Page 71 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

Margaret shivered, remembering the feel of those crisp hairs against her naked breasts even as her body hummed madly at his nearness.

He smelled of scotch and the outdoors. Wind and leather. She suspected he’d gone riding, something Margaret realized he did when he needed to think. Or was angry, as he’d been today and still was, apparently. The light of the fire caressed his striking features as he stared back at her, a frown tugging at the corners of his wide, sensual mouth. A letter sat open on his lap, the corners torn. Welles’s name, his Christian name, was scrawled across the top in a spidery, shaking hand.

The writing of someone who is gravely ill.

The fumes of scotch grew stronger as she took a step closer to him. “You’re foxed.” She reached out to take his hand, as she’d done the day of Lady Masterson’s garden party.

His fingers curled away from her.

The rejection stung, but Margaret was determined. The Broadwood glistened behind her as a reminder he must bear her some affection. “Did something happen?” She nodded toward the letter laying discarded in his lap.

“I chose the color especially for you.” One finger waved elegantly in her direction. “Rose blush. I saw it at the modiste’s when I ordered the gown made from gold. It reminded me of you. Blushing for me, the cream of your skin turning pink when I say such inappropriate things.”

“You sent me the gowns?” In retrospect, she should have guessed, given the immodest necklines. Another romantic gesture. Despite his manner, Margaret’s skin buzzed in a delicious fashion, begging her to draw closer. She raised her hand, intent on touching him.

“I couldn’t imagine how a girl of gentle breeding would have picked up on every innuendo I made. It was a shock to discover you were a virgin.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “And a greatmanythings have happened.” An ugly thick sound came from him.

Margaret stepped back from her husband, hand dropping back to her side. The comment stung as he’d meant it to. “That was unkind.”

“Do you know what this is, wife?” Welles held up the letter.

Margaret was fairly certain she did. Her stomach pitched in apprehension as she stared at the vellum, recognizing the broken ducal seal. “Welles—”

“This,dearestwife, is a congratulatory letter from His Grace the Duke of Averell on our marriage. Doubtless, his joy at our nuptials has extended his miserable life.”

“And you blameme,” she said, her words as mocking as his. “This ismyfault. Because Iforcedyou to compromise me.”

Another ugly laugh came from him. “Wasn’t that your plan all along when you came to Elysium?” The words flung at her like a dozen daggers, slicing and digging into her heart. “For all I know, you are in league with that old prick and my stepmother. You’re quite Machiavellian, Lady Welles.”

If she had dared to come any closer, Margaret would have slapped Welles across his beautiful, smirking face. “I didn’t do this.Youdid.” He’d whittled down the most beautiful night of her life to nothing more than sexual manipulation. The dread settled firmly in the center of her chest.

“He’s not going to win. I’ll have no children. No heir for him to coo over.” His eyes ran down her form. “Go to bed, Lady Welles. You will wait in vain for the consummation of this marriage.”

The words struck her hard, the hatred of his father thickening the air between them.

Gathering her courage, Margaret leaned in, sorely sick to death of his bitterness and anger, particularly the parts directed at her. “I am exhausted with your moods.”

“Ah, there she is. It’s unfortunate I don’t want her here.”

“I grow weary of your temper tantrums. Your wild accusations. Your inability to be happy because it is so much more important to hang on to your bitterness. Your father will die, surrounded by his loving wife and daughters, and you willstillbemiserable. Your mother willstillbe dead.”

“Get.Out.”

“Since I am now free to take lovers, perhaps I shall.”

His fingers tightened on the glass and Margaret waited for him to hurl it at her.

“Just remember,” she said in a low tone, daring to whisper close to his ear. “It wasCarstairsI wanted.” She refused to play meek and mild another moment, especially not for this man who’d demanded otherwise from her the entire time she’d known him.

He sat in the chair unmoving, refusing to look at her. After a few moments, Margaret wrapped her dignity about her and strode to the door, flinching only when the sound of glass breaking in the fireplace met her ears.

Once upstairs, Margaret tossed the cloak aside and looked into the fire. She would not sit back and put her own desires on hold until Welles came to terms with their marriage. And she refused to walk daintily around him while he wallowed in resentment, pretending it didn’t bother her.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs.

He would probably live at Elysium for a time. Maybe forever.

Daisy arrived later with a quiet knock and began to help Margaret get ready for bed. When she pulled out a silky nightgown meant for her wedding night, Margaret waved her away. Her husband’s accusations had devastated her. Welles had meant to push her away and he’d succeeded. Brilliantly.

The maid left her with a murmured good night, and Margaret climbed into her bed. She was used to being unwanted. Unloved. Margaret had existed in such a state since her father’s death. Welles doing much the same was a disappointment, but not unexpected.

Tomorrow, she would visit her father’s solicitor. The sum to come to her upon her marriage would now be hers entirely to do with as she wished. If nothing else, Margaret meant to have a rich, fulfilling life. Welles could go hang.

For the moment.

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