Page 62 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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The next morning after crying herself to sleep, Margaret awoke with renewed faith in her ability to find a way out of her situation. She was nothing if not resilient. Today she meant to walk her aunt’s garden, avoiding the rosebushes, and contemplate her future. There was a way out of this mess Welles had laid at her feet, she had only to find it. It was exhausting to be so heartbroken.

Leaving her room, she headed for the stairs.

Noises sounded below. Her aunt had visitors. Margaret’s foot halted on the step as two men, both dressed in crisp, dark suits exited the drawing room. The low murmur of their voices reached up the stairs, though she couldn’t make out their words. Efficiency hovered around both men, their movements quick and businesslike. One held a thick packet under his arm. Without looking in her direction, they strode past Henderson, who threw open the door, and into a carriage sitting outside.

Winthrop’s solicitors.Her heart sank.

She wouldnotaccept the idea of marriage to Winthrop. Margaret had spent the better part of the morning calculating how much pin money she’d squirreled away in her armoire. The book on fly fishing could be sold, though it wouldn’t fetch much. How ironic to be a wealthy heiress and have not so much as a farthing on her person.

“Margaret.”

She looked toward the drawing room to see her aunt, hands clasped and turban straight, looking at her with heightened anticipation. Aunt Agnes looked…happy.Possibly even elated. The last time she’d looked so thrilled had been when Winthrop had proposed. Margaret was immediately on guard.

“Please come in. I’ve some things we must discuss.” Her aunt’s chin pointed to the hated drawing room.

Margaret nearly declined her aunt’s request, but told herselfnothingher aunt did to her could be worse than marriage to Winthrop. Cautiously, she made her way to the couch. The remains of the men’s visit sat on the table: A cold pot of tea and a pile of papers stacked neatly next to her aunt.

“Henderson,” her aunt said to the butler hovering about, “please bring a fresh pot of tea. And those delicious scones my niece enjoys.”

Margaret sat down on the couch with a plop, the dread spiraling out of control, making her insides ache. Aunt Agnes looked far too pleased; she’d never cared what Margaret preferred before as evidenced by her forcing Margaret to marry Winthrop.

“It would seem,” Aunt Agnes bent her boney form to perch on the end of her favorite chair like a turban-wearing vulture, “thatyouare to be a duchess one day.”

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