Page 2 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

Lord Winthrop’s giant paw took Margaret’s hand and placed her fingers on his forearm. “Shall we?” He nodded down at her, sweat glistening on his forehead.

There was no escape.

Steering Margaret expertly through the crush, Lord Winthrop guided her to a set of tall French doors and out into the blissfully cool terrace. A breeze gently buffeted her face as she looked out into the gardens. The strains of the orchestra filtered through the open doors and Margaret swayed in time with the music, mentally wincing as she heard one of the violins hit a wrong note. No one would likely notice but her.

Music was the only thing which kept her sane during events such as these. Whenever she heard music, the sound of each instrument filled her mind with a swirl of colors which in turn formed themselves into notes. The notes would intertwine and split to become a melody, while her fingers itched for a pen to write everything down. She had a special book for such things, large and shaped like a ledger one might use for household accounts. It had been a gift from her father several years ago when Margaret had studied music with Mr. Strauss, her neighbor in Yorkshire. The elderly Austrian gentleman had once been a composer of some renown on the Continent before coming to England to live with his daughter.

Winthrop propelled her in the direction of a stone bench at the edge of the terrace, annoying her with his presence and his sweating. Margaret found herself praying for a plague of locusts or some other more welcome rescue.

“We can dance later if you like.” He’d apparently seen her moving in time to the music and had mistaken it for an invitation.

Margaret’s eyes slid down Lord Winthrop’s oddly shaped form. The very thought of being clasped to him while dancing a waltz was abhorrent. And he was still sweating profusely; surely that couldn’t be normal. She kept her eyes down, pretending to be too timid to reply.

An exasperated sigh left him, just as she’d expected. Perhaps if she bored him, he would simply go away.

“Your aunt has given me leave to call on you.” Lord Winthrop nodded for her to sit. “I shall come tomorrow.”

Good Lord. Winthropwasgoing to court her.

If she didn’t want to be stuck with the repugnant earl, Margaret had best choose a gentleman herself. And quickly. The combination oftitleandstupidshould be easy to find within theton. She just hadn’t tried hard enough. Margaret had hoped to make it through another season before her aunt would force the issue of marriage. But clearly, time had run out.

Her mind ran through a host of acquaintances she’d made since coming to London who had professed interest in her. There weren’t a great many, the only disadvantage to her strategy of intentionally falling beneath notice. Several possessed the same entitled, cruel nature as Winthrop. One or two exhibited a sign of intelligence, which wouldn’t do. Most were in need of a fat dowry. Margaret was an heiress; her money had attracted nearly every gentleman who bet on the horses too often or carelessly gambled. She’d have to be discerning.

Winthrop had begun to bore her with the details of a party he’d recently attended. She ignored him and continued searching her memories, discarding one gentleman after another. This was more difficult than she’d anticipated. Suddenly, a pleasant face swam before her. Kind. Vacant eyes.Enamoredof the outdoors. Spoke extensively of a hunting lodge. She’d made his acquaintance at Gray Covington last year during a house party she’d attended. He would suit her perfectly if he were still unmarried. His name was Carter…Carson?Bollocks.She should have made more of an effort.

Unfortunately, Margaret drew a blank at his name. Not an unusual occurrence. She was terrible at names.

Cool air blew against her face, helping to banish the smell of Lord Winthrop’s overuse of talc. As he stood before her, droning on about his own self-importance, wrongly assuming she was interested, Margaret decided to tackle the problem at hand. She needed a suitable excuse to make Winthrop go away, lest he try to steal a kiss and attempt to compromise her. Aunt Agnes would be thrilled.

Margaret went with a headache. Overused by ladies in her situation, to be sure, but she wasn’t feeling especially creative tonight.

“Oh, my.” Her fingers fell against her temple. She looked up at Winthrop from beneath her lashes. “My lord,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “you have my gratitude for seeing me out into this blessedly cool air, but my headache has not abated.”

Margaret hoped Winthrop had paid so little attention to her earlier that he wouldn’t remember she’d not mentioned a headache. She cast her eyes down as if mortified to be in such a state.

“You should have asked me sooner to escort you out.” The reprimand, coming as it did from the pompous, overstuffed pear, was a bit unwelcome.

Margaret bit her lip to keep herself from giving him a sharp retort. Sometimes it was very difficult to pretend to be such a milquetoast. Touching him tentatively on the forearm, she murmured, “Would you grant me one more favor, Lord Winthrop?”

He stepped forward, his heavy, velvet-clad form far too close for comfort.

“I’m soterriblythirsty. Would you mind fetching me a glass of lemonade? I am certain such refreshment and the cool air will revive me. I would be incredibly grateful.”

Disappointment mixed with annoyance on his florid features. But Winthrop, thankfully, was too much of a gentleman to decline. “Of course, Miss Lainscott. Sit here and I shall return promptly.” He dutifully waddled back inside to find the refreshment table.

Once he was gone, Margaret breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against the stone wall. There was a path leading to the servants’ entrance just down the steps before her and through an opening in her aunt’s wisteria. She would be upstairs in her room within a matter of minutes. Eliza, her lady’s maid, could send word to her aunt and Lord Winthrop that she’d regretfully had to retire for the evening with a headache. Aunt Agnes would be furious tomorrow, but Margaret couldn’t tolerate Winthrop’s presence any longer.

Standing up, she brushed her skirts and hurried down the steps leading into the gardens. Her aunt hadn’t instructed the servants to light torches in the garden, not wishing to incite any young gentlemen inclined to ruination, but there was moonlight and Margaret knew the way by heart. This wasn’t the first time she’d escaped into the wisteria. As she slunk along the wall, careful not to tear her gown, she caught the scent of a cheroot mixing with the aroma of the garden.

A dark shape moved along the vines and blooms, startling her.

“Nicely done, Miss Lainscott.”

Margaret froze at the greeting, allowing the deep baritone to melt into her skin. She forgot names with regularity. Titles. Sometimes faces. Butneverthesoundof a person. And especially not the resonance of this man’s voice, though they’d only been in each other’s company one other time. An odd fluttering started low in her belly.

A large, impeccably dressed form moved out of the wisteria and into a patch of moonlight. The cheroot clutched between his teeth dangled from a wide, sensual mouth as he smiled at her.

“Lord Welles.” Margaret’s blood pulsed louder in her ears. He was as beautiful as she remembered, even more so with moonlight creating shadows across the sculpted lines of his handsome face. She hadn’t seen Welles since Lady Cambourne’s house party at Gray Covington when Margaret had made such a spectacle of herself.

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