Page 19 of The Theory of Earls
“I’ll be here right after breakfast; will that suit?”
“Yes. We’ll have tea and get dressed together. And Mother’s lady’s maid is a marvel with hair. I’m thinking fresh cut flowers from our gardens should do the trick.”
“You’ve gone to so much trouble on my account,” Margaret said.
“Nonsense. It’s what I love to do,” she said in a wistful tone. “Just as you love music and composing. Now look, what do you think?”
Margaret turned to face the large oval mirror one of the footmen had brought in. Shedidlook smashing. The cut of the gown highlighted her small waist and made her bosom seem larger. Romy was truly a wizard to accomplish such a thing. She moved back and forth, watching the way the silk moved about her body.
“I like the way the sleeves flutter about. Very pretty.”
Margaret jumped with a squeak at the words and turned to the door.
Welles leaned against the wall, eyes hooded as his gaze ran slowly down the length of her body, as if he were touching each bone beneath her skin.
Her palm fell over her madly fluttering heart, begging it to cease such foolishness at the sight of him.
“Tony, do knock before you enter when I’m …doing things,” Romy chastised him. “What if Miss Lainscott,” her tone became formal in front of her brother, “had been…in a state ofundress?”
Phaedra rolled her eyes and shot Welles a look. “She means Miss Lainscott may have been in her underthings.”
“Thank you for the clarification.” Tony winked at his youngest sister.
Phaedra gave him a roguish wink back.
“Hello, Tony.” Theo looked up with a frown. “Don’t encourage her.” She nodded to Phaedra.
“My apologies to Miss Lainscott.” Welles didn’t sound at all contrite as he strolled further into the parlor. His eyes never left her as Romy continued to fluff the hem.
This would be the moment she should throw a witty quip his way, or better yet, ignore his presence completely. He deserved no less after the scandalous request he’d made of her. But instead, all she could say was, “Good day, Lord Welles.”
He’d been out riding, she surmised, viewing the fawn-colored leather breeches topped by yet another jacket of indigo, cut sharply over his broad shoulders. She was quickly coming to realize he rarely wore anything other than dark colors. Margaret’s eyes fell away from him, afraid her attraction to Welles would not go unnoticed by the others in the room. She took in the black Hessian boots, her gaze moving up to the muscle lining his thighs, so apparent beneath the snug fit of his riding breeches.
Indecently tight.
Heat curled low inside Margaret at his approach, something that happened with increasing regularity whenever he appeared. It made her feel unbalanced. Unsettled.
“Hello, demon.” He walked over and pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of Phaedra’s head. “I’ve been informed that I must serve as escort to Lady Masterson’s garden party.” He was speaking to Romy, but his eyes never strayed from Margaret.
“I wondered if you would attend,” Romy said.
“Your mother is very persistent when she wishes to be.”
Margaret pretended to adjust one of the sleeves, not wishing to dwell on the fact Welles would not only be in attendance, which she’d expected, but he would be escorting them.
“Lady Masterson had pressured me to attend, though I refuse to dress as a twig or a rabbit.” Welles’s eyes pressed into Margaret. “Besides, my friend Carstairs will be there, and I’ve not seen him in some time. He is intent on dressing as a stag, complete with antlers, making it easy for anyhunterto spot him.”
Margaret’s lips tightened, refusing to be drawn into his teasing. “What a clever costume Lord Carstairs has decided on.”
The humming in Margaret’s blood increased to a dull roar as Welles tilted his head, pretending to admire his sister’s handiwork. “Nicely done, Romy. I believe Miss Lainscott makes a lovely iris.”
Warm honey wrapped around Margaret’s spine.
“Finally, someone sees my vision.” Romy bestowed a smile on her brother, pins sticking from her mouth, before she bent again to the hem.
Welles was so close to Margaret she caught a whiff of the soap he’d used to shave, along with tobacco and leather. The combination of the three created a wholly masculine scent which was all Welles. It filled her nostrils, calling to Margaret on some primal level, making her knees weak. She wobbled on the small box she stood on, nearly falling off.
Romy gave a puff of exasperation and tugged back on the hem. “One more moment. I beg you. Don’t move.”
