Page 3 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

“You seem unsurprised to find me lurking about your aunt’s garden.” A dark lock of hair fell over his brow as he tilted his chin to take her in. He pulled the cheroot from his mouth with an elegant wave of his hand and tossed the stub to the ground.

“This particular bit of wisteria speaks to me often.” Margaret’s blood hummed louder, lighting her nerves on fire. Her attraction to him, which she equated to a feeling of intoxication, hadn’t abated in the least since she’d last seen him. During the house party, Margaret had convinced herself the racing of her heart at his nearness was only a schoolgirl crush. The feeling would disappear in time, certainly by their next meeting. Which was now.

I was terribly mistaken.

“I assume Winthrop will find only an empty bench upon his return.” Welles shook his head and made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Not very nice of you, Miss Lainscott. But then,” his voice deepened until the vibration caressed Margaret down to her core, “I’m certain you aren’t as agreeable as you pretend to be.”

His comment surprised her. Margaret’s timid mouse disguise had served her well during her time among theton. No one, except perhaps her friend, Lady Kilmaire, suspected she was anything else. It was far easier to deal with her aunt as well if she was beneath notice. Even worse, Margaret knew that at the slightest sign of rebellion, Aunt Agnes would take her piano away.

“Why would you say such a thing, Lord Welles?” She deliberately kept her voice meek and timid.

“Because it’s true?” Soft laughter bubbled from the depths of his chest. “I’m not fooled, Miss Lainscott. Iseeyou.”

A flutter started low in her stomach at his amusement, the sound filling her senses with a harmony of swirling purples, blues, and greens. “I don’t think we are acquainted enough, my lord, for you to infer such a thing.”

A quiet snort of disbelief followed her declaration. “True, Miss Lainscott. But during our brief time together at Gray Covington, you made an indelible impression upon me and it was not that of a timid, reserved young lady.”

She had made acakeof herself during the house party with her performance on the piano; still, Margaret couldn’t, for the life of her, remember making any sort of impression on Lord Welles. The thought caused another round of fluttering inside.

The pale light of the moon shifted across his eyes and she caught a glimpse of sapphire.

Margaret purposefully looked down to study the toe of her slipper, not willing to meet his gaze. His eyes were famous among the women of London. She’d heard young ladies swooned at only a glance from Lord Welles. Margaret was glad she couldn’t see the startling rings of blue, each one successively darker as they neared his pupils, the deep color flecked with bits of gold. One pea-wit debutante had even written a poem about Welles and his eyes, much to theton’s amusement.

“Your performance at the piano, thepassionyou exhibited…” He halted for a moment as if weighing how to express himself. “I found it all quite captivating.”

Welles had the mostglorioustonal quality to his voice, as if Margaret were being addressed by a large cello. She could have stood there and listened to him speak all night.

“It was the highlight of my stay at Gray Covington,” he finished.

And meeting Welles had been the highlight of Margaret’s stay at the Cambourne estate. The invitation to the house party at Gray Covington had been unexpected but welcome. At the time, Aunt Agnes had wanted to dangle Margaret before the Earl of Kilmaire who was seeking a wife and would be in attendance. Her aunt’s idea had been to have Margaret give the guests an impromptu performance on the piano to gain Lord Kilmaire’s attention, a futile effort because the earl was already in love with Lady Miranda Reynolds, whom he’d married not long after the party.

The performance had been a disaster.

“I fear I may have played a bit too…forcefully,” Margaret said, understating the truth. The impromptu recital had resulted in embarrassment to both herself and Aunt Agnes. Margaretdidplay with passion, so much so that she sometimes forgot everything but the music. She and the piano would fuse together as her fingers flew over the keys, the notes pulsating through her.

I may have writhed against the piano bench.

“My aunt was not pleased with my performance.” Heat washed up her cheeks.

“I don’t imagine she was.”

Margaret had been banned from the piano for the remainder of their stay at Gray Covington. She’d been made to embroider instead. It had been pure torture.

“You are masterful on the piano.” Welles had moved a step closer to her, trapping her amid the wisteria.

“I didn’t realize you cared so much for music. Do you play?” Certainly her…emotionaldisplay while playing had been mortifying, but she couldn’t fathom why Lord Welles had found it so memorable. Even before coming to London, Margaret wasn’t the sort of young lady who attracted attention from a man like Welles. Aunt Agnes claimed Margaret to be so drab, she faded into the wood panels of the dining room during a dinner party.

“I learned as a child. My mother adored music.” A frown tightened his wide mouth. “But I’ve never played as you do. That is a level I could never hope to achieve.”

Welleshadbeen enamored with the music. Even as absorbed as she was, she’d noticed him watching her, his eyes half-closed in pleasure while his friend continued to speak to him.

His friend.The dim-witted gentleman she’d met at Gray Covington. He’d been in the company of Lord Welles.

“Carstairs,” she abruptly blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?” His mouth curved upward, brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.

Finding Welles hiding in the wisteria was far better than the plague of locusts she’d been wishing for earlier. He was an associate of Lord Carstairs. “The gentleman who accompanied you to Gray Covington. Lord Carstairs.”

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