Page 23 of The Theory of Earls
She seemed determined to ignore Tony, not even bothering to acknowledge his help in reintroducing her to Carstairs. He discreetly studied the slender lines of her arms and the way the sunlight glinted off the warm brown of her hair turning some of the strands to amber. He had the strangest urge to pull her to him and ask her to cease this folly.
“How large was the grouse you managed to snag, if you don’t mind me asking?” Miss Lainscott gave Carstairs a pretty smile. She listened in rapt attention as Carstairs regaled her with a description of the bird in question much to the dismay of Miss Turnbull, who was forced to retreat and make extensive repairs to her coiffure.
Miss Lainscott, clever little thing she was, followed up Carstairs’s tale of grouse hunting with one of her own. Apparently, she’d begged her father to take her grouse hunting on the moors and, much to his surprise, had snagged her own bird.
Carstairs was enraptured.
Tony nearly burst into laughter. If Miss Lainscott had ever toted about a rifle in the early morning hours to shoot a grouse, Tony would eat his boots. The fact that her tale was peppered with references to her unknown excellent shooting ability only made the entire story more absurd. She was a very convincing liar.
Just as she was about to launch into what he assumed was an equally fabricated tale concerning trout fishing, Miss Turnbull returned to stake her claim on Carstairs. She cooed in his ear, carefully this time, as her hair could not survive another swipe of the antlers. Her gloved hand floated over his forearm as she entertained them all with a story of a fox hunt, laying claim to Carstairs while her eyes surveyed the rival for his affections.
A furrow appeared between Miss Lainscott’s eyes. She hadn’t been expecting anyone to challenge her over Carstairs.
Miss Turnbull, after her lengthy story of the fox hunt, declared herself to be parched. She dragged Carstairs off in the direction of the refreshment table, pausing only to throw Miss Lainscott a look of challenge. Guests and servants alike scattered at Carstairs’s approach to the tent, giving him a wide berth, horrified at the possibility of being stabbed while drinking—or serving—lemonade.
Tony watched his friend and Miss Turnbull disappear into the tent before bending down until his nose brushed the top of Miss Lainscott’s head.
“Round one to Miss Turnbull.”
“Not at all.” She took a step back and gave him a defiant look, but he already saw her mind working behind her dark eyes to solve the problem of Miss Turnbull. “I think our first meeting went rather well.”
“Not from where I stood.”
“He liked my story of the grouse hunt,” she snapped back and started to walk away from him in the direction of Lady Masterson’s folly. “We’ve much in common.”
Tony snorted in disbelief and followed at a slower pace behind her, enjoying the way her hips twitched in agitation as she walked. “Poor little iris.”
Lady Masterson’s folly, an octagonal white-washed structure, was set against the beauty of a man-made pond surrounded by cattails and tall grass. Several large lily pads floated as a chorus of frogs croaked at their approach.
Miss Lainscott steadfastly ignored him and picked up her pace.
In two steps, Tony caught up to her before slowing to match his larger strides to her smaller ones. He studied the graceful slope of her neck, thinking of how sweet her skin would taste beneath his tongue. She was worrying her bottom lip, something that made him want to kiss herandoffer her comfort. “I think you’re put out because now you know you need my help. Miss Turnbull is a worthy adversary, don’t you think?”
“Not in the least.” Miss Lainscott gave him a blinding and insincere smile as she wandered to the edge of the pond, absently pausing to flick a plump cattail with her fingers. The lavender sleeves fluttered prettily along her upper arms as the skirts of her gown blended in with the tall grass surrounding the lake. Her profile was firm. Undeterred. So bloody earnest and determined to marry the dim-witted Carstairs, all so she could have control over her future. He was surprised by the ache he felt as he looked at her, not between his legs, but somewhere in the region of his heart.
“I didn’t realize you also possessed a talent for storytelling,” Tony finally said. A stray bit of hair fell from the perfect nest of pins and peonies atop her head. “I quite liked the dogs in your story.”
“The dogs were real,” she said, turning to face him. “My father’s.” A sad smile touched her lips. “Andy and Jake were sold at auction when he died, along with everything else that belonged to him.” A resigned shrug lifted her shoulders. “Which, I suppose included me, in a way.”
Another contraction in his chest followed her words. He’d never cared for Lady Dobson and found he was liking her less as time went on.
“And my mother’s piano,” she continued in a quiet voice. “The one my father gave her. He sent all the way to Austria for it. I feel certain it would have challenged even the Broadwood.”
A fierce sense of protectiveness came over Tony at the sadness lighting Miss Lainscott’s eyes. He wished to pull her into his arms and assure her all would be well, a wholly foreign emotion, and one usually only reserved for one of his sisters when they were distressed. But his feelings toward this small woman were anything but brotherly.
“My mother played the piano as well,” he said before he could stop himself. “She taught me to play. Then my father insisted I receive proper instruction.”
“You became too skilled for her to teach you more?” Miss Lainscott’s eyes were soft as they took him in. Like a pot of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day, silky and dark. “I think you’ve downplayed your musical abilities, my lord.”
“No,” Tony said. The pain when he thought of his mother had dimmed over time, but it had never gone away. He used to dream of her, of how she’d tucked him close to her side while she taught him his scales. Mother had always smelled of lavender. “She died.”
Miss Lainscott turned to him, sympathy written across the small oval of her face. “My mother perished of fever—a sickness sweeping the mines that my father unwittingly brought home with him. He and I didn’t get sick. Not even so much as a sniffle. I was barely twelve.”
“Her name was Katherine.” Tony heard the longing in his own voice. “She fell down the stairs while heavy with child.” There had been so much blood. On the stairs. All over her dress. It had covered Tony from head to toe when he’d tried to pick her up. His mother had been on her way to confront herlecherous prickof a husband over his audacity in thinking it within his rights to fuck both Tony’s motherandher lady’s maid. She’d seen the duke and Molly together in the gardens from her bedroom window. Careless of them. But his mother had been virtually bed-ridden and rarely left her rooms. “She died very soon after.” His mother had whispered the truth of what she’d seen in his ear even as Tony had screamed for help. “The child was stillborn.” The doctor had been summoned, but far too late.
Tony had adored his mother. He still did. She’d been brilliant and educated, well-bred, and musical. She’d refused to hand him over to a nursemaid as his father had wished and insisted on raising Tony herself. He’d promised his mother, as the life ebbed from her body, that he would make sure the Duke of Averell was punished.
Miss Lainscott’s hand fell against the sleeve of his coat, plucking at the material with her fingers. “I am so very sorry, my lord. I, too, still miss my mother, no matter the years that have passed.”
