Page 33 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

“I know.” His fingers gave a sharp, noticeable tug before stilling.

Suddenly her rod, propped up on the small brace of rocks, tumbled free and slid in the direction of the stream.

“Ho there, Miss Lainscott. It appears you’ve caught a fish.” Carstairs hopped up and hurried down the slight incline toward the rod.

Margaret looked away from Welles and stood. “It appears one of my lures worked,” she said, delighted to have possibly caught a fish. Walking down carefully to Carstairs, she took the rod only to have the line pull and the reel unwind before she could bring in her catch.

In his excitement, Carstairs took hold of her hands, helping her reel the fish in, while Margaret laughed. Carstairs smelled pleasantly of mint, and his hands were warm on hers, but there was no prickling of her skin or unsettling of her stomach at his nearness. Determined, Margaret intentionally brushed herself against him.

Nothing.Not even so much as an ounce of the heat only the sound of Welles’s voice instilled in her.

When Carstairs leaned over her to tug at the reel, the line snapped, sending them both to land on their bottoms on the grass in an awkward sprawl. Margaret’s bonnet fell off her head and she heard a slight tearing sound in the region of her sleeve.

Carstairs laughed. “Goodness, Miss Lainscott, are you all right?”

Margaret giggled. The entire day had been ridiculous.

Miss Turnbull, ever the good sport, laughed as well and ran forward, struggling to help them both up. Even their chaperone, Aunt Louise had a hand pressed to her lips to stifle her amusement.

Margaret looked toward the stream. Her line was long gone as well as the old fishing lure she’d found in Lord Dobson’s desk, stuck amidst several buttons and a lone cufflink. It had been a boon to find the lure. She’d claimed to Carstairs it had belonged to her father.

“Oh, dear, Miss Lainscott. You’ve lost your father’s lucky fishing lure.”

“My father had several, Lord Carstairs. I’ve others.” She’d have to search through Lord Dobson’s things again to find another. Or not. Carstairs wouldn’t realize she’d no idea how to fish or hunt until after they were married.

“My lord, Lord Welles begs your apologies. He was late for an appointment and had to take his leave,” Margaret heard one of the footmen utter. “The matter was quite urgent.”

“Oh, too bad.” Carstairs smiled his usual pleasant, empty smile, while Miss Turnbull looked at him in adoration.

Margaret stared at the empty spot on the blanket where Welles had been sitting. He’d left without telling her goodbye. It pained her more than it should have.

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