Margaret was physically ill as she imagined the scene in her mind. A young Welles, finding his beloved mother bleeding to death on the floor. “She taught him to play the piano.”
Leo’s eyes widened in surprise. “She did. And to appreciate and love music. Tony rarely speaks of her. They were very close. He blames our father for her death, as you may have surmised.”
She had, only Margaret hadn’t thought the truth to be so awful.
“My mother was horrified at what happened and the part she played. She collected me and fled to London. The duke found Molly eventually, of course, and begged her to come home. I think he bore her a great deal of affection. He may have even loved her in his way. My mother refused and never spoke to him again. She allowed him to see me when he came to London, though I always thought of him as the prick who made my mother weep. My stepfather put a stop to the duke’s visits but continued to take the money he sent for my care. I grew up quite comfortably as a bastard. Much more well off than most.”
“You don’t seem to hate him nearly as much as Welles,” Margaret said quietly.
“Tony has enough hatred for both of us, and I was glad to have a brother. But I don’t care for the man, if that’s what you’re asking. I suspect the young, overindulged duke who kept two women under the same roof is not the man whom Amanda and my sisters speak of with such love. He is a different father to them than he was to Welles. And he did claim me, bastard or not.”
Margaret nodded, lifting her eyes to his. It was a horrible tragedy, altering the course of Welles’s and Leo’s lives forever. And the life of the Duke of Averell. “He sounds as if he had an epiphany, your father. Perhaps the death of Katherine and losing you and your mother changed him for the better.”
She took in Leo’s stance, the same careless one Welles often adopted, which gave away none of his true feelings. There was no mercy in his eyes as he spoke of the Duke of Averell. “Our relationship cannot be repaired no matter any change wrought in him. Tony has been punishing the duke for years by not marrying. You see that, don’t you? By depriving the duke of an heir and allowing his line to die?”
Margaret did see, with startling clarity. “How Welles must detest me for forcing him to break such a vow.” She drained her glass as desolation swept over her.
“Averell has threatened Tony with everything over the years in order to get him to marry. Cut him off without a cent. Vowed to never allow him near the girls. Swore he’d dismantle Elysium brick by brick.”
“Gifted him a Broadwood,” Margaret said softly.
A genuine smile crossed his lips. “Tony doesn’t hate you. He’s pissed. Angry. And he does blame you.” Leo drained his own glass. “But he’s never played the damned Broadwood in Amanda’s conservatory, not once. Not even when Phaedra begged him to accompany her. Not until he played it for you.”
He bowed to her and walked toward the door, pausing to squeeze her shoulder.
“Rest assured, Lady Welles, while I don’t expect the path to be smooth, nothing on earth would have forced Tony to marry you if he didn’t truly want to.”
30
Margaret paced across the rug, glancing every so often to the closed door leading to her husband’s rooms. After Leo had taken his leave, Margaret had allowed Fenwick to show her upstairs. While Margaret had flounced down on the bed, admiring the pale green décor and elegant furnishings, Daisy had introduced herself and bustled about the room. Tea was sent up. The sun began to set. Margaret thought of changing but didn’t. And there was still no sign of her husband. When Daisy asked if she’d dine downstairs or take a tray, Margaret asked for the latter. She was simply too embarrassed to dine by herself on her wedding night.
Despite Leo’s reassurance, Margaret wondered if Welles meant to return.
Her new brother-in-law’s tale of the series of events that had shaped Lord Welles had given Margaret some insight, at least in dealing with her husband’s mood and the enormous obstacle she faced in her marriage. She understood now, truly knew, what was behind his vehement dislike of the Duke of Averell, as well as the punishment Welles had devised for his father. She wondered how it was that Welles didn’t resent Leo for being the son of his father’s mistress, but as far as Margaret could tell, the two were close and had no bitterness toward each other. Welles seemed only to blame the duke for Katherine’s death.
After picking at the chicken and roasted vegetables on her dinner tray, Margaret placed her fork down, looking out the window of her rooms at the small garden behind the house. She could stay upstairs and allow this mood to fester which would lengthen the void between them, or Margaret could take action. Welles could avoid her for significant stretches of time if he chose, and regardless of the reasons for their marriage, she didn’t want to become yet another politely distant marriage of the ton. Margaret had taken Leo’s words to heart as well as the small bit of honesty Welles had afforded her before the ceremony uniting them. He had compromised her intentionally. And as absurd as the idea was, Welles was jealous of Carstairs. Over her.
If what Leo had told her was true, Welles desired her and might even care for her. But Margaret would need to be careful with him. First, she had to find him.
She assumed Welles had retreated to his rooms at Elysium to brood, and that was where she was most likely to find him. Opening the armoire, Margaret brushed aside the row of dresses Daisy had neatly organized and gave a sigh of relief at the sight of her old cloak. She took it out, inhaling the moth-eaten smell, and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. Margaret would march down the stairs and ask Fenwick to have the carriage brought around. There would be no hailing a hack or sneaking out the servants’ entrance.
She was Lady Welles now.
31
Half an hour later, Margaret stood before Fenwick, who only gave a cursory glance at the ratty cloak the lady of the house was wearing. He was far too well-trained and had likely seen much worse as Welles’s butler.
“May I be of service, my lady?” He bowed to her.
“Can you have the carriage brought around? I’m meeting Lord Welles.” She lifted her chin in case the butler should deny her.
Fenwick’s brows knit in confusion. “Of course, my lady. I shall call for the carriage immediately, but his lordship is in the study.”
Margaret’s hands stilled against her skirts at the information. “I see. He must have decided to return home after all. I’ll join him.” How absolutely mortifying, especially since she assumed Fenwick knew she’d dined upstairs alone. Nonetheless, she gave him a bright smile. “Where would I find the study?”
“Two doors down, my lady.” Fenwick inclined his head. “Please ring, should you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you, Fenwick.”
How long has he been here? Margaret fumed. She’d been sitting upstairs, by herself, for hours. Pacing the floor. Wondering at his whereabouts.
Nothing on earth would have forced Tony to marry you if he didn’t truly want to.
Margaret drew the words close to her heart. She needed every bit of hope she could muster as she confronted her husband. Lifting her chin, she swung open the study door.
Only the fire was lit. No lamps. At first glance, Margaret wasn’t certain Welles was even in the study. Perhaps Fenwick had been mistaken.
“Hello, wife.” The coldly mocking baritone greeted her. “Looking for something?”
“Yes, my lord. I am in search of my husband. It appears after forcing me before the vicar he has chosen to abandon me, on our wedding night, no less. I’m sure Carstairs wouldn’t have done so.”
A growl came from the direction of a large chair before the fire. “I find your increasing show of stubbornness and your need to be argumentative out of character for Miss Margaret Lainscott. I feel certain you should go back to being timid.”
“I’m just as certain I should not. I am Lady Welles now.”
Another low sound of irritation. “And do not dare mention your longing for Carstairs again to me. Y
ou would have ruined him in a matter of weeks. The poor man would have had no idea the type of woman he’d married. Were you going to allow him to make any decisions at all? Or would you have just thrown open his house to invite a horde of destitute musicians to take up residence?”
“I’d allow him to hunt in peace.”
“Though not join him yourself? No hunting for grouse as a married couple?”
“After my lack of aptitude for fishing, despite the help of the book you gifted me, I would probably have taken up firearms. In fact, I’m considering doing so now.” Despite the familiar verbal sparring, Margaret detected the cold bits of sarcasm and anger lingering in his words. And the pain. Steeling herself, Margaret strode confidently into the room, nearly tripping on the carpet as she caught sight of the Broadwood against the wall, the firelight dancing off the polished wood.
Her heart beat in a hopeful rhythm. Welles had brought it here for her.
“I thought you would like to have the instrument,” he emphasized the word, “of your ruination close at hand. Besides myself. I moved my desk into a smaller parlor to make room for this monstrosity. I am not so fortunate to have a conservatory in this house.”
Margaret was deeply touched he’d done such a thing for her, especially given his mood. “Thank you.” Her fingers ran over the ivory keys of the Broadwood, fingers tingling with anticipation at the thought of being able to play whenever she wished. It was a rather grand, romantic gesture for him to make and so very unexpected.
“You may play until your heart’s content.”
He was her heart’s content, only Welles didn’t realize it. Moisture gathered behind her eyes. Bloody idiot. Did he really think she’d preferred Carstairs? She’d given herself to him. Margaret told herself to tread lightly. If everything Leo had told her was the truth, and she’d no reason to doubt him, it would take time and patience on her part to make Welles come around to the idea of being married.
And what of children?
Margaret brushed the idea aside. She needed to focus on one thing at a time. Approaching her husband as if he were a wounded lion or other wild creature, Margaret made her way to stand in front of him. Confrontation was not her strong suit, as evidenced by the way she’d handled the last several years living under her aunt’s thumb.
“You’re blocking the fire.”
Margaret gave a snort. “My lord, we both know I’m far too small to accomplish such a thing. Now who is being argumentative?”
Welles had discarded his coat and it now lay in a heap on the floor. His shirt had been unbuttoned, exposing a beautiful triangle of skin and dark hair to her view.
Margaret shivered, remembering the feel of those crisp hairs against her naked breasts even as her body hummed madly at his nearness.
He smelled of scotch and the outdoors. Wind and leather. She suspected he’d gone riding, something Margaret realized he did when he needed to think. Or was angry, as he’d been today and still was, apparently. The light of the fire caressed his striking features as he stared back at her, a frown tugging at the corners of his wide, sensual mouth. A letter sat open on his lap, the corners torn. Welles’s name, his Christian name, was scrawled across the top in a spidery, shaking hand.
The writing of someone who is gravely ill.
The fumes of scotch grew stronger as she took a step closer to him. “You’re foxed.” She reached out to take his hand, as she’d done the day of Lady Masterson’s garden party.
His fingers curled away from her.
The rejection stung, but Margaret was determined. The Broadwood glistened behind her as a reminder he must bear her some affection. “Did something happen?” She nodded toward the letter laying discarded in his lap.
“I chose the color especially for you.” One finger waved elegantly in her direction. “Rose blush. I saw it at the modiste’s when I ordered the gown made from gold. It reminded me of you. Blushing for me, the cream of your skin turning pink when I say such inappropriate things.”
“You sent me the gowns?” In retrospect, she should have guessed, given the immodest necklines. Another romantic gesture. Despite his manner, Margaret’s skin buzzed in a delicious fashion, begging her to draw closer. She raised her hand, intent on touching him.
“I couldn’t imagine how a girl of gentle breeding would have picked up on every innuendo I made. It was a shock to discover you were a virgin.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “And a great many things have happened.” An ugly thick sound came from him.
Margaret stepped back from her husband, hand dropping back to her side. The comment stung as he’d meant it to. “That was unkind.”
“Do you know what this is, wife?” Welles held up the letter.
Margaret was fairly certain she did. Her stomach pitched in apprehension as she stared at the vellum, recognizing the broken ducal seal. “Welles—”
“This, dearest wife, is a congratulatory letter from His Grace the Duke of Averell on our marriage. Doubtless, his joy at our nuptials has extended his miserable life.”
“And you blame me,” she said, her words as mocking as his. “This is my fault. Because I forced you to compromise me.”
Another ugly laugh came from him. “Wasn’t that your plan all along when you came to Elysium?” The words flung at her like a dozen daggers, slicing and digging into her heart. “For all I know, you are in league with that old prick and my stepmother. You’re quite Machiavellian, Lady Welles.”
If she had dared to come any closer, Margaret would have slapped Welles across his beautiful, smirking face. “I didn’t do this. You did.” He’d whittled down the most beautiful night of her life to nothing more than sexual manipulation. The dread settled firmly in the center of her chest.
“He’s not going to win. I’ll have no children. No heir for him to coo over.” His eyes ran down her form. “Go to bed, Lady Welles. You will wait in vain for the consummation of this marriage.”
The words struck her hard, the hatred of his father thickening the air between them.
Gathering her courage, Margaret leaned in, sorely sick to death of his bitterness and anger, particularly the parts directed at her. “I am exhausted with your moods.”
“Ah, there she is. It’s unfortunate I don’t want her here.”
“I grow weary of your temper tantrums. Your wild accusations. Your inability to be happy because it is so much more important to hang on to your bitterness. Your father will die, surrounded by his loving wife and daughters, and you will still be miserable. Your mother will still be dead.”
“Get. Out.”
“Since I am now free to take lovers, perhaps I shall.”
His fingers tightened on the glass and Margaret waited for him to hurl it at her.
“Just remember,” she said in a low tone, daring to whisper close to his ear. “It was Carstairs I wanted.” She refused to play meek and mild another moment, especially not for this man who’d demanded otherwise from her the entire time she’d known him.
He sat in the chair unmoving, refusing to look at her. After a few moments, Margaret wrapped her dignity about her and strode to the door, flinching only when the sound of glass breaking in the fireplace met her ears.
Once upstairs, Margaret tossed the cloak aside and looked into the fire. She would not sit back and put her own desires on hold until Welles came to terms with their marriage. And she refused to walk daintily around him while he wallowed in resentment, pretending it didn’t bother her.
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs.
He would probably live at Elysium for a time. Maybe forever.
Daisy arrived later with a quiet knock and began to help Margaret get ready for bed. When she pulled out a silky nightgown meant for her wedding night, Margaret waved her away. Her husband’s accusations had devastated her. Welles had meant to push her away and he’d succeeded. Brilliantly.
The maid left her with a murmured good night, and Margaret climbed into her bed. She was used to being
unwanted. Unloved. Margaret had existed in such a state since her father’s death. Welles doing much the same was a disappointment, but not unexpected.
Tomorrow, she would visit her father’s solicitor. The sum to come to her upon her marriage would now be hers entirely to do with as she wished. If nothing else, Margaret meant to have a rich, fulfilling life. Welles could go hang.
For the moment.
32
“Do you plan to live here indefinitely?”
Tony looked up from the desk in his rooms at Elysium—he’d been reviewing some of the accounts—to see his brother enter.
“Do you ever knock?”
“If you are moving in, you should have a bed brought up. You’ve room for it now since the piano is gone and it must be bloody uncomfortable to sleep on the chaise every night.”
“The chaise is fine.”
Leo took hold of one of the chairs by the fire and dragged it over to Tony’s desk. “I can’t imagine what is keeping you at Elysium. Do you not trust me to handle the accounts? Or are you hesitant to return to your bride after behaving like an ass?”
“We may have had an argument.”
Leo shook his head. “I assumed as much.”
After his wedding night during which he and Maggie had snarled at each other, Tony had retreated to his rooms at Elysium. He needed time to think, something he couldn’t do with Maggie in such close proximity.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 20