Page 83 of The Theory of Earls
“It’s possible I instructed him to do so.” She had, as a matter of fact, said something to that effect when she’d sobbed out her heart on her brother-in-law’s shoulder.
“I should not have listened, at any rate. If it eases your heart, I went first to my father. It was the only time I recall in which I could speak my mind and have no worry he would rebuke me. I’m sure Amanda heard most of it. She refused to leave.”
Margaret wondered what Tony had said to his father’s body. Maybe someday she would ask, but not today.
“And now I must beg your forgiveness. Again.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the pulse beating in her wrist before leaning down to press his lips to the small bump of her stomach. “And yours.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “I never meant to say such a horrible thing, Maggie. It was only the shock of it. My own bitterness toward my father turned against me.”
“I know.” She knew his soul. His heart. It had only taken him longer to see himself as she did.
“I wish to start fresh and put the past behind us. I promise to stop being a complete ass if you will vow to continue playing the piano for me in your underthings.”
She saw the hopefulness in his eyes, and something else Margaret had been afraid she’d never see.Peace. Whatever had transpired between Tony and his deceased father had calmed something within her husband.
“Even before I learned of my father’s passing, I had decided I could no longer continue to be a man I would grow to hate. Worse, a man you would have no love for.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips again. “Did you know this was my mother’s piano?”
Margaret nodded, her happiness tempered with the loss of the duke. How she wished Tony and his father could have ended their estrangement. But maybe they had.
“She would tuck me in next to her like this,” her husband said, grabbing her tightly to his side and positioning her under his arm. “And teach me my scales.” He played down the keys, filling the conservatory with music. “Did you know,” his voice lowered until it vibrated along the curves of her body, “I once compromised a young lady at the piano? She had designs on another man, but I didn’t allow such a thing to stop me.”
Margaret trembled as the hand at her waist slid up to gently cup her breast. “Did the lady in question object?”
“No.” The low timbre softened into her bones. “She had an affinity for music, particularly Chopin. Horribly intelligent. Behaves in a wicked manner behind closed doors.”
“She sounds marvelous.”
“Oh, she is. That is why I ruined her intentionally.” His tongue traced the curve of her ear. “I should have guessed, you know.” He cupped her stomach before his fingers trailed up her waist. “Christ, you were eating all the scones, and these,” he fondled her breasts, “have become much riper.” His lips moved to inspect the skin of her neck.
“I’m not a piece of fruit, Your Grace. And I wasn’t eating all the scones. Only most.”
“All. Whatever our souls are made of,” he kissed the line of her jaw, “hers and mine are the same. Do you know why I repeat such a ridiculous platitude to you?”
“It isn’t ridiculous.” It wasn’t. Margaret found it terribly romantic. “Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
Margaret’s heart beat harder.
“ButI love youseems so trite. We are each other’s music.” His mouth fell over hers, lazily trailing over her lips. “Iwillbe the husband you deserve. And Iwillbe the sort of father my child will be proud of. You will have no cause to look to Henri for affection.”
“You know there was never a wastrel Frenchman waiting for me,” she whispered.
“Only this reformed rake.” His eyes lowered, his voice thick with emotion.
Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling the scent of her husband, and pressed herself to his heart, listening as it beat. For her.
Epilogue
Margaret bent over the piano, or at least as far as the large mound of her stomach would allow. The sonata, the beautiful swirling notes of blue and green, poured out of her. She closed her eyes, her fingers gliding over the ivory keys with ease, as the conservatory at Cherry Hill echoed with the music Margaret had written for Welles.
Averell.
She still couldn’t get used to calling him Averell instead of Welles. She supposed it would take some time. In her heart, he was Tony.
Her husband had only briefly returned to London after the burial of the late duke, to close his house and handle some of the business of Elysium before returning. He would be a much more silent partner in the establishment moving forward. Tony had also wanted to check on Leo, who’d returned to London immediately after their father’s funeral. After reading the letter the late duke had left for him, Leo had paled and walked stiffly to his waiting carriage, neglecting to say goodbye to any of them.
Leo was not handling the death of the late Duke of Averell at all well.
Margaret did not return to London. Town held no appeal for her especially since she grew rounder with each passing day. She was determined to fulfill her promise to the late duke and care for the Barringtons as best she could. At least once a week, Margaret walked with her mother-in-law to the small hill near the duke’s grave and sat on a stone bench while Amanda spoke to her late husband. Several months after the duke died, a spill of wild strawberries had mysteriously sprouted into bloom atop his grave.
