Page 30 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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The following day, Carstairs arrived to call on her as promised.

Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the shock on her aunt’s typically sour countenance at the arrival of the Viscount Carstairs. He walked into the parlor, all smiles, with a small nosegay in hand for Margaret, bowing politely to Aunt Agnes.

While her aunt sipped her tea, darting looks of disbelief in their direction, Margaret and Carstairs discussed the merits of rabbit hunting. What was more appropriate? A snare? A rifle? A bow and arrow?

Aunt Agnes bit off the edge of a biscuit and munched loudly.

Lord Carstairs proceeded to spend the remainder of his visit describing in minute detail a hunting lodge he’d once visited. His observations were incredibly detailed, especially in regard to the animals he hunted, and were a trifle gruesome. While not incredibly bright, Carstairs was well-mannered, respectful and, most importantly, genuinely seemed tolikeMargaret. She could secure Carstairs all on her own with no help from anyone.

With a promise to call at the end of the week, Carstairs departed, bidding both her and Aunt Agnes goodbye.

“Lord Carstairs is a delightful young man,” Aunt Agnes said after he left. “However, we aren’tcertainof his intentions and thus must continue to allow Winthrop his courtship as well. It would be best to have more than one suitor to choose from.”

Margaret only nodded demurely.

As if anything would induce her to choose Winthrop over Carstairs.

Carstairs, bless him, called again two days later bearing more flowers, this time for her aunt as well.

Aunt Agnes pursed her lips, giving him a brittle smile, her disappointment Winthrop hadn’t dropped by to call apparent.

Margaret rang for tea, delighted both by his visit and her aunt’s displeasure.

“I confess, Miss Lainscott,” Lord Carstairs said as he accepted a small watercress sandwich, “I had never thought to meet a young lady who enjoys grouse hunting as much as myself. Why, it rivals even Miss Turnbull’s love of trout fishing.”

Margaret’s hand paused as she reached for a sugared biscuit. Miss Turnbull was proving to be troublesome. “I enjoy fishing as well,” she assured him.

Aunt Agnes coughed, her hand pausing over her embroidery hoop. She’d mostly stayed silent at Margaret’s sudden knowledge of the outdoors.

“Splendid. I have an outing in mind. A small stream runs just at the end of a park I know. You and Miss Turnbull can cast your lures.” Carstairs smiled, his face completely devoid of any artifice. “It would be delightful. We’ll make a small party of it, with a proper chaperone of course.” He nodded in her aunt’s direction. “And with your aunt’s permission.”

Aunt Agnes nodded. “My niece does adore fishing,” she said. “Though I’ve never known her to catch anything.”

Margaret went still, clasping her hands in her lap. “Perhaps I’ll prove you wrong, Aunt.”

Carstairs, bless him, seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. Margaret bid him goodbye with assurances she couldn’t wait for the outing he’d proposed.

* * *

The following afternoon,Margaret found herself sitting on a blanket, swatting at gnats while praying an unlikely fish would find its way to the hook on the end of her line so she could prove herself to Carstairs.

She, Carstairs, Miss Turnbull, a maid, two footmen, and Miss Turnbull’s elderly and somewhat deaf aunt were all picnicking on the banks of a bubbling stream at the very edge of the park. The clop of horses and carriages on the path above them was muted, drowned out by the sound of the water running over the rocks. The elderly aunt, whose name Margaret had forgotten within a minute of meeting her, had dozed off in the sun. Every so often she would shake with a loud snort, startling Margaret.

Miss Rebecca Turnbull, blonde ringlets trembling coquettishly around her temples, giggled every so often at something Carstairs said, occasionally touching his forearm as if doing so was accidental.

It wasn’t.

Wearing a striped dress of blue and cream, complete with a broadbrimmed hat of straw on her head, Miss Turnbull and Carstairs sat at the edge of the stream, lines tangled together in the water, while her skirts formed a perfect circle of silk, arranged in a fetching manner.

Margaretwholeheartedlywished the lovely Miss Turnbull would fall into the stream and perhaps float away like a tiny boat. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle bubbling of the stream, smiling as the sound formed musical notes in her head along with splashes of color beneath her lids. The hand holding her fishing pole went lax as a melody began to take shape and the annoying giggles of Miss Turnbull faded.

“You need to tug the line on occasion if you wish to catch something,” a deep voice said from behind her.

Margaret’s skin prickled deliciously in surprise.Welles.

He’d been mostly absent in her life since Lady Masterson’s garden party, and she sensed he was intentionally keeping his distance. He had visited the duchess while Margaret was playing with Miss Nelson and Phaedra, but she’d caught only brief glimpses of him. He’d never visited the conservatory when she was present, nor had they spoken.

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