Winthrop. She would flee from this house and live on the streets before she did so.

  Several hours later, Eliza brought a dinner tray to her room. Broth and two slices of bread. Apparently, her aunt didn’t care for Margaret’s outburst earlier and meant to starve her into obedience. It didn’t matter. Margaret wasn’t hungry.

  “Is there anything else, miss?” Eliza set down the tray.

  “No.” Margaret had held suspicions earlier about trusting Eliza, but in light of her aunt’s comments about Mrs. Anderson, she knew she’d been correct in hiding her composition book beneath the bed. Mrs. Anderson had sent Margaret several notes, as had the duchess, all of which she’d stupidly left on her desk. Eliza couldn’t read, but that hadn’t stopped her from sharing the contents with someone who could. Probably Oakes, her aunt’s maid.