Page 71 of The Theory of Earls
Georgina followed the motion, her eyes widening as she caught sight of what was transpiring on the landing above them. “Maggie, I’m sure it isn’t—”
“I need some air. Please excuse me.” She closed her eyes for only a moment but even when she did, Margaret could still see Lady Isley and Welles. Pushing away from the table, she brushed off a startled Georgina and started through the gaming floor. Weaving her way between various card tables, roulette, and dice, Margaret’s only thought was to get as far away from Welles and Elysium as she could.
At least I won’t wonder any longer about Welles taking a mistress.
Wounded and angry, Margaret was at the far end of the floor when the horrible smell of talc and sweat filled her nostrils. A giant, pear-shaped form blocked her way, looming over her in brown velvet.
“You.”
* * *
Tony turnedhis head and Lady Isley’s mouth landed on his chin. He pushed her away in annoyance, nose wrinkling at the overabundance of perfume she wore.
She made a poof of surprise at his rejection, the look on her finely sculpted features almost comical.
Had the circumstances been different, Welles might have laughed out loud at Lady Isley’s shock. But Winthrop’s whine of indignation reached his ears, so loud it could be heard above the din of the gaming tables. The man sounded like a screeching rooster.
Lady Isley pouted. “What is it? Her? Oh, come now Welles, we can be discreet. My understanding is she’s a timid thing at best.”
Timid was the last thing Welles would have called his wife. Quietly determined would be a better description.
“I have a room set aside for us,” Lady Isley continued. “And a friend downstairs who can join us, if you like. You’ve enjoyed such things in the past. Surely you need a change from the little…saplingyou’ve been—”
“Lady Isley,” he said in a chilly voice, “I bid you good evening.” He had caught a glimpse of his wife’s petite form as she sidestepped Winthrop and continued toward the far end of the gaming floor, apparently unaware Winthrop continued to stalk her from behind.
“Welles—” Lady Isley tried to stop him, and he shook her off.
Tony strode quickly down the hallway to the back staircase, intent on intercepting Winthrop before the man could catch up with Maggie again. His wife wasn’t in any real danger from her past suitor; Leo had runners all over the floor who all knew Lady Welles. Even now, he saw Peckam cross the floor, his head turned in the direction of Maggie. Nodding to two other runners, the three men spread out to flank Winthrop.
Maggie didn’t so much as look behind her. Her shoulders were rigid, and she was stomping toward the back door, clearly upset; he doubted it was because of a losing hand in faro.
Bloody hell.
Either his wife hadn’t heard Winthrop’s continued squawks of indignation, or she didn’t care. She changed course abruptly, heading toward the same staircase Tony was moving down. He’d intercept her in a moment.
37
“You.”
The words thundered behind her again. It was Winthrop. She hoped if she ignored his presence he would go away and plague someone else. After his persistent courtship, Margaret should have learned her lesson. What he hoped to accomplish by confronting her in her husband’s club, she’d no idea. Nor did she care. Margaret didn’t have the energy or time to be concerned with her previous suitor; she was too busy trying to hold her broken heart together. And decide whether she would kick ortossLady Isley’s voluptuous form down the stairs. Winthrop and his sweating mass could go hang.
“I’m speaking to you,” he threatened behind her.
Margaret turned, the rustle of her skirts hissing dangerously around her ankles. Marching directly over to Winthrop, she didn’t bother to conceal her abhorrence for him. She ignored the stares and whispers of Elysium’s members, some of whom had paused, cards or dice in hand, to watch the scene unfolding.
No doubt it will be all over the gossip columns tomorrow.
The only question was whether it would take precedence over her husband’s amorous attentions to Lady Isley.
“What is it you want, Lord Winthrop?” she demanded. “Speak. Unless you wish to continue our merry chase through the gaming tables.”
The rubbery lips pursed before he wiped them with his sweat-stained handkerchief. He frowned, brow wrinkling to scowl at her. When Margaret didn’t so much as flinch he stammered, “You”—his sweaty face crumpled—“were supposed to marryme.”
“Was I?” Her hands went to her hips. “I don’teverrecall agreeing to a match with you. In fact, I believe Itossed up my breakfastat the very thought when you proposed, right into my aunt’s rose bushes. Did you take that as my agreement?”
Snickers came from the roulette table to her side.
“We were to bemarried,” he stated again, puffing out his chest, which made his much fuller bottom stick out. “Your aunt promised you to me.”
