Page 29 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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“Oh, Mama, did you see what Miss Howard was wearing? The fabric was so thin and sheer.” Romy sighed wistfully.

“I believe she was an orchid.” The duchess bestowed an indulgent smile on her eldest daughter as the coach pulled away from Lady Masterson’s estate.

“I didn’t have a chance to ask where she purchased it or the modiste responsible for the cut of her gown. I should like to see the design.”

“I believe her mother uses Madame Fontaine. I ran into her on Bond Street the other day while shopping with Olivia. You could start there.”

Romy took out her notebook and started writing something down.

The duchess shook her head at her daughter’s obsession. “Did you enjoy yourself, Miss Lainscott? Were there any gowns that caught your eye?”

“It was a wonderful party, Your Grace. I found some of the costumes to be quite…unusual,” she said, thinking of Miss Turnbull’s hair. “I was introduced to Miss Turnbull—”

“Speaking of pea-wits,” Romy interjected, not looking up. “I’m wondering what induced her to put a nest of robin eggs in her hair, though I was relieved to find the eggs were fake.”

“Do not be unkind, Romy,” the duchess cautioned, “though I’m in agreement. Miss Turnbull has set her cap for Lord Carstairs, and her father favors him as well.”

The thought of Miss Turnbull securing Carstairs should have bothered Margaret more, but just now, with the rain pattering against the top of the coach, all she could think of was Welles. It had only been a brush of his lips, but he’d kissed her. Margaret could still feel the featherlight touch against her mouth and the warmth of his hand in hers. She looked out the window in the direction of the folly, feeling a relentless pull in Welles’s direction.

Damn it.

Margaret pressed her nose against the window.Carstairswas who mattered. Thankfully she’d made a good impression today and piqued his interest. All her reading on grouse hunting and the handling of firearms had been beneficial, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to Lord Dobson. Carstairs had found her before Margaret had made her way to join Romy and the duchess, asking if he could call on her.

Margaret had agreed immediately. There was no point in beating around the bush.

Through the rain streaming down the window, Margaret could just make out Welles’s large form running across the lawn, his strides wide and graceful. He held the hand of Lady Masterson; even from a distance, it was impossible to mistake the bright fuchsia of her gown. They ran toward the folly, no doubt seeking shelter from the rain.

Margaret turned from the sight, hating how quickly the jealousy she’d experienced earlier had returned.

“I do wish Welles had decided to come back to London with us, but I suppose he’ll find another way home. Or perhaps stay the night, as I’m sure some of the guests are doing.” The duchess leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. “Good Lord, but I’m tired. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be out amongst thetonand pretending to like most of them.”

“Papa would be very proud of you.” Romy grinned at her mother. “You made an effort.”

“I daresay he would be. Even more so since I managed to have Welles escort us.” Sadness flitted across the duchess’s lovely face. “I wish I was as successful in getting him to come to Cherry Hill.”

Romy took her mother’s hand. “I know. Maybe someday Welles will relent.”

Based on her earlier conversation with Welles, Margaret thought it highly unlikely Welles would ever relent. The look on his face when speaking of his father had been one of loathing.

“Welles and his father do not get on,” the duchess said as if sensing the direction of Margaret’s thoughts. “An estrangement borne of a mistake my husband made long ago that he regrets to this day.” Her fingers drummed upon her thigh for a moment before she turned to the window and fell silent.

The sky grew increasingly gray the closer they drew to London, a dismal finale to the bright sunny day and the garden party. Margaret closed her eyes, thinking again of her conversation with Welles. She had the sense he rarely spoke of his mother, and Margaret was deeply honored Welles had chosen to share such a private story with her. Again, her heart tugged strongly in his direction, wishing for something that could never be. He would forever be a rake. Unprincipled. Refusing to marry.

He kissed me.

Her hand came up as the words thundered in her mind, her palm flattening over her chest against her heart.

And I kissed him back.

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