Page 31 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

She turned to him with a look of annoyance, slightly piqued he was here to see Miss Turnbull outwitting her for the moment. But Margaret was terribly happy to see him. He just didn’t need to know it.

Welles sat down beside her, the seams of his leather riding breeches straining across his thighs.

Margaret couldn’t help but look. She was sure he had his breeches tailored in such a way intentionally.

The afternoon sun sparked across the brush of dark hair lining his jaw, giving him a slightly disreputable look. It suited him. A lazy grin pulled at his lips, deepening the creases at the corner of his eyes. “Glad to see me, aren’t you?”

Must he always look so bloody splendid?

“Not in the least,” she said tartly.

He took off his hat and tossed it to the blanket, barely missing the elderly aunt’s feet.

“Who’s that?” He nodded at the snoring woman.

“Our chaperone. I don’t recall her name. Miss Turnbull’s aunt.” Margaret nodded to Carstairs and Miss Turnbull.

“I can see she’s doing an excellent job.” His eyes twinkled down at her. “Here.” He took the pole from her and lowered his voice. “Just a small tug to give the fish something to chase.” Welles jerked back on the line. “Like this.”

“I know how to fish,” she hissed back at him. Margaret was feeling so much better now that Welles had arrived.

His wide mouth tilted up on one side. “I’m sure your fishing skills are asincredibleas those you use for grouse hunting. Alas,your luresdon’t seem as attractive as Miss Turnbull’s.” He pressed a finger to his lips as if he’d made a faux pas. “I meant herfishinglures, of course, Miss Lainscott.”

“I’m doing fine without your help.” She wasn’t and he knew it.

“Of course, you are.”

Margaret looked up to see Miss Turnbull clinging to Carstairs’s arms as she landed a fish, squealing in delight as he reeled it in. Their heads leaned into each other so close, Margaret thought the younger woman might throw caution to the wind and kiss Carstairs. Shouldn’t her aunt be paying more attention? She glanced over at Aunt…Bollocks. She racked her mind for the elderly woman’s name.

“If you have come to mock my effort to avoid a marriage that will make me miserable, please leave.”

“I would never mock you, Maggie. Nor do I think this a lark for you.” The smile left his face.

Margaret’s hands stilled against the blanket. No one had called her Maggie in a very long time. Not since the only man who had ever loved her, her father, had died. A lump formed in her throat. “What are you doing here? Do you have another improper request to make of me?”

“I was out for a ride and happened to see the carriage and recognized it as belonging to Carstairs. I thought I’d see what he was up to. No need to be so suspicious,” he answered.

She looked behind her to see a horse tethered some distance away.

Miss Turnbull’s high-pitched giggle filled the air.

“Ho, Welles.” Carstairs held up the tiny fish struggling on the line. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Margaret looked up at Welles. “A remarkable coincidence.”

Welles contemplated her for a moment before saying, “Don’t you know, Miss Lainscott, there is no such thing as coincidence?” Welles stood as Miss Turnbull and Carstairs stumbled up the slight incline.

“Miss Turnbull.” He charmed her with a smile. “How lovely you look with a fishing pole in your hand. And you’ve caught something.”

Margaret grit her teeth, knowing Welles was referring to Carstairs and not the fish.

The younger womanwasquite pretty with her wide blue eyes and broadbrimmed hat, tied with a large bow beneath her chin. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a bloody Gainsborough painting. Miss Turnbull’s appearance only added to Margaret’s irritation. She swatted at the cloud of gnats determined to bite her.

“Now that you are here, Welles, you must join us for our picnic.” Carstairs nodded and the two footmen rushed forward, each carrying an enormous wicker basket. Two chickens, sliced apples, berries, fresh-baked rolls, an assortment of cheeses, and two bottles of chilled white wine appeared on a tablecloth spread out on the grass.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Welles deferred.

“Yes, you do,” Margaret said under her breath.

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