Page 19 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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Margaret paced back and forth across her bedroom floor, as she had most of last night and all of the morning. She hadn’t slept a wink thinking of her conversation with Welles. She couldn’t decide if he had been serious or not.

He had certainly seemed serious.The very idea sent a tremor of excitement up her spine.

Passion. He should have made a much more convincing argument. As if playing the piano for him in her underthings would inspire her musically or—

Arouse me.

Bollocks.The problem was, Margaretdidfind the thought of such a thing to be arousing, just as she did the improper innuendos he seemed determined to shock her with. The idea that Lord Welleswantedto see her in her stockings and chemise was nothing short of astonishing. And highly erotic.

Her pulse skipped a beat as she turned to view the invitation to Lady Masterson’s garden party. It had arrived earlier that morning and Eliza had brought the note upstairs with Margaret’s breakfast tray. Walking over to the invitation, she reread the words printed upon the fine vellum. A party to be held in the gardens of Lady Masterson’s estate just outside of London. Nature-themed dress was encouraged.

She’d no idea what a “nature-themed” costume entailed; Margaret had no intention of dressing up like a bird or something equally ridiculous. Thetonwas often bored and looking for new and inventive opportunities to spend their money. Lavish, themed parties seemed an appropriate way for a pampered group of overindulged people to do so.

She looked again at the invitation knowing Welles must have had something to do with Margaret receiving the summons, because she didn’t know Lady Masterson. The only other explanation was that Welles had told his stepmother of Margaret’s interest in Carstairs and the Duchess of Averell had requested the invitation issued. Either way, she was certain Carstairs would be there; the invitation appearing at the same time as her interest in him was too coincidental.

The problem was in explaining the invitation to her aunt.

Elysium. He had wanted her to come to him at a notorious gambling hell, half-naked.

Margaret spun on her heel and walked the length of the rug again. She had always wanted to venture into such a place. Elysium was a notorious pleasure palace and gambling establishment where all manner of wicked things occurred. At least according to gossip. What would it be like to visit Elysium in the company of Lord Welles?

A slow burn of excitement coursed down her breasts to settle below.

She could never do such a thing. Ever. What if someone saw her?

Don’t you want to know passion?

What if she walked into Elysium only to have Welles laugh uproariously at her appearance?

After tucking the invitation away, Margaret left her room and soon found herself in front of her aunt’s out-of-tune piano. Since playing the Broadwood, the ancient piano seemed even more decrepit than before.

Margaret ran her fingers over the keys, wincing at the sound. Clara, her mother, had been a pianist as well. She’d been playing for the amusement of her friends at a party when Walter Lainscott had seen her. The pair had fallen madly in love and eloped, despite the obvious differences in their stations. Her father had then brought Clara to Yorkshire where he bought her a gorgeous piano, specially crafted for her in Austria. But the piano hadn’t kept his wife from withering away. She missed London and was plagued with repeated bouts of illness in her lungs. Her poor health had made her susceptible to the sickness which swept through the mines and eventually took her life.

Margaret’s mother had always been fragile which strengthened Margaret’s determination tonotbe.

The piano had been sold at auction, along with everything else that reminded Aunt Agnes of her younger, more beautiful sister. If it had been possible, she was certain Aunt Agnes would have sold Margaret off as well.

Her fingers flew over the keys, warming up the muscles in her hands before she launched into a complicated piece by Beethoven. Soon, the music filled her, allowing her mind to wander. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself sitting before the Broadwood with Welles at her side, his fingertips running over the backs of her hands. Warmth sank into her skin at the image of playing for him and only him.

“Miss.”

Margaret’s fingers slowed, disappointed to have been interrupted.

“Yes, Henderson?” She turned to see her aunt’s butler watching her, disapproval deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth. Henderson found waiting on Margaret to be beneath him, as if the fact her father had been a tin miner before becoming wealthy was a severe violation of some butler code. Margaret had witnessed his injured pride when she’d heard him voicing his objections to her aunt. Since that time, she’d taken a more timid approach with Henderson because it made her life easier. Margaret had been tired of tepid tea and food which had grown cold. Henderson still detested her but at least now, the fire in her room was lit first thing in the morning.

But Margaret didn’t feel shy or reserved today. Holding the butler’s gaze, Margaret enjoyed the way he cleared his throat and shuffled at her directness, before looking down at his hands.

“Your aunt requests a word with you, miss.”

“Of course.”

Dutifully, Margaret rose and followed Henderson to the front parlor, a room Aunt Agnes typically reserved for answering correspondence or dictating people’s lives over a chatty cup of tea. What aburdenher aunt carried, to be so superior that it was left to her to play judge and jury over everyone in theton.

She kept her eyes lowered lest her aunt see the dislike for her gleaming in them.

Aunt Agnes was perched at the very edge of a cream-colored settee in one of her best day dresses, her head topped by a luxurious velvet turban sporting an enormous ostrich feather in the center. A rather extravagant outfit for writing letters.

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