Page 25 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

“What a sour pair,” the duchess said under her breath. “Why did she invite them? More importantly, why attend?”

“A perverse sense of self-punishment perhaps? The new Lord Masterson doesn’t care for his uncle’s widow and makes no effort to hide it,” Welles said.

“No, he does not.” The duchess’s lips pursed into a grimace. “He should be grateful Georgina’s dowry saved the earldom for him. Otherwise he’d have nothing but a debt-ridden title.”

“Yes, but he didn’t geteverything,” Welles said with a tic of his lips. “For instance, this estate. What he can never have, displayed so beautifully under the guise of a party. I think perhaps that was Georgina’s purpose all along.”

The duchess didn’t take her eyes off the new Lord Masterson. “Do not expect him to attend my upcoming ball. He won’t receive an invitation.”

Welles nodded in the direction of one large, striped tent where servants were entering and leaving with flutes of champagne. “If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I’ll see if Georgina is serving anything other than champagne.”

He took his leave without another glance at Margaret.

She watched his broad-shouldered form disappear in the direction of the tent, missing his presence immediately.

Lifting her chin, Margaret reminded herself sternly she wasn’t at the garden partyfor Welles. And his relationship with Lady Masterson, no matter what it may be, was none of her affair. Margaret washereto entice Lord Carstairs. She’d been up half the night concocting various anecdotes on hunting based on the book she’d filched from Lord Dobson’s study and her observances of what little grouse hunting her father had done. At least she wouldn’t have to fabricate Walter Lainscott’s two dogs, Andy and Jake.

“Come, Miss Lainscott.” The duchess touched her arm. “Let us see and be seen.”

Romy linked her arm with Margaret’s as they followed in the duchess’s wake. Welles’s sister was especially lovely today in a shimmering gown the color of charred toast which she’d cleverly stitched with irregular folds to resemble the bark of a tree. Her sleeves, in contrast to Margaret’s, were tailored to fit her slender arms with strategically placed fabric leaves, acorns, and even a small bird sewn into the silk.

“You are masterful with a needle, Romy.” Margaret squeezed her friend’s hand. “A true artist.”

“Thank you,” Romy said. “But unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to practice my art, as you call it. Perhaps, if I never marry, I could set up my own modiste shop.”

“You’re a duke’s daughter,” Margaret said, bestowing a smile on the younger girl. “Isn’t marriage a requirement?”

Romy shrugged, her attention taken by the gown of the woman before them. “Yes. More’s the pity. I’ll be expected to make an impeccable match, preferably to one of the few dukes floating about London. Most are at least three times my age, and the few that aren’t elderly, I find distasteful.”

She dropped Margaret’s arm and took out a small notepad and pencil hidden in the pocket of her gown. The duchess had paused to speak to someone she knew which gave Romy a moment to sketch discreetly. She looked up and frowned, her pencil stilled, gaze focused.

Margaret followed her line of sight directly to a stilted looking gentleman with coal-black hair. A scowl marked his features, turning his lips down in an ugly manner.

“He’d be far more attractive were he not frowning,” Margaret said. The man was striking in a wild sort of way, and coldly austere, possessing none of the elegance that imbued Welles so effortlessly.

She clenched her hands, resolutely pushing Welles aside and conjured up an image of Carstairs. Or at least as much of him as she could recall.

“Gloomy Granby.” Romy nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “There’s one of the last unwed dukes in all of England. I pity the woman who attracts his attention. An iceberg possesses more warmth.” Romy tugged at Margaret’s hand. The duchess was on the move.

Margaret took in the beauty of Lady Masterson’s garden party, wondering at the young widow’s vision in planning the event. The women attending were dressed in every color under the rainbow, drifting about the lawn like a mass of peonies, roses, and daisies all having escaped the confines of their carefully maintained flower beds. The duchess was much sought after, many of those present wishing to renew their acquaintance with her and ask after the duke. It was clear the duchess hadn’t left her country estate for some time due to the ill health of her husband. Romy and her mother both spoke in glowing terms of the duke and with much affection, in sharp contrast to Welles. The mere mention of his father brought a scowl to his face.

She wondered what had happened between Welles and the duke to cause his sentiments to be so different.

Margaret smiled so much in the next several hours, her cheeks began to ache. Few of those she met recognized or remembered her until she mentioned her aunt’s name. She supposed that was fair; to be honest, Margaret didn’t remember any of their names either.

Scanning the gardens, she struggled to remember what Carstairs looked like. All she could recall was light brown hair and a vacant expression. Finally, thanks to Welles’s previous description of his friend’s costume, she spotted him. It was impossible to miss the antlers rising above the shoulders of the small group surrounding him. Excusing herself from Romy’s side, Margaret struck out for Carstairs intent on reintroducing herself. It was bold, true, but theyhadmet previously.

Margaret halted halfway across the lawn, spying a familiar indigo coat and set of broad shoulders. She nearly turned around but pressed on. She thought of Winthrop taking her hand the last time he had called, recalling the squeeze of his sweaty fingers against hers. The memory steeled her resolve. Margaret strode forward, confident she looked her best, and with a mountain of determination. It would have to be Carstairs

Time was running out, and she’d no time to find a better candidate.

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