Page 22 of The Theory of Earls
“He’d be far more attractive were he not frowning,” Margaret said. The man was striking in a wild sort of way, and coldly austere, possessing none of the elegance that imbued Welles so effortlessly.
She clenched her hands, resolutely pushing Welles aside and conjured up an image of Carstairs. Or at least as much of him as she could recall.
“Gloomy Granby.” Romy nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “There’s one of the last unwed dukes in all of England. I pity the woman who attracts his attention. An iceberg possesses more warmth.” Romy tugged at Margaret’s hand. The duchess was on the move.
Margaret took in the beauty of Lady Masterson’s garden party, wondering at the young widow’s vision in planning the event. The women attending were dressed in every color under the rainbow, drifting about the lawn like a mass of peonies, roses, and daisies all having escaped the confines of their carefully maintained flower beds. The duchess was much sought after, many of those present wishing to renew their acquaintance with her and ask after the duke. It was clear the duchess hadn’t left her country estate for some time due to the ill health of her husband. Romy and her mother both spoke in glowing terms of the duke and with much affection, in sharp contrast to Welles. The mere mention of his father brought a scowl to his face.
She wondered what had happened between Welles and the duke to cause his sentiments to be so different.
Margaret smiled so much in the next several hours, her cheeks began to ache. Few of those she met recognized or remembered her until she mentioned her aunt’s name. She supposed that was fair; to be honest, Margaret didn’t remember any of their names either.
Scanning the gardens, she struggled to remember what Carstairs looked like. All she could recall was light brown hair and a vacant expression. Finally, thanks to Welles’s previous description of his friend’s costume, she spotted him. It was impossible to miss the antlers rising above the shoulders of the small group surrounding him. Excusing herself from Romy’s side, Margaret struck out for Carstairs intent on reintroducing herself. It was bold, true, but theyhadmet previously.
Margaret halted halfway across the lawn, spying a familiar indigo coat and set of broad shoulders. She nearly turned around but pressed on. She thought of Winthrop taking her hand the last time he had called, recalling the squeeze of his sweaty fingers against hers. The memory steeled her resolve. Margaret strode forward, confident she looked her best, and with a mountain of determination. It would have to be Carstairs
Time was running out, and she’d no time to find a better candidate.
10
Tony saw Miss Lainscott’s approach far before she faltered in her steps after catching sight of him. He’d been watching her, albeit discreetly, since he’d left the side of his stepmother and sister. Her small, determined form, costumed so fetchingly as an iris, filled him with intense longing. Desire was an emotion Tony was well-acquainted with, but his feelings for Miss Lainscott were bordering on obsession.
The idea that Miss Lainscott, a woman of unique, untapped sensuality and above-average intelligence, would waste herself on someone of Carstairs’s limited abilities was nothing short of shameful. It bothered him far more than it should have.
Carstairs was speaking, but Tony didn’t hear him; all his attention was focused on the delicate woman dressed as an iris who rapidly approached the group, her dark eyes full of purpose. Carstairs didn’t stand a chance against Miss Lainscott.
“Don’t you think so, Welles?” Carstairs clapped him on the back, nearly putting out one of Tony’s eyes with the antlers strapped atop his head.
“In complete agreement,” Tony replied, having no idea what Carstairs was talking about. Probably something to do with a gun. Or hunting. Maybe the bass he’d caught on his last fishing trip.
Regardless of his friend’s lack of brilliance, Carstairs was a good man. Anhonorableman—far more so than Tony. He wasn’t especially close to Carstairs and they had little in common outside of shooting or hunting, but Carstairs was uncomplicated and so bloody nice you couldn’t help but like him.
But that didn’t mean Tony wanted to just hand over Miss Lainscott.
Miss Rebecca Turnbull batted her eyelashes at Carstairs while Tony took in her coiffure. He assumed the young lady was attempting to be a tree or a giant bird’s nest, Tony wasn’t certain. Miss Turnbull’s hair was a mass of golden ringlets woven through with twigs, leaves, and small blue ovals which he took to be robin’s eggs.
He felt the brush of Miss Lainscott’s skirts against his legs as she wedged herself next to him. “Miss Lainscott, I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”
“Did you?” She smiled prettily, mostly for the benefit of Carstairs and the others in the group.
Carstairs turned sharply at Miss Lainscott’s arrival, neatly snagging Miss Turnbull’s hair in one of the antlers and pulling free a large portion of the young woman’s coiffure. “Oh, dear.” He gamely attempted to unravel her hair while the young lady struggled at his side.
“Dear God,” Miss Lainscott uttered under her breath. She gamely stepped forward to assist in sorting out the melee of Miss Turnbull’s hair. Her lips remained tight. Tony was fairly certain she was trying not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the moment.
Carstairs swung his head back to Miss Lainscott, who deftly sidestepped the threat of his antlers. “Many thanks for your assistance.” He looked at her with a wrinkled brow as if trying to place her. Carstairs looked at everyone that way. God bless him.
“Carstairs,” Tony said. “You recall Miss Lainscott, do you not? We made her acquaintance at Gray Covington last year.”
His friend’s face remained devoid of any recognition.
Tony often wondered what went on behind those vacant eyes. Nothing, probably. “While we were on our way back from your hunting lodge,” he gently reminded Carstairs. “The trip in which you shot that enormous grouse. Don’t you recall?”
Carstairs’s eyes lit up. He only ever recalled a person or a place if it related to his outdoor pursuits. The man never forgot any small animal or fowl he’d dispatched. “Yes, of course. Miss Lainscott.” He took her hand. “Lovely to see you again.”
Miss Turnbull frowned. Her hair was a mess. One of the pretend robin eggs fell from her hair, bounced off one cheek, and landed in the valley between her breasts. Worse, Carstairs didn’t seem to notice.
Miss Lainscott stepped closer, risking life and limb with Carstairs whipping his antlers about.
Brave girl.
