Page 45 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

I want Welles.

She and Peckam walked the entire length of the second floor to yet another set of stairs with a velvet cord strung across the steps. Two thuggish looking men stood guard before the barrier. The brute on the left, with a shock of red curls falling across his forehead, nodded at Peckam and lifted the cord for Margaret to step under.

“Have a good night, miss.” Peckam made a short bow. “At the landing, take a right. Lord Welles’s rooms are at the far end of the hall.”

Rooms? Welles lived here?

Margaret climbed the stairs to the top, reaching a small landing. Two narrow halls led from the junction of the landing, with an enormous set of double doors at the end of each. She turned right, as instructed. One of the doors stood ajar as the notes of a Chopin nocturne floated out to wrap around her.

Welles was playing the piano.

Margaret stepped through the doorway and stopped.

The room wasn’t overly large and was sparsely furnished, though even in the candlelight she could see the rugs and furniture were all expensive. A large, overstuffed chaise, the size of a small bed, faced the piano. Two leather wing-back chairs sat at angles before a fire blazing on the hearth; a small table sat between them. A sideboard filled with various bottles and decanters took up one corner. There was also a washbasin and a stack of towels. A bookcase lined one wall and was packed full of bits of paper, books, and ledgers. Above the fireplace, a painting hung—a landscape of a pond surrounded by thick woods.

But it was the piano, and the man playing Chopin which commanded Margaret’s attention.

Another Broadwood, she could tell by the lines and the sound even without seeing the gold lettering across the front. Welles had discarded his coat and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. The thick waves of his hair curled in disarray around the edge of his collar and the stark lines of his jaw. His hands floated gracefully over the keys as he bent forward in concentration. The Chopin piece was as beautiful as it was difficult. It was one Margaret played often.

A bolt of longing struck her. For the piano. For him.

Sensing her presence, his fingers slowed on the keys, the gold signet ring he wore on his pinky finger winking at her in the light. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat along with a light dusting of hair. Welles turned in her direction, a small lazy smile gracing the corner of his wide mouth. He was so beautiful sitting at the Broadwood, like Hades playing Chopin in the underworld.

A delicious hum began beneath her skin as she approached the piano. Margaret felt dizzy, intoxicated by the sight of him. Or perhaps it was only the scotch. She set the glass down on the table.

“Hello, Maggie.”

Her nickname.He’d called her Maggie the day he’d interrupted her fishing with Carstairs. The ache inside her grew more pronounced. Her skin always hummed in his presence, the blood rippling with urgency through her body the closer she got. Her trepidation at coming to him dissipated, and the sight of Winthrop sweating in her aunt’s garden faded away to nothing.

“Lord Welles.”

“I was surprised when they told me you were asking for me at the door. Why are you here?”

The deep baritone seduced her, skimming across the surface of her skin. Welles was one of those rare human beings who possessed an innate sensuality. She’d noticed that about him the very first time she’d seen him at Gray Covington. Every smile or careless gesture was imbued with subtle hints of his sexual nature, every movement of his body graceful and tinted with something erotic. The attraction Margaret had for Welles far outweighed everything else in her life, even eclipsing her passion for music.

“I wanted to see you,” she whispered.

A small wrinkle appeared between the dark brows. “What’s happened, Maggie?”

She ignored his question. “You were playing Chopin.” Her fingers ran lightly along the top of the piano. “And you purchased another Broadwood.”

“Technically I only bought this one. The piano which you play so often was a gift.”

“I stand corrected.” Margaret found herself looking at his mouth. Like the rest of Welles, it was beautifully made.

“I met him once, have I ever told you? Chopin. He visited London shortly before I met you at Gray Covington. I attended a soiree given for him at the home of James Broadwood.”

“James Broadwood?TheBroadwood? The piano maker?” If it were possible, Margaret was more intrigued by Welles than before. Tiny flutters swirled deep in her belly.

He nodded, lips tilted. “I’ve finally managed to impress you. It’s been bloody difficult.” His fingers ran over the keys and the hint of the earlier piece came out. “All it took was a little Chopin. I suppose the book on fly fishing didn’t suffice?”

“I haven’t cracked open the fly fishing book as of yet, but I’m certain it will make for riveting reading. And you lied. You do still play and very well, I might add.”

A soft chuckle. “I hope it helps your cause. The book. And I never said Ididn’tplay any more,” he said. “I believe I declined to answer. But my talent is not like yours.Youbecome the piano. I can only play it.”

A memory flashed before her: Welles watching her perform at Gray Covington when she’d so horrified her aunt and everyone else with her passionate performance. He hadn’t been impressed with her playing.

He’d been aroused.

The realization surprised her. This gorgeous creature, one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen, wantedher. Her joy was eclipsed by the knowledge that he also didn’twantto feel so strongly about her. The thought was painful, but not unexpected after his remarks about his mother and the Duke of Averell.

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

“I’ve come to play for you.” She undid the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and lifted her chin. Her chemise was only a thin barrier of cotton between her body and Welles; she was certain he could see her naked form beneath. Her nipples hardened at the low growl of satisfaction coming from deep in his chest.

“As you requested, my lord. Stockings. Chemise. Piano.”

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