Page 16 of The Theory of Earls
She’d no idea what a “nature-themed” costume entailed; Margaret had no intention of dressing up like a bird or something equally ridiculous. Thetonwas often bored and looking for new and inventive opportunities to spend their money. Lavish, themed parties seemed an appropriate way for a pampered group of overindulged people to do so.
She looked again at the invitation knowing Welles must have had something to do with Margaret receiving the summons, because she didn’t know Lady Masterson. The only other explanation was that Welles had told his stepmother of Margaret’s interest in Carstairs and the Duchess of Averell had requested the invitation issued. Either way, she was certain Carstairs would be there; the invitation appearing at the same time as her interest in him was too coincidental.
The problem was in explaining the invitation to her aunt.
Elysium. He had wanted her to come to him at a notorious gambling hell, half-naked.
Margaret spun on her heel and walked the length of the rug again. She had always wanted to venture into such a place. Elysium was a notorious pleasure palace and gambling establishment where all manner of wicked things occurred. At least according to gossip. What would it be like to visit Elysium in the company of Lord Welles?
A slow burn of excitement coursed down her breasts to settle below.
She could never do such a thing. Ever. What if someone saw her?
Don’t you want to know passion?
What if she walked into Elysium only to have Welles laugh uproariously at her appearance?
After tucking the invitation away, Margaret left her room and soon found herself in front of her aunt’s out-of-tune piano. Since playing the Broadwood, the ancient piano seemed even more decrepit than before.
Margaret ran her fingers over the keys, wincing at the sound. Clara, her mother, had been a pianist as well. She’d been playing for the amusement of her friends at a party when Walter Lainscott had seen her. The pair had fallen madly in love and eloped, despite the obvious differences in their stations. Her father had then brought Clara to Yorkshire where he bought her a gorgeous piano, specially crafted for her in Austria. But the piano hadn’t kept his wife from withering away. She missed London and was plagued with repeated bouts of illness in her lungs. Her poor health had made her susceptible to the sickness which swept through the mines and eventually took her life.
Margaret’s mother had always been fragile which strengthened Margaret’s determination tonotbe.
The piano had been sold at auction, along with everything else that reminded Aunt Agnes of her younger, more beautiful sister. If it had been possible, she was certain Aunt Agnes would have sold Margaret off as well.
Her fingers flew over the keys, warming up the muscles in her hands before she launched into a complicated piece by Beethoven. Soon, the music filled her, allowing her mind to wander. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself sitting before the Broadwood with Welles at her side, his fingertips running over the backs of her hands. Warmth sank into her skin at the image of playing for him and only him.
“Miss.”
Margaret’s fingers slowed, disappointed to have been interrupted.
“Yes, Henderson?” She turned to see her aunt’s butler watching her, disapproval deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth. Henderson found waiting on Margaret to be beneath him, as if the fact her father had been a tin miner before becoming wealthy was a severe violation of some butler code. Margaret had witnessed his injured pride when she’d heard him voicing his objections to her aunt. Since that time, she’d taken a more timid approach with Henderson because it made her life easier. Margaret had been tired of tepid tea and food which had grown cold. Henderson still detested her but at least now, the fire in her room was lit first thing in the morning.
But Margaret didn’t feel shy or reserved today. Holding the butler’s gaze, Margaret enjoyed the way he cleared his throat and shuffled at her directness, before looking down at his hands.
“Your aunt requests a word with you, miss.”
“Of course.”
Dutifully, Margaret rose and followed Henderson to the front parlor, a room Aunt Agnes typically reserved for answering correspondence or dictating people’s lives over a chatty cup of tea. What aburdenher aunt carried, to be so superior that it was left to her to play judge and jury over everyone in theton.
She kept her eyes lowered lest her aunt see the dislike for her gleaming in them.
Aunt Agnes was perched at the very edge of a cream-colored settee in one of her best day dresses, her head topped by a luxurious velvet turban sporting an enormous ostrich feather in the center. A rather extravagant outfit for writing letters.
“Sit, Margaret.”
Her aunt’s beady eyes, small and black like bits of coal, followed Margaret as she came around to the chair and sat. She clasped her hands, careful to keep her expression neutral. Early on, Margaret had learned if she wanted as little interaction with her aunt as possible, and to avoid having her privileges at the piano taken away, she’d best project a docile manner. The more reticent, the better. Aunt Agnes found little pleasure in berating the pathetic creature she considered Margaret to be.
How she longed to tell Aunt Agnes of Welles’s suggestion to play for him at Elysium.
“I was invited,unexpectedly, to take tea with the Duchess of Averell.” Her aunt’s icy regard never moved from Margaret’s face. “I wasthrilled, of course.”
Aunt Agnes’s voice had a horrible, gurgling quality to it, as if a piece of wet toast was caught in her throat. It was one of many things she didn’t care for in regard to her aunt.
“The Duchess of Averell, though not a fixture in theton,is still quite influential. Imagine mydelightat being summoned.”
Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at her aunt’s discomfort. Aunt Agnes typically did the summoning. She stayed still. Silent. The slightest word or twitch and Margaret would be pounced on, torn to shreds within the confines of her aunt’s parlor.
