Page 28 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

11

Margaret inhaled sharply at the rage tingeing his words. Had she not been certain before, she was now. Welleshatedhis father. This was no mere disagreement, but an estrangement born of something terrible between Welles and the Duke of Averell.

His brilliant eyes grew shadowed, closing as Welles turned his head. The humid day had brought out the waves in his thick hair, giving the strands a more tousled look than usual, as if he’d been standing at the prow of a ship at sea. His anguish over his mother’s death was obvious. Margaret longed to smooth the heavy waves from his temples and hold him. She reminded herself, in the strictest of admonishments, that Welles was an unprincipled rogue. But that wasn’tallhe was.

“Is that why you haven’t married?”

The blue eyes turned to chips of ice and Margaret could almost see the wall he raised around himself as protection.

There are ways to breach walls.

Heir to a duke, Welles should have been married years ago, but he remained unwed in complete defiance of his duty. Every gentleman, especially a superbly titled one like Welles, had a responsibility to produce an heir. She looked up into his handsome features, now glacial and remote. There was nothing playful or sensual about him now. If anything, the dangerous look on Welles’s face should have given her pause.

Margaret reached out and gently clasped his larger hand in hers.

Welles inhaled sharply at her touch but did not pull away.

Her heart, the organ which she guarded so selfishly, beat loudly, drowning out even the sound of the frogs in Lady Masterson’s pond. It was a terribly bold, forward thing to do to take his hand. The pieces of Welles, more complicated than Margaret had ever imagined, all fit together seamlessly in an instant.

He didn’t speak again, though his features softened, and he squeezed her fingers.

Margaret squeezed back.

They stood silently, save for the frogs, hands joined, while the rest of the party continued below on the lawn. After a few minutes, Margaret felt the tension in his body ease and Welles released her hand. He turned to her, the breeze batting the waves of his hair against his jaw. Lifting his hand, Welles tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. His touch lingered for a heartbeat before one finger gently caressed the delicate skin of her cheek.

Margaret’s entire body arched in his direction, pulled by some unseen force.

“Welles.” His name broke from her lips in a dark whisper. She should be down on the lawn, chasing Carstairs about, avoiding being stabbed by his ridiculous antlers. Possibly she should consider pushing Miss Turnbull into the pond. “I should go.”

“Shh.” The finger ran along the side of her face to the corner of her mouth.

Margaret’s eyes fluttered closed, unable to meet his eyes as he carefully traced her lower lip before the lightest touch of his mouth on hers took the breath from her body. She stayed in place, her eyes shut, listening to the frogs until his lips left hers.

She took a deep breath wanting to ask him why he’d done such a thing but when she opened her eyes, Welles was gone.

---