Page 32 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

A smile tugged at his lips. He’d heard her.

“Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding in the least.” Miss Turnbull gazed at him with awe, dazzled that the glorious Lord Welles would picnic with them. “We’ve enough food to feed half of London, I’ll warrant. Douglas,” she blushed prettily and put a gloved hand to her mouth, “I mean, Lord Carstairs, has a robust appetite.” She lifted her chin in challenge, eyes meeting Margaret’s.

I really should have pushed her in the stream myself.

“Then I’d be delighted.” Welles escorted the laughing young lady back to the blanket where Margaret sat. He bent and plucked the rod from Margaret’s hands and she caught a whiff of clean male and sunshine. “I’ll just brace this over here.” He walked to the stream and made a small pile of rocks. “Perhaps you’ll get lucky and yourlures,” he intentionally emphasized the word, “will do the trick. If not, I’m happy to help.” He winked at her.

The audacity.Her insides shivered in response.

Welles’s strides were as graceful as the rest of him and unconsciously sensual. She imagined he danced or sat a horse the same beautiful way. Her gaze flicked to Carstairs and back to Welles. There really was no comparison. Carstairs was attractive, but he wasn’t Welles.

The four of them sat around the enormous mound of food while Miss Turnbull’s aunt snored softly.

Carstairs, kind to a fault, asked if he should wake her.

“No. Auntie Louise likes a nap in the afternoon. Which is why I had Cook pack us this delicious wine.”

Miss Rebecca Turnbull wasn’t quite as innocent as she appeared. Nor as unintelligent. Margaret accepted the glass of wine from one of the footmen and assessed her competition with a keen eye.

Welles sat down next to her, stretching out his legs, and munched on a chicken leg. Margaret watched in fascination as his teeth tore at the meat before he swallowed.

Blue eyes sparkled back at her. Welles was very aware of his effect on women. Even Miss Turnbull, as besotted by Carstairs as she was, watched him as if he were some exotic creature who’d wandered into their midst.

Carstairs, bless him, was oblivious to the fact he’d invited the fox into the hen house.

The meal passed pleasantly enough. Carstairs spoke of hunting a red deer in the Scottish Highlands. His description of the event, down to what he wore and the way he’d crouched in the undergrowth while rain battered him, held Miss Turnbull rapt with attention; Margaret, however, after two glasses of the excellent wine, was humming to herself while she listened with half an ear.

“What a beautiful song,” Welles said from beside her. He wasn’t listening to Carstairs either. “I don’t recognize it.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s a sonata I’m working on,” she answered with a shrug.

“You mean composing?” He kept his voice low so Carstairs and Miss Turnbull wouldn’t overhear. Elderly Aunt Louise had recently awoken and only cast a mild frown at the empty wine bottles as she munched on a slice of apple.

“Yes,” Margaret answered him. The wine had given her a light, floating feeling. “I studied composition for a time with Mr. Strauss, our neighbor in Yorkshire. He was once part of the Bavarian court and composed for King Ludwig. I learned much from him.”

“I see why you are so enamored of Mrs. Anderson,” he said, referring to the pianist who was friends with the duchess and had become something of a mentor to Margaret. “And Mrs. Mounsey. Is it your hope to compose and perform as those ladies do?”

“I,” she shrugged, “well, I think I would want to emulate them in some way. I don’t really like performing for large crowds, but I love playing.”

“Why don’t you like performing?” His brow wrinkled, honestly confused.

“I don’t like all the attention. I tend to get carried away. You saw me play at Gray Covington.”

Heat flared between them. “A most enjoyable performance.”

“Only because you didn’t have your music privileges rescinded afterward. My aunt forced me to embroider for the rest of our stay. I wasn’t allowed near the piano.” Margaret stuck out her tongue. “Embroidery is torture. Pure and simple.” She looked down, feeling a tug on her skirts.

Welles was absently running one forefinger along the hem, pulling gently on the sprigged muslin. “I’m sorry she did such a thing to you. Cruel.”

“Yes. The worst punishment anyone could give me. Music is,” she gave a careless wave as he watched her intently, “a balm for my soul. I see a field of flowers, but I alsohearthe music each daisy or buttercup makes.” She shrugged, embarrassed by her confession. “I suppose that sounds as if I’m daft. It doesn’t really make sense.”

“Of course it does. You and I might see only a sack of flour, but a baker sees a magnificent three-tiered cake. A bolt of shimmering green fabric stuck on a rack at one of the shops on Bond Street becomes a ballgown for a queen in Romy’s eyes.”

“You do understand,” she whispered, her heart wishing to leap out of her chest to his.

“Iseeyou, Maggie.” Welles gave a careful tug on the tiny bit of her skirts he held between his forefinger and thumb. “No matter how you attempt to hide.”

“I’ve not given you leave to address me in such a way,” she whispered, wondering at the odd intimacy growing between them. The skin of her legs and arms grew warmer and Margaret knew it wasn’t from the dappled sunlight coming through the trees surrounding them. It was Welles.

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