“I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” he whispered.
Maggie arched her back against his mouth. “When I played the piano at Gray Covington and made a complete ass of myself?”
Three more buttons, and the dress spread out across her naked shoulders. “No. Before. At dinner the first night.” He kissed along her collarbone, feeling her ripple of surprise.
She drew in a sharp breath as his teeth grazed across her shoulder. “At dinner? I barely said a word to anyone. Aunt Agnes had admonished me to be silent.”
“Yes, but I saw you, Maggie. And when you arched over the piano,” he began to untie her stays, “I decided I would have you. I thought of nothing but tasting you. Burying myself in you. Savoring you as one does a fine wine.”
A quiver shot through her as the stays fell free. “I think myself much more common. Like scotch.”
Tony chuckled, sinking his fingers into her hair, pulling at the pins until the dark brown strands fell streaming over her shoulders. His hands reached around and cupped her breasts, carefully rolling her nipples between his fingers until she moaned. His cock hardened at the sound, throbbing painfully in response.
One hand slid down between her legs, feeling how soft and ready she was, though he’d barely touched her. “When I saw you again, hiding in the wisteria, determined to escape the attentions of Lord Winthrop, I had already decided to make you a most indecent request.”
“You never meant to allow Carstairs to have me,” she said.
“Nor anyone else.” His fingers moved against her, listening to the delightful sounds she made. He pressed the length of his cock against her buttocks.
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” he whispered, turning her face to him.
39
Margaret woke and immediately stretched out her arm, surprised to find the other half of the bed wasn’t full of gorgeous, muscular male. She sat up and looked toward the open door of her rooms.
Only Daisy’s plump form could be seen busily laying out Margaret’s clothing and bath towels. Steam floated around the maid in a thick mist.
Wherever Welles had gone, he’d ordered her a bath before leaving.
Margaret flopped back on the bed. She was ridiculously happy. While Welles hadn’t said he loved her, after taking all of his actions into consideration as well as his adamant assertion he had not been unfaithful to her, it was very possible Georgina’s assumption about his feelings had been correct.
I need to hear him say it.
Welles was a work in progress. When he was ready, he would tell her he loved her.
She stood and grabbed her robe at the foot of the bed, wrapping the silk around her naked body, and walked into her bedroom, sniffing the aroma of rose oil Daisy had put into her bath. The maid helped her out of her robe and into the steaming water.
Margaret closed her eyes and sank into the heated water with a groan. “Daisy, do you think you could check downstairs to see if there are any fresh currant scones?” She giggled. “Spare one or two for my husband.” When the maid didn’t answer, Margaret’s eyes fluttered open.
Daisy frowned. She’d been doing that quite a bit of late.
“Is there something amiss, Daisy?” Margaret trailed her hand in the water. The maid insisted she was content to stay in London. Romy had been saddened but glad Daisy would stay in the family, so to speak. But perhaps she was homesick.
“No, my lady.” But the maid was still looking at Margaret before a smile broke across her face. “I’ll go pull out one of your new day dresses. The green sprigged muslin? It’s very fetching.”
“Perfect.”
As she sank back into the water, Margaret’s glance fell on the latest letter from Cherry Hill, this one from Phaedra. There was a new barn cat who was quite a mouser, a stray the duchess had taken in. The cat had been christened Theseus for his bravery in clearing the barn of rodents. He was most appreciative of his new mistress and showed his affection by leaving the duchess dead mice and the occasional bird in her rooms. The letter detailed Phaedra’s attempts to find out how the feline was entering the house and depositing gifts for her mother.
The duchess had written a small note at the bottom of Phaedra’s letter. The duke continued to decline; the brief improvement at the news of Margaret’s marriage to Welles had only been temporary. Even the laudanum the doctor prescribed was no longer enough to ease his pain. She begged Margaret to convince Welles to at least return to Cherry Hill to bid his father goodbye.
Margaret pulled her eyes away from the note. Welles should go to Cherry Hill. Forgiving his father would not mean forgetting the duke’s treatment of Welles’s mother, but possibly it would ease the bitterness her husband continued to live with.
Welles had also received a letter from Cherry Hill not two days ago, another note addressed directly to him in the familiar shaking hand of his dying father and bearing the ducal seal. Mindful of what had occurred the last time Welles had received a letter from his father, Margaret had left him alone to read the contents. He’d disappeared shortly thereafter without a word. Margaret had awoken later that evening at being carried from her room to his, where she’d been dumped unceremoniously on the bed, before Welles had collapsed next to her fully clothed, reeking of scotch.
She had wisely chosen not to question him.
As Daisy dried her off, Margaret mulled over the situation, determined to find some sort of an answer to her husband’s refusal to address the issues he had with the Duke of Averell. She was hesitant to push him on the subject, not wishing to shake their still fragile but strengthening reconciliation. But still, each day she grew more and more sure of Welles and their marriage. Maybe it was time to sit him down and force him to face the duke before it was too late.
Daisy pulled her stays tight before pulling the green sprigged muslin over Margaret. The maid’s hands went to work on the buttons at the back, tugging on the material before pausing.
“Daisy?”
“I’m sorry, my lady. Perhaps the seamstress got your measurements wrong on this dress. It’s far too tight.”
The bodice hugged Margaret like a glove. If she breathed too deeply her breasts might pop out. “I think I’ve gained some weight,” she said to Daisy. “I eat far more now than I ever did at my aunt’s home, where the cook wasn’t nearly as good. I’ll have to watch myself. I shouldn’t eat so many scones. I won’t have any today.” She smiled. “I don’t wish to grow stout.”
Daisy didn’t return her smile. “My lady, if I may.”
“Daisy, what is it?” She touched the maid’s hand. “Do you wish to return to Cherry Hill? Please don’t be worried I’ll be upset. I’ll be sad to lose you, but Cherry Hill is your home. I would understand.”
“No, what I mean to say is, I don’t wish to return to Cherry Hill. I like London and my place here. But there’s something—” Daisy looked away before turning back to Margaret. “My lady, forgive me if I’m impertinent, but I’ve ten brothers and sisters. All younger than me.” She paused. “I know what a woman looks like who—”
“That’s not possible.” Margaret stopped Daisy before she could hear the words she feared most. “No. I am not,” she said with conviction. Her husband may have reconciled himself to having a wife, but not children, as evidenced by the more strident measures he took. Welles had been using a device he called a French letter to prevent contraception. She used the small sponges soaked in vinegar. If anything, Welles’s determination to not have a child had intensified, as if ensuring he would grant his father no solace at all before he died. She hoped, one day, Welles would relent and accept a child.
But not like this.
Margaret fell back against the bed, struggling to remember the last time she’d had her courses. Not since before she’d played the piano for him at Elysium in her chemise. She calculated in her head as dread filled her.
How could I have not noticed?
She’d been so intoxicated by having Welles, the Broa
dwood, her music, Margaret had paid little attention to anything else.
“Say nothing, Daisy. I’m certain you are mistaken,” Margaret said abruptly, as panic seeped into her veins. She pressed a hand to her stomach. No. Please. Not yet.
“Yes, my lady.” The maid shot her a look of concern before leaving the room.
Margaret went to the seat by the window, staring out at the garden for the better part of an hour, mulling over every detail of her life, wondering how she could have ignored the signs. She’d become ill in the carriage several times in the last month, blaming it on the rough roads, and told Welles the vehicle needed new springs. Every day at tea she became nauseated, but she blamed it on the milk being spoiled. Or the fact that she hadn’t cared for the sugared biscuits Cook put out. She was more tired than usual, but she’d been joining Welles at Elysium several times a week in addition to organizing her charitable events. Margaret had just assumed the exhaustion was due to her busy life.
He’ll grow to resent me again.
Margaret slowly caressed her stomach, wondering at the life she was now certain grew within. Her husband would not be happy at the news he was to be a father.
Nothing ever works out as I plan.
Welles would be furious. He would blame her, unfairly, as he had before. She could only hope, given the state of their marriage, he would come to terms with the child. Margaret would even agree to withhold the news from Cherry Hill if that was what he wished.
“No. I can’t be,” she whispered, a lump forming in her throat.
“You can’t be what?” Welles appeared in the doorway, smiling and looking ridiculously splendid in his riding clothes. He’d been up early, racing around the park as he liked to do, unaware his wife had just betrayed him in the worst way possible.
Well it’s his bloody fault as well. She thought of the things he’d done to her last night.
“Your cheeks are pinking, Lady Welles.” He leaned down to kiss her. “What are you thinking of?”
That I’ll lose you.
Margaret forced a smile to her lips. “Mrs. Anderson is attempting to convince me to publish my sonata. I’m not sure she’ll succeed. I don’t feel it’s ready yet.”
Welles kissed her again. “You must, Maggie. It’s a beautiful piece. And you’ve worked so hard on it.”
It was a beautiful piece. She’d written it for Welles, after all, though she’d never told him. Would he send her away? Insist she get rid of the child before it could be born? She already knew he would go to great lengths to hurt the Duke of Averell.
Her fingers tightened over her stomach protectively.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he strode through the connecting doors calling for his valet, “Maggie mine.”
Margaret watched as Welles walked back and forth, various items of clothing coming off to reveal his beautiful form until his valet shut the door.
Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought—telling Welles he would be a father.
No. It was far worse.
40
“I am with child.”
Tony’s head lifted from his desk to take in the tiny form of his wife, standing defiantly before him in the parlor which he’d been forced into using as his study. He’d only just returned from reviewing the Elysium account books with Leo and meeting with several wine merchants who were vying for a contract with the club. Winthrop had had the audacity to demand his membership be reinstated, which was highly amusing.
Tony had denied it.
“Excuse me?” At first, he thought he’d misheard her.
“I said, my lord,” her chin tilted mulishly, and her eyes flashed dark fire at him, “I am with child.”
The floor fell away beneath his feet while his vision narrowed on Maggie, the words ringing in his ears. A brief, tiny burst of joy tried to make its way out of the darkness rapidly enveloping him, but Tony viciously stomped the light out.
His eyes ran over every inch of her, searching for the truth in her words. Tony was intimately acquainted with every inch of his wife’s body, and—his gaze dropped to the abundant spill of her breasts over the neckline of her gown.
Bloody hell.
The news shouldn’t be unexpected, given his inability to keep his cock in his pants when his wife was in close proximity. But Tony had ensured they took precautions, as he had for years, determined not to have a child before his prick of a father was in the ground and couldn’t possibly delight in the knowledge he would have an heir.
He stood and went to the sideboard, not even bothering with a glass as he took a deep draught of the bottle of brandy he kept there. Pausing to wipe his mouth he uttered, “Well, that’s bloody inconvenient.” All the feelings about his marriage, his father, his mother’s death, erupted once again after having been contained for so many weeks. At the moment, he detested his weakness for the woman standing before him. Resenting her and the child she carried.
“I know this isn’t what you planned. But it isn’t unexpected—”
“Because I fuck you so much?” He swallowed more brandy, feeling the burn go down his throat and into his belly. The bitterness, dark and ugly, gnawed at him. The promise he’d made to his mother as she lay dying in his arms echoed in his ears, that Tony would make the Duke of Averell pay for what he’d done.
Maggie flinched. “There isn’t any need to be crude.”
“Do you know I saw my mother’s stomach move? My unborn sibling was trapped inside her, slowly dying along with my mother. I watched until the movement stilled and then, so did she.”
His wife paled, her eyes fluttering shut against the picture he painted. “Tony—”
He was so enraged, so full of pain remembering the death of his mother. It had never really gone away. The coppery smell of her blood still lingered in his nostrils even after all these years. Maggie was stopping him from avenging her.
“Are you sure it’s mine?” he said in a nasty tone, delighted to watch the oval of her face whiten until she resembled one of the statues his stepmother liked to collect. “After all, you were entertaining a mob of piano players while I stayed at Elysium. Are you sure you didn’t give one of them lessons in something else?”
“You’re being unreasonable. And horrible.” She stepped back in shock, the woman who loved him with every fiber of her being. He was doing his best to destroy that love despite his soul screaming at him to stop.
“I understand,” she clenched her small fists, struggling for composure, “you are less than pleased with this news, considering the steps we’ve both taken—”
“Did you, Maggie? Take steps?” He sounded irrational and didn’t care.
“I can see we can’t possibly discuss this calmly. This is a shock to both of us.” Maggie went still. Like she used to with her aunt to avoid attention. That she was doing so now infuriated Tony.
“Can’t you just get rid of it?”
Dear God. He wished the words back before they’d completely left his mouth.
Maggie sucked in her breath so sharply he thought she might fall over. Her hand went out to steady herself against a table. She was regarding him with horror, the kind usually reserved for monsters.
“Christ, Maggie. I—”
She shook her head and backed away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
Pain dug into his heart at the words. Tony held out his hand to her as if Maggie were a small bird he didn’t wish to frighten. “I didn’t mean it.”
Maggie clasped her hands over her stomach in a protective gesture and stayed out of his reach.
She’s afraid of me. The knowledge stung.
“I think you did, Welles.” Maggie shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks and a tortured sound left her. He’d never seen her cry before, not really, and certainly not as if he’d broken her heart. “I think next you will be asking if you can get rid of me.”
He swung up the bottle unable to look at her a moment longer. Tony had gone cold all over the chill of her confession hardening h
im to ice. Averell was going to win. There would be an heir to Cherry Hill. He had high hopes the child would be a girl, but he didn’t think he’d be so lucky. If his wife didn’t leave the room immediately there was no telling what other vile things he’d hurl at her.
“I love you, Tony,” Maggie whispered. “Your mother would want you to be happy. She never meant—”
“Get out of my sight,” he roared at the mention of his mother. “You have no idea what she would want.” He turned back to the brandy, guzzling as much of the bottle as possible before needing to take a breath.
“Tony—”
“Leave.” Wiping his mouth, he barely flinched when the door slammed shut behind him. When he finally turned around the room was empty.
Maggie was gone.
The next morning, after a night spent closeted in the small parlor with only alcohol and a plate of scones to fortify him—the last done in a burst of anger since his wife liked them so much—he decided to seek out Maggie. He’d behaved abominably.
As he went upstairs to dress, ignoring the constant stream of chatter from his valet, Tony glanced at the door leading to Maggie’s rooms. It was shut against him. The doors were always left open. He often joked Maggie’s rooms had become nothing more than a large armoire to store her clothing and other fripperies because she no longer slept anywhere else but with him.
Because I get cold at night without her.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he stared, unsettled by the sight of the closed door. Tony waved off his valet and knocked softly. When there was no response, he flung the door open.
The room was empty. Strangely still and quiet. The sight unnerved Tony and filled him with a terrible foreboding. Where would she have gone so early in the morning?
He made his way to the breakfast room where there was still no sign of his wife. Fenwick greeted him with the morning papers but claimed to have no knowledge of the whereabouts of Lady Welles.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 24