Page 34 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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Nearly two weeks later, sitting before the Broadwood at Averell House, Margaret wondered if she’d mistaken Carstairs’s interest. Or perhaps after their fishing excursion, Miss Turnbull had managed to truly sink her hooks into him. She went over their conversation repeatedly at the stream and there was nothing to indicate he wasn’t interested in pursuing her further. Before entering the carriage to take them all home, Carstairs had made a point to pull her aside and ask if she would be present at the duchess’s upcoming ball at the end of the month.

Margaret assured him she’d be there. But Carstairs hadn’t called on her nor had she seen him at the few events she had attended with her aunt since. It was as if he’d simply disappeared.

The only gentleman whodidcall on her was Winthrop.

Margaret’s fingers slowed. She refused to think of Winthrop.

She looked around the empty conservatory, glad for the solitude. Miss Nelson was suffering from a cold, and the duchess had taken Phaedra and Romy shopping. Theo was somewhere on the third floor behind the closed door of her studio, painting miniatures. Margaret supposed she should have gone home, but she’d no desire to hear her aunt mutter how grateful she was for Winthrop now that Margaret had ‘scared off’ Carstairs.

I didn’t scare him off.

Her right hand pressed several keys in succession.

No, that wasn’t right.

She tried another series of notes before pausing to write down the sequence in her composition book. Her sonata was beginning to take shape in bits and pieces, the melody accompanied by a swirl of purples, blues, and greens in her mind. But mostly a cacophony of blues, particularly sapphires and indigo. Which made sense because those shades were the colors Margaret most associated withhim. She’d never before considered apersonwhen music came to her; usually, it was a place or a series of noises, like the clopping of horses making their way down the street. Not even in the throes of grief over her father had Margaret written music specifically in his memory.

Only Welles.

“I guess that stands to reason,” she said out loud to the empty conservatory. “I’m playing his piano.”

“Indeed, you are.” The lovely baritone echoed in the stark silence of the room.

Margaret’s hands stilled on the keys as footsteps drew closer to her place on the bench. The air around her suddenly came to life, the hairs along her arms rippling in anticipation. Her body arched back unconsciously, wanting to be touched. “Lord Welles.”

A bare fingertip, devoid of gloves, gently traced the outline of her collarbone. The touch was so brief, she wondered if it was only her imagination.

Welles came around the bench to lean against the piano. “That’s the tune you were humming at the stream the other day.” His voice lowered to an intimate rumble. “Your sonata.”

Margaret’s entire core grew taut as a slow, languorous ache started to hum low in her belly. “Yes. You find such a thing odd? My writing music?”

“Never. I have a theory that while there are a select number of those who are gifted enough to play the piano beautifully, finding a pianist who alsocreatesis far more rare.”

Margaret’s heart tugged again in his direction, this time more firmly and with purpose.

“I think that is more of a statement of your opinion than a theory, Welles.”

“Perhaps.” A wave of dark hair fell into one eye and he absently pushed it away. Welles was dressed in riding clothes, something he wore often and to great effect. Her eyes ran down the length of his legs. He looked smashing in leather breeches and boots. Not to mention he was looking at her in a way that caused Margaret’s insides to twist and tighten pleasurably.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Riding,” Margaret blurted out. Welles’s ability to make her lose her train of thought was unsettling, particularly for a woman who prided herself on being level-headed.

“Ah.” The heat in his eyes was unmistakable.

Margaret blinked, reddening at the thinly veiled innuendo. “I meantyouwere doing the riding.”

“Yes. You are making yourself abundantly clear, Miss Lainscott.”

“Ahorse.” She looked away. “Why must you do that? Turn the most innocent of words into something—”

“Improper?” He shrugged. “I suppose I can’t help myself, especially when I have the proper inducement. Why do you seem to notice it so often?”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “I can’t imagine everyone doesn’t hear such—”

His wide mouth twitched. “Howarethings going with Carstairs?” he said, cutting her off.

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