Page 31 of The Theory of Earls
Don’t you want to experience passion?
She did; that was the problem. Margaret shut her legs tightly against the sudden fluttering between them at the mere thought of playing the piano half-naked for Welles. He’d deliberately not mentioned such a thing to her again. She knew Welles wanted Margaret to come to him.
Margaret didn’t consider herself completely innocent, onlyinexperienced. Her plan, before her father’s death, had been to stay unmarried butnotcelibate. She had planned to take lovers, though her choices in the small village where her father’s estate lay were slim, to say the least. But in preparation, she’d purchased a copy of the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson. Margaret rarely decided to do anything unless she educated herself first. Sex was no different.
Harriette Wilson had been a courtesan of some renown and her recollections of her lovers were exceptionally detailed. Welles was wrong. Margaret knewsomethingof passion, just not firsthand. She knew what sex entailed at the very least. Would it be so terrible if it were Welles who introduced her to such things? According to the gossips of London, he was incredibly skilled.
Her fingers banged against the keys.
Margaret liked Carstairs. He was adecentman. Honorable. She would have a comfortable life at his side though she doubted he would ever inspire the feelings within her that Welles did. But Carstairs was a far better alternative than Winthrop.
Her fingers flew to her lips, remembering the touch of Welles’s mouth, no matter how fleeting it had been. “I can’t believe I’m considering such a thing,” she said, standing up from the bench and gathering her things. “I’ve set my cap for his friend.”
She reached out, picking up the package Welles had left for her. The size and weight suggested a book. Wondering what sort of book Welles would bring her, she undid the ribbon and the brown wrapping paper fell away.
The Flyfisher’s Entomology by Alfred Ronalds
Margaret opened the book but there was no inscription, only page after page of fish and instructions on fly fishing. She shut the book with a snap, her hand lingering over the fine leather binding. He’d said he wouldn’t help her woo Carstairs, and yet Welles kept doing small things to ensure she would have what she wanted. Making certain she was at Lady Masterson’s where Carstairs was. Re-introducing them. Buying her a book on fishing.
Offering to show her passion.
The clock struck the hour and Margaret stood to gather her things, praying fervently that Carstairs had called while she was gone.
15
“Miss.” Henderson greeted her at the door with his usual mild dislike. “Lady Dobson awaits you in the drawing room.”
The drawing room?Alarm bells immediately sounded for Margaret. Her aunt only ever used the room for meetings of importance. Or intimidation. She handed over her cloak to Henderson but held on to her composition notebook and Ronald’s fly fishing treatise which she’d re-wrapped in the brown paper.
Henderson gave her a bland look, but his eyes darted to her hands as he clearly tried to discern what she carried.
“I’ll just put these away,” she said in a rush, hurrying to her room before the butler could stop her. “Please let my aunt know I will join her promptly.”
She didn’t want Henderson touching her things, especially not her composition book where she kept her music, and it would be unwise if he saw the book Welles had gifted her. Questions would be raised as to why Margaret was carrying around a book on fishing, and she didn’t want to add to what she assumed would be an interrogation or a lecture from her aunt.
Upon reaching her room, Margaret locked the door, thankful Eliza, her lady’s maid, wasn’t waiting for her return. She had suspicions Eliza was reporting back to her aunt, though Margaret couldn’t prove it. Margaret got down on her knees and slid partially beneath the bed, wedging both books between the frame and mattress. Satisfied the books were hidden and wouldn’t be discovered, Margaret smoothed her skirts and made her way to the drawing room.
Of all the rooms in her aunt’s home, Margaret hated the formal drawing room the most. She’d been berated in the lavishly decorated crimson and gold chamber more than once since arriving in London. The tasseled pillows and paisley damask covering of the sofa were stark reminders of Margaret being given over to her aunt’s care. Grief-stricken over her father’s death and devastated at being unceremoniously wrenched from her home, Margaret had been dumped into the drawing room to await the pleasure of Aunt Agnes. Seated on the sofa, the blood-red walls closing in on her, Margaret had faced the chilly reception of her aunt, a woman she’d met only once before. There had been no warm embrace. No condolence on the death of Walter Lainscott. Not a bit of affection was spared on Margaret. Instead, Aunt Agnes berated her for nearly an hour at thestainMargaret represented on the perfect lineage of her mother’s family. A shameful secret Lady Dobson had kept from thetonshe now had to acknowledge.
“There you are, my dear.”
Margaret halted briefly in the doorway at the uncharacteristic cheery greeting, the hair on the back of her neck raising. Her aunt was never pleasant, at least not to Margaret.
Aunt Agnes sat perched on her favorite chair, an uncomfortable piece of furniture with little padding and a hand-embroidered silk covering. The stitching on the chair was so delicate and fine, one risked tearing the fragile depiction of roses climbing up the cushions with only the slightest movement.
Margaret avoided the chair as if it carried a disease.
Oddly enough, her aunt was smiling, a startling toothy grin which frightened Margaret nearly as much as the cordial greeting. Dressed all in blue, today’s turban held a large peacock feather sprouting from the center.
“Come and sit, Margaret. You look especially lovely today. The dress suits you.”
Margaret glanced down at the light brown day dress with its motif of acorns carefully stitched into the skirt and along the bodice. It was one of her favorites but had never elicited any compliments from her aunt.
Oh, God.
Instantly she knew why she’d been summoned to the formal drawing room. She should have guessed. The season wasn’t over yet but apparently, Aunt Agnes didn’t have any intention of waiting to see if Lord Carstairs would call again. Margaret swayed ever so slightly as she made her way to the sofa, her foot catching on the wooden leg so that she fell with a whoosh into the cushions.
I thought I had more time.
