Page 92 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

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Inever expected to see this place again.

Tony looked out the window of the coach as the estate of the Duke of Averell came into view. A thousand memories filled his mind. Racing on horseback across the fields. His mother taking him fishing at the small pond they’d just passed. Sword fighting with his best friend, the maid’s son, Leo.

His mother dead at the bottom of the stairs awash in her own blood.

Amanda would be furious he’d waited so long to come, he thought, as the coach began to ascend the long drive leading up to the house. Despite his brother’s advice to leave his wife be for a bit and Tony’s own reluctance at coming here, he should have left immediately for Cherry Hill. But he’d been a coward. Tony was deeply ashamed of the things he’d said, and he’d needed time to decide what he would say to the Duke of Averell.

As it turns out, the speech Tony had practiced in his head wouldn’t be needed.

The news thathewas now the Duke of Averell had reached Tony at a coaching inn halfway to Cherry Hill, the messenger recognizing his coach. He’d sent the man ahead to inform Leo and continued resolutely on, wishing now that he’d forced Leo to come with him.

As the coach rolled up the long drive, the main house came into view, as immense and majestic as it had been on the day he’d left, vowing never to return. One more thing to add to the list of things he’d promised never to do but had been forced to reconsider. Two nights ago, he’d played the Broadwood and drunk scotch while longing for his wife. He’d allowed the joy at having his own child blossom as his hands ran over the keys, the room filling with the sound of Chopin. He thought of his father and what he would say to him after all these years. Could he forgive the duke? Maggie would wish it, if only because it would bring Tony peace.

When he’d finally made his way to bed, Tony had fallen into a deep slumber. He’d dreamt of his mother. Not of her death but of playing the piano and smiling. Then her face had become Maggie’s. He’d awoken feeling calm and ready to face the old duke.

Now his father was dead.

Servants in the duke’s livery, all wearing black armbands, rushed out to greet the coach. As the door opened, Graven, Cherry Hill’s butler, bowed.

“Your Grace, welcome home.”

* * *

Margaret sat in the conservatory,her fingers running over the keys, admiring the sound of the piano. The poor instrument had been woefully out of tune when she’d first arrived, which Romy had seized upon as an excuse for her poor playing. The duke had insisted the piano be tuned immediately for his new daughter-in-law.

Grief filled her.

Marcus Barrington, the Duke of Averell, was dead.

Amanda had been with him the night he died, cradling his head against her heart as the duke departed this world for the next. Gladys had found her the following morning, sobbing quietly and refusing to leave her dead husband’s side until Romy had appeared to lead her away.

Margaret’s hands banged against the keys as another wave of sorrow engulfed her. The late duke had told all of them, in a letter read aloud at his request by Margaret, that there was to be no wailing, banging, prostrations of grief or other nonsense. He loved them all and felt honored to be loved in return.

Welles had been sent for, of course. And Leo.

He’s not Welles anymore. He’s Averell.

Margaret’s heart broke that the duke had died without reconciling with his heir.

She tried to play a few bars of her sonata, the one written for her husband, and stopped. Her entire body ached with pain for the Barringtons. And for herself. Her husband hadn’t come for her immediately, nor had she had word of him. Amanda had already told Margaret to consider Cherry Hill her home. There was no need for her to ever return to London should she not wish it. She was a duchess now and could do as she pleased.

I need to remember that. I am now the Duchess of Averell. Her hand cupped her stomach for a moment.You are likely Lord Welles.

Her hands returned to the keys. Her father-in-law had requested no lavish wake. No grand funeral. He wished to be buried in the family churchyard, an old copy of the Iliad tucked beneath his arm.

When Amanda heard the request, she burst into tears and fled the room, Romy, Theo and Phaedra trailing her. It was Miss Nelson who told Margaret the significance of the book to the duke and duchess.

‘She was reading the Iliad when he fell in love with her.’

Margaret’s fingers hit a wrong key and she bit her lip at the desolation filling her heart.

“Have you not been practicing?”

The baritone trailed down her back and tingled at the base of her spine. Margaret’s heart expanded and contracted with such happiness, she nearly wept. But wariness kept her from turning. “I have, Your Grace.”

“Liar. You’ve been playing cards instead.” The sound of his footsteps echoed as he came closer. “Did you play for him? Amanda always despaired she could not.”

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