Page 39 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

“My father was wrong.”

Aunt Agnes skewered her with a hostile look. “Really? Is that why he left you to me?”

Margaret looked down at her hands, hating her father for his betrayal. How could he have left this woman in control of Margaret’s future?

“I gave you an entire season to make your own choice and what did you do?Wasted it. You sat in this house, incessantly playing the piano. Scribbling in that leather-bound book as if anyone would ever even look at anything you composed.” A nasty chuckle left her. “Your head has been in the clouds instead of paying attention to what is around you.” She snorted. “This season I took a more active role in ensuring you would find a suitable match. But once again you frittered away your time, playing the piano for the Duchess of Averell like some paid entertainer. Meeting with those women. Mrs. Anderson.”

Margaret’s fingers tightened on the sheet at the mention of the Royal Society of Female Musicians. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Aunt Agnes gave a derisive snort. “Did you think I didn’t know about yourlittleclub? No doubt you plan to give them a large donation once you are married. Those women are nothing but a bunch of parasites who wish to bleed you dry. You stupid girl. Luckily, Winthrop has assured me he will manage your funds.”

“That isn’t true.” Margaret raised her voice. “There are female musicians who are in need of assistance. I wish to help. It is a noble cause. And there is money set aside for mealoneonce I marry.”

“You can’t be trusted with such a sum else you’d give it all away. What next? Will you roam Covent Garden and toss coins to the jugglers and fortune tellers? The only reason such women would curry your friendship is for yourmoney, Margaret. Are you so blind? Winthrop willensurenot one penny goes to fund such a ridiculous cause. As his wife, you will be expected to support a charity much more meaningful. Orphans, for example.”

No. This could not be happening. Her stomach heaved again.

“You know that isn’t true, Aunt. The duchess is a supporter. Mrs. Anderson is an eminent pianist and teacher in her own right. She has encouraged me to compose and nurture my talent.”

“What you mean is she encourages you to behave like aharlot. Anyone who has seen you play bears witness of your base nature. I wonder that the duchess has allowed you around her daughters.”

“I play with passion,” she choked out, her throat thick with emotion. “I have talent.”

“Your mother wasexactlythe same. Herpassionfor music resulted inyou. I can still see your father groping her at the piano. Touching her. Debasing her. Aminer.” Her aunt’s chest heaved with fury, her bitterness toward her late sister and Walter Lainscott all too apparent. “Clara was the daughter of a viscount. A noble title that wastaintedby your father. After their marriage your mother was not received, did you know that? She was shunned by all her former friends and acquaintances. My own prospects were dimmed by her selfish decision to marry Lainscott. Our mother’s heart was broken. My father was devastated that she would elope with such a man. But I willnotallow the same to happen to you.” Spittle had formed at the corners of her aunt’s mouth as she hissed her venom at Margaret.

“Aunt Agnes, please.” This was why her aunt disparaged Margaret’s passion for music. This was why Margaret’s talent was only trotted out for special recitals when Aunt Agnes was pressured by her friends to do so. Or when she wished to impress someone. No wonder her aunt detested her. She blamed Margaret for all of Clara’s mistakes. “I amnotClara. Please give me a chance to find another suitor.”

“You cannot be trusted, Margaret. One day you will be carried away by music and find yourself seduced. I won’tstandfor such a thing.” Her aunt’s eyes had become wild, her breathing ragged and full of rage. “I willnotsuffer the humiliation of another scandal.”

“Please don’t marry me to Winthrop,” Margaret pleaded, cringing at having to debase herself before her aunt. “Please.” Margaret sat up, hands reaching toward her aunt. “I find him to be repulsive, Aunt. He disgusts me. I would have some affection in my marriage.”

“Affection? I hadnonein my marriage. Your mother’s impetuous decision saw to that. But in hindsight, wedding Lord Dobson was all for the best. We were partners, combining our contacts and wealth to improve our status. A much more logical way to determine one’s future spouse than affection. Look wherelovegot your mother. Your father wished for something better for you. A title.” Aunt Agnes shook her head in disbelief at what she clearly considered to be Margaret’s idiocy.

“You’ll be the wife of an earl, a countess, and will rise above your mother’s station in life. You’ll have a place in theton.I know what is best for you, Margaret. And it’s Winthrop.” The turban nodded at Margaret. “He is in agreement that music will be a waste of your time as Lady Winthrop. You won’t even have so much as an out-of-tune piano in his household to take your attention away from your husband and children. Or the care of his sickly mother.” A thin, ugly smile crossed her lips. “One day you’ll thank me.” With a final look, Aunt Agnes disappeared from the room in a swirl of indignant skirts, slamming the door behind her.

“I’ll never thank you,” Margaret whispered as she stared into the canopy above her bed, wishing a hole would appear to swallow her up. After seeing her aunt rage about the bedroom, spitting out her vitriol against Margaret’s parents, Margaret knew there wouldn’t be any swaying her aunt’s decision. Her mind was set. If her aunt had her way, Margaret would never have her music, nor would she be able to help her fellow musicians.

Both situations were intolerable. Winthrop was intolerable.

She allowed herself exactly two hours to wallow in a horrific bout of self-pity, sobbing out her fear and anger into her pillow before resolving to find a way out of this mess. There was absolutelyno wayshe could marry Winthrop. She would flee from this house and live on the streets before she did so.

Several hours later, Eliza brought a dinner tray to her room. Broth and two slices of bread. Apparently, her aunt didn’t care for Margaret’s outburst earlier and meant to starve her into obedience. It didn’t matter. Margaret wasn’t hungry.

“Is there anything else, miss?” Eliza set down the tray.

“No.” Margaret had held suspicions earlier about trusting Eliza, but in light of her aunt’s comments about Mrs. Anderson, she knew she’d been correct in hiding her composition book beneath the bed. Mrs. Anderson had sent Margaret several notes, as had the duchess, all of which she’d stupidly left on her desk. Eliza couldn’t read, but that hadn’t stopped her from sharing the contents with someone who could. Probably Oakes, her aunt’s maid.

Bloody traitor.

“My stomach is still unsettled.” Margaret made a great show of rubbing her stomach and appearing weak as she flopped back against the bed. “I’ll try a bit of the bread to see if it suits me. But I really wish to sleep. I won’t need you again tonight.” A weak smile crossed her lips as she looked up at Eliza. “You may seek your own bed.”

The maid’s face was devoid of friendliness. “Your aunt wishes me to let you know if you aren’t well in the morning, she will send for the physician.”

Margaret wanted to snarl at the maid; instead, she said in a quiet voice, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. All I need is a good night’s sleep to put me to rights, but if not, I believe a doctor is warranted.” Margaret should have assumed sooner that her aunt had the entire household watching her every move. Especially Eliza.

Margaret closed her eyes. “Goodnight, Eliza.”

“Goodnight, miss.” The maid left, taking the broth, and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

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