“Very well. The library has a large trout mounted on one wall.”
“Excuse me?”
Welles turned her and his hand moved up her back, pulling her closer. His eyes fell to her bodice, taking in the swell of her small breasts against the gown. “I used to boast to Carstairs about the size of the trout, one my grandfather caught in the Scottish Highlands. He’s been asking to see the damn thing for years. You are the trout.”
“I see.” Not a welcome comparison, but so be it.
“I’ll bring Carstairs to the study at half past eleven and get him settled with a glass of brandy. He likes brandy. You should remember such a thing for the future.”
“I’ve taken note,” she said, detesting this conversation.
“I’ll make an excuse to leave, and you’ll arrive. A short time later, you’ll be interrupted probably by my stepmother or someone equally prestigious, like myself.”
Margaret looked down at the buttons of his coat, counting six in all. She thought of the hard, muscular chest she’d been pressed against while playing the piano, now hidden beneath the coat and the buttons. He’d been so beautiful standing over her, naked and unashamed. Her heart would carry Welles and their night at Elysium for the remainder of her days.
“Maggie.” The baritone vibrated through the material of her gown. “Are you well?”
“I’m listening.” She tilted her head at him, ignoring the ache in her chest. “I’m to throw myself at Lord Carstairs after dazzling him with my knowledge of fishing lures. Thank you again for the book, by the way.”
He smiled, this time with warmth, as he took her in. “Good girl. Remember, half past eleven. Don’t be late.”
The music ended, and Welles led her off the floor to Aunt Agnes and a scowling Lord Winthrop. Winthrop claimed her for the next dance, a horrible experience in which she was much too close to his moist form, dancing about in his ridiculously feminine shoes. Any more of his attentions and the beautiful dress, her gift from the duchess, would be ruined.
One more hour and this would be over.
24
At exactly a quarter past eleven, Margaret excused herself. Winthrop had wandered off some time ago, likely put out by her nonexistent responses to his attempts to speak to her. The smell of talc and Winthrop’s overuse of pomade had only served to unsettle her stomach further. Finally, he waddled in the direction of the gaming tables, probably to gamble away her dowry before he’d even wed her.
He’ll never have my money.
Lifting her chin, Margaret once more reassured herself of the rightness of what she was doing and the fact that she had no real choice. Should she back down on her plans for this evening, she would find herself married to Winthrop. The conversation between Winthrop and her aunt in the carriage had left no doubt.
Spurred on by thoughts of Winthrop, Margaret quickened her pace.
Earlier, she’d danced with Carstairs and conversed with him at length on the merits of a particular type of fly used for fishing, knowledge all gleaned from the book Welles had given her. Carstairs had been enthralled with her description of an imaginary afternoon she’d spent fishing for bass with her father wearing wading boots. During their conversation, he had mentioned the trout residing in the library of the Averell mansion and his excitement in being able to view the trophy.
Margaret should have been relieved Welles was helping her but instead, the knowledge unsettled her further.
She had never ventured to the library on her previous visits, but Margaret knew the room lay a few doors beyond the conservatory. As she made her way down the hall to meet her fate, Margaret caught a few notes of music. She stopped, thinking at first it was the musicians below.
More notes floated out into the hall from the conservatory, a piece she didn’t recognize immediately, though it sounded vaguely like Chopin. One of the duchess’s guests was playing the Broadwood. Drawn by the beauty of the music, and overly possessive of the piano, Margaret stepped into the conservatory.
Welles was sitting at the Broadwood, an instrument he claimed he never played. His fingers ran in a fluid motion over the keys, drawing out the dark and melancholy notes of Chopin. She saw his fingers pause, and the last note hung in the air, the only sign he knew she was there.
Margaret told herself to take a step back and continue down the hall to the library where Carstairs would be admiring the trout, but instead, she walked silently into the conservatory, unable to resist the temptation of Welles.
Just once more before I compromise myself with Carstairs.
Without a word, Margaret sat next to him on the bench, basking in his presence and forgetting all about Carstairs. She could only see Welles. Only hear him.
One of his hands left the keyboard and took Margaret about the waist, tucking her in next to his side.
She snuggled against him, comforted for the first time since leaving Elysium. Her emotions quieted as she sunk into his warmth. “Welles, what are you doing here?”
“A lure much greater than any trout,” he whispered, leaning over to press a kiss below the base of her ear.
Margaret’s breath caught, unable to move as his lips trailed over the length of her neck before returning to her ear. His tongue traced around the curve, only stopping to suck the lobe between his teeth and nibble.
Her mind screamed to get off the bench and march into the library. Immediately. But her heart and body clung to Welles as if he were a life preserver.
Welles stopped playing and pulled her into his lap. The hard length of him rubbed against her backside as he pressed her against him. Fingers sunk deep into her hair, loosening the pins. She could still hear the music in her mind as his mouth, hot and demanding, took hers.
A sigh left her, one filled with surrender. Her body curled into Welles, seeking sanctuary even as her mind warned her of the danger of being here with him. When his tongue ran along the crease of her lips Margaret opened to him with a whimper. If she could just kiss him a moment longer. Just one more second with Welles, where her heart and soul wished to be, before a lifetime with Carstairs.
“Oh, dear.” The duchess’s voice sounded from the doorway.
I left the door open.
“Welles!”
Margaret struggled to break away, her mind fuzzy with desire, horrified at being discovered with the wrong man in the wrong room. One of her breasts was nearly out of her bodice. She looked up at the doorway, her fingers fumbling as she made a useless effort to fix her hair.
Oh, God.
At the doorway stood the duchess accompanied by Lord Carstairs and Miss Turnbull. All three stared at the sight of Margaret on Welles’s lap.
Welles’s hands tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh through the silk. He didn’t appear the least bit upset. In fact, he looked oddly satisfied.
Miss Turnbull’s mouth popped open in shock. “Miss Lainscott has been compromised.”
“What have you done?” Margaret whispered under her breath, struggling to get off his lap and stand. Her hair fell in tangles around her shoulders, the pins littering the floor beneath her feet. Margaret was utterly compromised. Ruined. Caught in an indiscretion.
“Hello, Your Grace.” Welles greeted his stepmother as if he hadn’t just nearly ravished Margaret on the piano bench. “My apologies. Miss Lainscott should have shut the door.”
The duchess immediately turned and pushed both Carstairs and Miss Turnbull forcefully down the hall. “Do not so much as breathe a word of this or you will regret it,” she threatened. “It was merely a trick of the light. They were only playing the piano.” As she shut the door, Margaret could hear Carstairs bemoaning the fact he’d not gotten to see the trout.
“You did this on purpose,” Margaret said beneath her breath to Welles.
Welles gave her a stony, unapologetic look.
“You were playing bloody Chopin with the door open, knowing I would investigate.” A small cry left her, and she pushed her fist against her mouth. “You�
��ve ruined it.”
His jaw hardened at the accusation. “Have I?”
“Welles.” The duchess’s voice was imperious. “This is beyond the pale, even for you.” Her gaze landed on Margaret, eyes full of pity and disappointment. “Ruining a young lady because you can.”
“Amanda—”
The duchess took a step forward, piercing Welles with an icy stare. “Take the servants’ stairs down and return to the ballroom from the direction of the terrace. I must try to mitigate the damage done to Miss Lainscott.”
Welles stood from the bench. “I do not need to be reprimanded as if I were a schoolboy.”
“Do you not?” The duchess whirled on him, clearly furious. “Congratulations, Anthony. You have succeeded in copying your father’s previous selfish behavior. How proud you must be to have ruined Miss Lainscott at my ball. Yet another shot fired in your unending desire to further insult and shame the Duke of Averell. And me.” Her voice shook with anger. “How dare you. Miss Lainscott is under my care. My patronage.” She shook her head. “You have finally become the very thing you despise—the father you remember.”
Welles fell back, eyes wide open in shock from her attack. “Amanda—”
“In the future, Lord Welles, you will address me as Your Grace.” The duchess was fairly trembling with rage, her tone scathing and glacial, so unlike the easy affectionate way she usually addressed Welles.
Margaret flinched as well. She’d caused this. Why hadn’t she just gone to the library? Taken one look at Welles and fled. And to what end? Looking down at her hands, Margaret could finally see the ridiculousness of her plan to force Carstairs into a compromising position. Her scheme had been flawed from the start, even more so now.
One of the duchess’s statues wore more expression on their carved marble faces than Welles did. Pain radiated from his eyes as he regarded his stepmother. Abruptly, he bent in an exaggerated mockery of a bow. “Your Grace.” His glance ran briefly to Margaret, but there was no warmth in his beautiful eyes.
The duchess shut her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to look at Welles a moment longer as he strode in the direction of the door. Once gone and the sound of his steps faded, her lids fluttered open. Pity, regret, and disappointment were thrown at Margaret in equal measure.
“What have you done, Margaret?” She came forward, fingers grazing over Margaret’s shoulders. “Let us try to make you presentable again. We haven’t much time.”
Margaret choked back a sob. The duchess had never called her by her given name; that she did so now told Margaret just how distressed she was.
“I blame myself. I saw the way he looked at you. Wondered at his request for you to accompany us to Lady Masterson’s party. He said it was for Romy’s sake.” Her hands flitted over Margaret’s shoulders and neckline. “Theo mentioned his interest. I should have warned him off. He’s never toyed with a young lady of good virtue so boldly. And now he’s gone and spoiled you, my dear Margaret.”
She wasn’t a rotten piece of fruit someone forgot to toss. “No. It was only a kiss.” Welles pressing his lips up her naked body flashed before her eyes and she pushed the image away. “Nothing more happened between us tonight.” That at least was the truth. She’d been spoiled before ever setting foot in the conservatory.
The duchess wasn’t listening, all her focus on gathering the pins that had fallen from Margaret’s hair. “I worried he saw you as a challenge of some sort. Thank goodness Carstairs caught me and asked the way to the library, else there is no telling what would have occurred. Welles had promised Carstairs and Miss Turnbull a look at a stuffed trout mounted on the wall.”
Margaret’s breath caught. The last remnants of hope this debacle had been accidental fled with her words. Welles had told her he would leave Carstairs in the library. Alone.
Her knees buckled suddenly.
Oh, God. Winthrop.
The duchess caught her elbow.
“Now you musn’t despair. We may yet be able to brave this out. We’ll go down together. You’ve been with me this entire time,” she instructed. “And I will ensure that this is made right.” The duchess was steely-eyed. “You can count on my discretion but unfortunately not that of Miss Turnbull.”
Margaret barely heard her.
Welles had lied. He’d never meant to help her at all.
25
The duchess had been right about one thing. Miss Turnbull’s discretion could not be counted on because it didn’t exist.
The whispers began the moment they returned to the ball. At first, the looks were discreet, merely quiet hisses behind fans that snapped shut in her direction. But as the hour grew late, more scandalized faces looked Margaret’s way in pity and thinly veiled malice. Everyone in the ton adored good gossip and the ruination of plain Miss Lainscott by the rakish Lord Welles was simply too juicy not to repeat. All of London would know by tomorrow morning, if not sooner.
Romy, loyal to a fault, stood next to Margaret chattering away on a variety of topics, none of which Margaret really listened to. Discreetly, Romy leaned over and tugged a bit of hair out of Margaret’s coiffure.
“To cover the bite mark,” she whispered, her cheeks pinking.
Margaret nodded, horrified down to the tips of her slippered toes. Bad enough her lips were swollen and her coiffure a tangled mess, but there was also proof of Welles’ ruination on her neck, for the entire room to see. As if he had taken a bite of the spoiled fruit Margaret now was and tossed her back into the bowl.
Carstairs circled the ballroom with Miss Turnbull clinging to his side like a silk-clad barnacle. He avoided eye contact with Margaret, never once turning in her direction. Miss Turnbull shot her a look of sympathy mixed with triumph while twirling her fan about. Every so often she would stop and whisper to another young lady. The listener’s eyes would widen in distaste while listening to Miss Turnbull’s recollection of the events in the conservatory.
Welles did not reappear. Margaret was certain he’d left.
The duchess circled the room, trying her best to contain the gossip, but by the looks thrown Margaret’s way, it became a losing proposition. The duchess finally pulled Aunt Agnes aside and whispered furiously in her ear.
Aunt Agnes nodded grimly at the duchess, her eyes rising to Margaret who stood next to Romy.
Moments later, Winthrop emerged from the card tables, his sweaty face sour and full of muted horror. Aunt Agnes went to his side immediately, clasping his arm and speaking in a soothing tone. When both Winthrop and her aunt glanced in her direction, Romy reached out to take her hand.
“I will have a conversation with Miss Turnbull,” Romy said under her breath. “And I will not desert you. Mother has told me what Tony has done. I am ashamed of my brother’s conduct. I always knew Tony was a rogue. I’d heard the gossip. But intentionally taking advantage of you in order to spite my father?” She bit her lip. “It’s intolerable, Margaret.”
Was that what he’d done? Compromised her to embarrass his father? Margaret’s stomach pitched at the thought.
Another twitter came from the direction of Miss Turnbull and her friends.
Romy’s eyes, so much like her brother’s, narrowed into slits.
“I am the daughter of the Duke of Averell. She won’t dare disparage you in my father’s ballroom.” Romy squeezed her hand and made a beeline for Miss Turnbull.
Miss Turnbull looked around the room, eyes wide, searching for any escape from the angry woman in the blue dress who was striding her way.
Margaret appreciated Romy’s loyalty but knew it would do little good. The damage was done.
Aunt Agnes, chin pointed and sharp, nodded to Winthrop and made her way to Margaret’s side. Curling her spindly fingers around Margaret’s elbow, her aunt steered her out of the ballroom without allowing Margaret the chance to say goodbye to either the duchess or Romy. She pushed Margaret into Winthrop’s waiting carriage without so much as a word, her boiling rage at Margaret so fierce it threatened to suffocate
them both.
Margaret turned to look out the window as the coach rolled back to her aunt’s house. Well, she had wished to be compromised tonight, though the evening had taken a rather sharp departure from what she’d originally intended. Had it been Carstairs who’d compromised her, he would have asked to speak to her aunt discreetly and promised to arrive the following day with his solicitor bearing a formal proposal of marriage. Instead, Margaret had become merely another young lady whose reputation was irrevocably destroyed by a notorious rake. Welles was known for his sexual exploits and his pleasure palace, not for his honorable intentions.
Welles would never offer her marriage. It simply wasn’t in his character.
If there was one bright spot in this entire fiasco, it was that being compromised by a man with Welles’s reputation did ensure one thing. Not even Winthrop would have her.
Margaret would have to live the remainder of her days outside society due to her fall from grace. That didn’t actually bother her too much, except she would be dependent on her aunt’s charity until she could find some sort of employment. Once she turned thirty, a portion of her inheritance would revert to her. Perhaps she could teach piano or become a governess.
Unlikely once your indiscretion becomes public knowledge.
Aunt Agnes may well turn her out. Margaret had no other family to seek refuge with, except for a distant cousin on her father’s side whom she’d never met and who lived in Scotland.
Once they arrived at her aunt’s home, Aunt Agnes left Winthrop’s carriage without a word to Margaret. Thin shoulders stiff, her aunt picked up her skirts and walked up the stairs to her rooms without bothering to see if Margaret followed.
Margaret slept little that night, her thoughts anxious and disjointed. There had to be a way out of the situation she found herself in. She’d worked so hard at endearing herself to Carstairs. My God, she’d studied fly fishing. Her mistake, Margaret could see, was confiding in Welles. The pain at his betrayal was made worse by her own feelings for him. Why had he ruined everything for her? Because he could?
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 17