Page 35 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

“Very well, thank you.” She’d no intention of telling Welles that she hadn’t seen Carstairs in two weeks. Or that he’d virtually disappeared with no note to her, despite her best efforts.

“Then you probably won’t need this.” He produced a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon from his coat and set it atop the piano. “A gift to help you strengthen your lead over the fair Miss Turnbull. Poor Carstairs. He has no idea of the scheming going on behind his back.”

Margaret didn’t want to discuss Miss Turnbull. Or Carstairs. “That’s very thoughtful but—”

“Hopefully this,” he tapped the package, “will help your cause.” He leaned in her direction, so close his lips were mere inches from hers.

For the briefest moment, Margaret was convinced he meant to kiss her, but when he didn’t, she said, “I have things well in hand and have no need of your assistance with Carstairs. Or anything else, for that matter,” she murmured, her eyes lowering to his mouth before she caught herself. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Not even for the sake of your art? And you, composing a sonata? A pity.” His gaze ran up the length of her, lighting fire along her skin.

God, he was flirtatious.Charming. “Lady Masterson might have an objection to you proposing something so outlandish to me.”

“Doubtful.”

She’d been curious as to his relationship to the beautiful American for some time, even jealous though she hated to admit it. “Aren’t you—”

“God, no.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Nor is she my mistress if that is your next question.”

Margaret felt the heat nip at her cheeks. “I would never ask such a thing.”

“Of course not; you’re so terribly mild-mannered, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do, Welles.” She snapped the words at him like a whip.

“Ah. Theresheis.”

Margaret’s lips tightened into a line. He was very good at pulling away the cloak of timid invisibility she liked to wear.

Welles drummed his fingers lightly on the Broadwood. “In answer to your implied question, even if Ihadthe inclination to wed, which I do not, Lady Masterson would not be a candidate.”

“Why?”

“The lady in question is already spoken for.”

“No, why won’tyouever wed? You’re the son of a duke.” He was not the only one who could find chinks in a person’s carefully constructed armor. “A duke must have heirs.” She’d been considering his reasons since their conversation at the pond but wanted to hear him admit it. “Even if that duke is you.”

The handsome features clouded over and a snarl lifted one side of his wide mouth. “Bearing children merely to perpetuate the lineage of a title which should die out is not something I’m interested in.Ever. And marriage holds no appeal for me.” Something like regret flashed in his eyes as he looked down at her before he abruptly pushed away from the Broadwood.

Away from her. Margaret had touched a nerve. Intentionally. “Welles—”

“I’ll take my leave now.” He leaned close until she could feel his breath against her neck. “Miss Turnbull can be a formidable opponent. She’s been after Carstairs for some time and is well known for herpassionfor trout and bass fishing. Perhaps this will help even the odds.” He tapped the package with one knuckle. “Good day, Miss Lainscott.”

His steps echoed in the empty conservatory, but Margaret did not turn around. As soon as the sound of the door closing met her ears, she took her hands from the keys and looked at the package he’d left. The idea of more studying to capture Lord Carstairs held little appeal. The thought of marrying Winthrop even less so.

Don’t you want to experience passion?

She did; that was the problem. Margaret shut her legs tightly against the sudden fluttering between them at the mere thought of playing the piano half-naked for Welles. He’d deliberately not mentioned such a thing to her again. She knew Welles wanted Margaret to come to him.

Margaret didn’t consider herself completely innocent, onlyinexperienced. Her plan, before her father’s death, had been to stay unmarried butnotcelibate. She had planned to take lovers, though her choices in the small village where her father’s estate lay were slim, to say the least. But in preparation, she’d purchased a copy of the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson. Margaret rarely decided to do anything unless she educated herself first. Sex was no different.

Harriette Wilson had been a courtesan of some renown and her recollections of her lovers were exceptionally detailed. Welles was wrong. Margaret knewsomethingof passion, just not firsthand. She knew what sex entailed at the very least. Would it be so terrible if it were Welles who introduced her to such things? According to the gossips of London, he was incredibly skilled.

Her fingers banged against the keys.

Margaret liked Carstairs. He was adecentman. Honorable. She would have a comfortable life at his side though she doubted he would ever inspire the feelings within her that Welles did. But Carstairs was a far better alternative than Winthrop.

Her fingers flew to her lips, remembering the touch of Welles’s mouth, no matter how fleeting it had been. “I can’t believe I’m considering such a thing,” she said, standing up from the bench and gathering her things. “I’ve set my cap for his friend.”

She reached out, picking up the package Welles had left for her. The size and weight suggested a book. Wondering what sort of book Welles would bring her, she undid the ribbon and the brown wrapping paper fell away.

The Flyfisher’s Entomology by Alfred Ronalds

Margaret opened the book but there was no inscription, only page after page of fish and instructions on fly fishing. She shut the book with a snap, her hand lingering over the fine leather binding. He’d said he wouldn’t help her woo Carstairs, and yet Welles kept doing small things to ensure she would have what she wanted. Making certain she was at Lady Masterson’s where Carstairs was. Re-introducing them. Buying her a book on fishing.

Offering to show her passion.

The clock struck the hour and Margaret stood to gather her things, praying fervently that Carstairs had called while she was gone.

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