Page 26 of The Theory of Earls
As if anything would induce her to choose Winthrop over Carstairs.
Carstairs, bless him, called again two days later bearing more flowers, this time for her aunt as well.
Aunt Agnes pursed her lips, giving him a brittle smile, her disappointment Winthrop hadn’t dropped by to call apparent.
Margaret rang for tea, delighted both by his visit and her aunt’s displeasure.
“I confess, Miss Lainscott,” Lord Carstairs said as he accepted a small watercress sandwich, “I had never thought to meet a young lady who enjoys grouse hunting as much as myself. Why, it rivals even Miss Turnbull’s love of trout fishing.”
Margaret’s hand paused as she reached for a sugared biscuit. Miss Turnbull was proving to be troublesome. “I enjoy fishing as well,” she assured him.
Aunt Agnes coughed, her hand pausing over her embroidery hoop. She’d mostly stayed silent at Margaret’s sudden knowledge of the outdoors.
“Splendid. I have an outing in mind. A small stream runs just at the end of a park I know. You and Miss Turnbull can cast your lures.” Carstairs smiled, his face completely devoid of any artifice. “It would be delightful. We’ll make a small party of it, with a proper chaperone of course.” He nodded in her aunt’s direction. “And with your aunt’s permission.”
Aunt Agnes nodded. “My niece does adore fishing,” she said. “Though I’ve never known her to catch anything.”
Margaret went still, clasping her hands in her lap. “Perhaps I’ll prove you wrong, Aunt.”
Carstairs, bless him, seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. Margaret bid him goodbye with assurances she couldn’t wait for the outing he’d proposed.
* * *
The following afternoon,Margaret found herself sitting on a blanket, swatting at gnats while praying an unlikely fish would find its way to the hook on the end of her line so she could prove herself to Carstairs.
She, Carstairs, Miss Turnbull, a maid, two footmen, and Miss Turnbull’s elderly and somewhat deaf aunt were all picnicking on the banks of a bubbling stream at the very edge of the park. The clop of horses and carriages on the path above them was muted, drowned out by the sound of the water running over the rocks. The elderly aunt, whose name Margaret had forgotten within a minute of meeting her, had dozed off in the sun. Every so often she would shake with a loud snort, startling Margaret.
Miss Rebecca Turnbull, blonde ringlets trembling coquettishly around her temples, giggled every so often at something Carstairs said, occasionally touching his forearm as if doing so was accidental.
It wasn’t.
Wearing a striped dress of blue and cream, complete with a broadbrimmed hat of straw on her head, Miss Turnbull and Carstairs sat at the edge of the stream, lines tangled together in the water, while her skirts formed a perfect circle of silk, arranged in a fetching manner.
Margaretwholeheartedlywished the lovely Miss Turnbull would fall into the stream and perhaps float away like a tiny boat. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle bubbling of the stream, smiling as the sound formed musical notes in her head along with splashes of color beneath her lids. The hand holding her fishing pole went lax as a melody began to take shape and the annoying giggles of Miss Turnbull faded.
“You need to tug the line on occasion if you wish to catch something,” a deep voice said from behind her.
Margaret’s skin prickled deliciously in surprise.Welles.
He’d been mostly absent in her life since Lady Masterson’s garden party, and she sensed he was intentionally keeping his distance. He had visited the duchess while Margaret was playing with Miss Nelson and Phaedra, but she’d caught only brief glimpses of him. He’d never visited the conservatory when she was present, nor had they spoken.
She turned to him with a look of annoyance, slightly piqued he was here to see Miss Turnbull outwitting her for the moment. But Margaret was terribly happy to see him. He just didn’t need to know it.
Welles sat down beside her, the seams of his leather riding breeches straining across his thighs.
Margaret couldn’t help but look. She was sure he had his breeches tailored in such a way intentionally.
The afternoon sun sparked across the brush of dark hair lining his jaw, giving him a slightly disreputable look. It suited him. A lazy grin pulled at his lips, deepening the creases at the corner of his eyes. “Glad to see me, aren’t you?”
Must he always look so bloody splendid?
“Not in the least,” she said tartly.
He took off his hat and tossed it to the blanket, barely missing the elderly aunt’s feet.
“Who’s that?” He nodded at the snoring woman.
“Our chaperone. I don’t recall her name. Miss Turnbull’s aunt.” Margaret nodded to Carstairs and Miss Turnbull.
