The question kept her in bed for the remainder of the day.
Margaret, by nature, was a problem solver. Her intelligence set her apart, she told herself, from those poor girls who depended on others to think for them. She accepted her limitations, namely the fact that she was only passably pretty and came from tin miner stock. Instead of lamenting her circumstances, she had always chosen to find ways to circumvent obstacles. When her aunt had thrust her into the season against her wishes, Margaret had adopted a shy, retiring manner to remain beneath the notice of any fortune-hunting lord. When she had rebelled at her aunt’s rules, and the piano had been taken from her, Margaret had become docile as a way to get what she wished even though it chafed at her constantly, like an itch begging to be scratched.
A wave of self-pity engulfed her.
All she’d wanted was a pleasant, slightly stupid husband so she could play the bloody piano and help her fellow female musicians.
Two days after the duchess’s ball, Margaret decided it was finally time to face the music, so to speak. She could not continue to wallow in self-pity and lie in bed cowering from the world. Margaret was made of sterner stuff, though she’d pretended not to be. She would discuss the situation calmly with her aunt, apologize profusely, and make it clear to her nothing except a kiss had been exchanged. She would express her regret to Winthrop for any discomfort she’d caused him. Then Margaret hoped to convince Aunt Agnes to send her away to the country, preferably back to Yorkshire. At least it was familiar.
Her aunt sat on her favorite chair in the formal drawing room, as if knowing Margaret would seek her out. The painfully thin, sticklike figure became rigid at the sight of her niece, clearly poised for attack at the slightest provocation.
“Good morning, Aunt.”
“Margaret.” The flinty eyes ran over Margaret, not bothering to hide her dislike. “I did wonder when you would decide to face me after what you’ve done. An heir to a duchy. My, my, I would not have thought you so ambitious, or so stupid. Are you still a virgin?”
“Yes,” Margaret lied feeling the rush of heat up her neck at the memory of Elysium. “It was only a kiss.”
A horrid cackle left her aunt. “Only a kiss? You’ve been compromised. No one thinks you shared only a kiss with the Earl of Welles. I saw your face when you returned to the ballroom. And the mark on your neck. Thankfully the duchess interrupted before he’d seduced you completely. What were you thinking?” Her voice raised an octave.
She had been thinking she was going to compromise Carstairs.
“All of London is holding its collective breath to see if Welles will do the honorable thing.” A shrill laugh escaped her as she shook her head. “We will wait forever. Welles hasn’t an honorable bone in his body. Did you really think being compromised at the Duchess of Averell’s ball would result in marriage?”
I did. Just not to Lord Welles. “Of course not. It was only a kiss,” she said again.
“Perhaps you aren’t nearly as clever as you think you are, my dear. Marriage to Lord Welles!” Another ugly laugh escaped her. “This entire affair smacks of a jaded rogue who decided to make sport of a plain girl for his own amusement. Had he managed to seduce you, I would have had to send you away.”
It was on the tip of Margaret’s tongue to confess Welles had seduced her over a week ago; if the end result was expulsion from London, she was ready to pack her bags. Possibly if she mentioned Elysium, Aunt Agnes would send her all the way to the Continent. Gathering her courage, she opened her mouth to confess everything, but the next words from her aunt stopped her cold.
“As it is, you’ll still be able to marry Winthrop.”
Dread swirled deep and dark in her stomach. “But you just said—”
No. This would never do.
“Lord Winthrop is distraught, of course. But I’ve explained your…impassioned response to music. A flaw inherited from your mother who was similarly afflicted.” She waved her hand in the air. “As if you were slightly addled.”
“Do not equate my musical talent with a sickness. It is a talent.”
Her aunt’s lip curled at Margaret’s show of defiance. “You were merely playing the piano as you had on many occasions when you visited the duchess. Welles came upon you while you were in the throes,” her mouth tightened, “of your music. Welles is a seasoned rake, a seducer, who took advantage of an innocent young girl. You were only stupid, not despoiled. Winthrop has assured me he won’t tolerate such nonsense in the future. I doubt you’ll ever be permitted to play again.” A smug look crossed her skeletal features while the feather atop today’s turban, a pheasant’s, quivered with triumph.
“No. I mean, that’s not—” Margaret’s throat felt as if it would close and leave her begging for air. Once, when she was a child, she’d escaped her nanny to explore a small lake at the edge of her father’s property. Slipping in the mud, Margaret had fallen into the dark water, her limbs tangling in her skirts. She’d held her breath for as long as she could even though her lungs screamed for air. One of her father’s men had seen her fall in and saved her. That’s what this conversation with Aunt Agnes felt like, only no one was going to pull her out of the deep waters her aunt had pushed her into.
“A quick marriage to Winthrop and you’ll be shipped off to his country estate where, he assures me, there isn’t a piano within miles. By next season, Welles will have seduced some other young girl and you will be forgotten.”
The truth, as told by her aunt, was painful.
“My dear, did you think you were the only young lady Welles has ever compromised?” An ugly, choking sound left her. “Goodness, there’s at least one each season. You can nearly set your clock to him.”
Margaret said nothing. She was afraid if she opened her mouth she would begin to scream and not be able to stop.
A knock sounded on the study door. The heavy oak swung open to reveal a slightly ruffled Henderson. The butler bowed low and carried a silver platter over to Aunt Agnes, whispering in her ear.
Her aunt’s mouth quivered as Henderson spoke to her. She looked down at the note sitting on the salver and nodded. “You are excused, Margaret,” she croaked before waving Margaret upstairs.
“Has something happened?”
Her aunt blinked as if surprised Margaret was still in front of her. “I said you are excused. Go to your room. This instant,” she snapped.
Dismissed, Margaret had no choice but to make her way upstairs. After reaching her room, she closed the door behind her and told Eliza she wished to take a nap. As soon as the maid retreated, Margaret locked the door before squeezing under her bed, feeling beneath the mattress for her composition book.
Opening to the sonata she’d been working on, Margaret traced the notes with a fingertip, hearing the corresponding music in her head. A sob escaped despite the fist pressed to her lips. Even after all her careful planning and preparation, Winthrop would still have her.
She shut the notebook with a slap, pushing it back beneath the mattress. For the first time in her life, Margaret had no desire to play the piano, even though she could hear the music of Welles quite clearly. Disgusted with herself for still longing for him when he was the cause of her ills, she fell to the floor, the rug chafing against her cheek. Tears fell from her eyes and for once, Margaret didn’t blink them back.
She had no idea what she was going to do.
26
The next morning after crying herself to sleep, Margaret awoke with renewed faith in her ability to find a way out of her situation. She was nothing if not resilient. Today she meant to walk her aunt’s garden, avoiding the rosebushes, and contemplate her future. There was a way out of this mess Welles had laid at her feet, she had only to find it. It was exhausting to be so heartbroken.
Leaving her room, she headed for the stairs.
Noises sounded below. Her aunt had visitors. Margaret’s foot halted on the step as two men, both dressed in crisp, dark suits exited the drawing room. The low murmur of thei
r voices reached up the stairs, though she couldn’t make out their words. Efficiency hovered around both men, their movements quick and businesslike. One held a thick packet under his arm. Without looking in her direction, they strode past Henderson, who threw open the door, and into a carriage sitting outside.
Winthrop’s solicitors. Her heart sank.
She would not accept the idea of marriage to Winthrop. Margaret had spent the better part of the morning calculating how much pin money she’d squirreled away in her armoire. The book on fly fishing could be sold, though it wouldn’t fetch much. How ironic to be a wealthy heiress and have not so much as a farthing on her person.
“Margaret.”
She looked toward the drawing room to see her aunt, hands clasped and turban straight, looking at her with heightened anticipation. Aunt Agnes looked…happy. Possibly even elated. The last time she’d looked so thrilled had been when Winthrop had proposed. Margaret was immediately on guard.
“Please come in. I’ve some things we must discuss.” Her aunt’s chin pointed to the hated drawing room.
Margaret nearly declined her aunt’s request, but told herself nothing her aunt did to her could be worse than marriage to Winthrop. Cautiously, she made her way to the couch. The remains of the men’s visit sat on the table: A cold pot of tea and a pile of papers stacked neatly next to her aunt.
“Henderson,” her aunt said to the butler hovering about, “please bring a fresh pot of tea. And those delicious scones my niece enjoys.”
Margaret sat down on the couch with a plop, the dread spiraling out of control, making her insides ache. Aunt Agnes looked far too pleased; she’d never cared what Margaret preferred before as evidenced by her forcing Margaret to marry Winthrop.
“It would seem,” Aunt Agnes bent her boney form to perch on the end of her favorite chair like a turban-wearing vulture, “that you are to be a duchess one day.”
27
Margaret glanced back at her reflection in the mirror, admiring the simple, if hardly modest cut of the gown she would be married in. Tightly fitted around her breasts, the bodice pushed the small mounds up against the froth of lace edging the square-cut neckline. A large expanse of her chest and neck was exposed.
“The color suits you, miss,” Eliza said.
Margaret had to agree. The deep rose blush of the gown complemented her dark hair and pale complexion. She looked like one of the roses decorating her aunt’s bone china.
“I’d like a few moments before I come down,” she instructed her traitorous maid. The girl would not be coming when Margaret left this house, despite Margaret not having hired another lady’s maid. Eliza hadn’t been told the news yet.
The maid bobbed and left her alone.
Another delivery from the same modiste who’d designed her gold gown had arrived this morning, the card inside signed with love from Romy. It appeared her friend was to blame for the stylish but somewhat scandalous neckline and expensive Belgian lace. The duchess had sent her a lovely pair of earrings. Pear-shaped diamonds, which now dangled from Margaret’s ears, catching the light every time she moved. Margaret had exclaimed in surprise when she saw the diamonds, sitting in a red box with a silver ribbon.
The earrings had come with an apology that neither the duchess nor her daughters would be present for Margaret’s wedding to Anthony Marcus Barrington, 10th Earl of Welles and heir to the Duke of Averell. The duchess and her household had departed unexpectedly the day prior for Cherry Hill, the duke’s seat. The duke had taken a turn for the worse and the duchess, ever devoted, wished to be at her husband’s side.
Margaret understood. Besides, she wasn’t certain she would be married today.
Aunt Agnes was beside herself that Margaret had brought Welles up to scratch. Dozens of invitations for her aunt had arrived in less than a day and had begun to stack up on the table in the foyer. As the aunt of a future duchess, Lady Dobson was more in demand than ever. Despite her aunt’s almost frightening bliss at the marriage, Margaret was less than happy.
This entire marriage was bound for disaster.
When her aunt had first informed Margaret that Lord Welles had offered for her, she had been certain Aunt Agnes was joking. Or having a hallucination. Welles would never marry. He’d told her so on more than one occasion. His aversion to marriage was well known in the ton.
Margaret should have been thrilled. She would not be a pariah, but a duchess. There was also the immense relief, of course, of escaping her future as wife to the pear-shaped Winthrop, but it was tempered by the thought that Welles was being forced. Had the duchess held something over his head?
He compromised you intentionally.
If he actually showed up to marry her today, she would have to ask him why.
“Don’t dawdle.” Aunt Agnes appeared in the doorway of Margaret’s room, now devoid of most of her things. Her trunks had already been sent ahead to Welles’s town house. Contrary to Margaret’s earlier assumption, Welles did not live at Elysium, but only kept a room there. He had a lovely home not three blocks from Averell House.
She didn’t really know him at all.
Margaret turned and followed her aunt downstairs to the drawing room. Strange, she’d managed to avoid this room, her least favorite in the entire house, for years. She’d never thought it would be the place where she’d be married.
“Come, Niece.” Aunt Agnes took her hand.
Margaret looked down at the claw-like fingers encircling her wrist. It was the first time Margaret could ever remember her aunt touching her with anything resembling affection. That she did so now seemed more disingenuous and impossible than marrying Welles.
She shook off her aunt and marched into the drawing room, blinking at the two men standing before the vicar. Welles and his brother, standing side by side, looked so alike it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t her anxious mind playing tricks on her. She’d seen Leo Murphy before, the night she’d visited Elysium, but that had been at a distance.
The two men were of like height; both possessed the same dark brown hair, handsome chiseled features, and identical pairs of Barrington blue eyes. Welles was leaner, the lines of his body more elegant. Leo was broader across the chest and stockier. When Leo smiled, as he was doing now in her direction, a dimple appeared in his cheek. But even if she hadn’t seen those differences, the splashy waistcoat Leo wore with its swirl of sapphire and gold thread was enough to separate them. Welles, who only wore dark-colored, exquisitely tailored and understated clothing wouldn’t be caught dead in such a thing.
I guess I do know him a little.
“Miss Lainscott.” The deep baritone melted over Margaret’s skin, luring her closer to Welles even though there wasn’t anything remotely welcoming in his tone. His chiseled jaw was hard, sculpted from pure ice. She might catch frostbite only by standing near him. “May I present my brother, Mr. Leo Murphy.”
Leo took her hand, his fingers tightening over hers. “A pleasure, Miss Lainscott.”
“I’m happy to finally meet you,” she said. Leo had the same deep resonance to his voice as Welles, though his didn’t sink into her bones and cause her skin to hum.
“Now that the pleasantries are over, shall we get on with this?” Welles practically snarled at the vicar, causing the poor man to redden. He was ignoring Margaret completely; she could have been Aunt Agnes for all he’d noticed.
“I would have a word with you, my lord,” Margaret interjected and smiled politely to the vicar, “before we continue.”
Welles’s eyes were glacial, the beautiful blue rings like frost on a pond. “Now?”
“Yes.” She turned toward the door without waiting for him to agree.
A nervous, cackling laugh left her aunt before catching Margaret by the sleeve to bestow a brutal pinch to her upper arm.
Margaret winced and jerked away, glaring at her aunt. Aunt Agnes didn’t care for the recent changes in her niece’s temperament. Which was fine with Margaret since she didn’t care for her
aunt.
Welles stared down at Aunt Agnes from his much greater height. His voice lowered dangerously. “If you dare touch her again in such a way, I will pinch you, Lady Dobson. And I promise you won’t find it pleasurable in the least.” He leaned close. “Despite what you may have heard.”
Her aunt’s smile faltered, jet black eyes flashing with dislike. “I understand completely, Lord Welles.”
Leo chuckled softly from his place by the vicar.
“Good. I suspected we’d get on.” He gripped Margaret’s arm and began to pull her out of the drawing room. “Please excuse us for a moment.” He walked her into the hall. “Where?”
“My aunt’s parlor.” She shrugged off his hand.
Welles scowled reluctantly, letting go.
Opening the door to her aunt’s parlor, she waited for him to enter and then shut the door quietly. Margaret paced across the worn Persian carpet several times before coming to a stop before him. “You don’t want to marry me.”
A dark brow lifted. “It isn’t you in particular, Maggie. I don’t wish to marry anyone at all. But I am, in fact, getting married today. To you. You’ve ten minutes before I haul you back in front of the vicar.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m fairly certain I do.”
Margaret took in every glorious bit of him. She was in love with Welles and had been for some time. But marriage to a man who would never love her in return, when her own heart was so involved, was daunting, to say the least, especially since she was certain he would only grow to resent her over time. Eventually, her heart would be broken and shattered by his dislike. Welles hating her was in many respects a far worse fate than being married to Winthrop. “It was only a kiss.”
“Yes.” He gave her a lascivious look. “Between your legs.”
A tremor rippled across her skin. Margaret remembered every moment of their night at Elysium. “But not the night of your stepmother’s ball. No one need ever know about…the other,” she stuttered. “I never expected marriage of you—”
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 18