Page 73 of The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons 1)

33

Her husband had returned home.

After weeks of living apart with no communication from Welles, Margaret had gotten used to her more solitary existence and her independence. She was content. Not happy, but happiness was overrated. Purpose and passion were what mattered.

In control of her inheritance,finally, Margaret had recently made a large contribution to the Royal Society of Female Musicians and had even hosted a very small, charitable event in support of the organization. She’d played the Broadwood, much to the admiration of the guests in attendance, although her performance lacked some of the passion with which she usually played. The colors of her music had become less vivid. Muted.Dimmed.

She blamed Welles.

Today after paying an overdue call to Mrs. Anderson, Margaret was greeted by Fenwick with the startling news that Welles was back in residence.

About bloody time.

She looked at the doors separating their rooms, wondering if Fenwick had been mistaken. No sounds emanated from behind the door nor did she hear Welles in the house.

Perhaps he’d only come back to collect his things.

The thought was as painful now as it had been on their wedding night, but Margaret refused to go to Elysium and retrieve her husband. If Welles was determined to be stubborn, so could she. After instructing Fenwick to have a dinner tray brought to the study and intentionally not asking after her husband, Margaret made her way downstairs. She often had dinner with the Broadwood before a warm fire, finding that doing so made her feel closer to Welles and helped heal the pain of the separation he’d forced upon them both.

She swung open the door, glad to see the fire was already crackling merrily in the hearth, and the candles lit. But there was no dinner tray in the usual place. Wondering if she’d beaten Fenwick to the study, Margaret turned, meaning to go in search of the butler.

“Hello, Lady Welles.”

Margaret halted at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t heard the low, rumbling baritone in so long, she thought, for a moment, that she’d imagined it. Ignoring the sudden fluttering of her heart, she turned and made her way to the piano bench, meaning to sit down.

“Were you expecting Henri, perhaps? Or another one of your destitute artists?”

“What are you doing here, Welles?” He’d been lying in wait for her, that much was obvious, but Margaret assumed he would choose the drawing room or even her chambers should he wish to speak to her. Butnotthis room.

“I live here. Christ, what have you done to my study, Maggie?”

This was nowherconservatory and to that end, she’d replaced some of the starkly masculine furnishings with lighter pieces of furniture and redecorated. The room was now all pale blues with only a touch of brown and she’d replaced the heavy velvet curtains with a wispier fabric.

She came toward her husband. Welles was glorious, as usual. He sprawled across one of the dainty chairs she’d recently purchased, his big frame far too large for the delicate piece of furniture. One long leg was hooked over the arm. There was no coat of indigo tonight, only a stark white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, half-tucked into a pair of leather riding breeches. Her heart twisted pleasurably at the sight.

“This is now my conservatory, my lord. I entertain guests here.”

“Oh, yes, your hordes of penniless musicians. Like Henri.”

There wasn’t anyone of Margaret’s acquaintance named Henri, but she didn’t bother to mention that to him. An open bottle of wine sat on a side table to his right; a Bordeaux. Welles held a glass of the jewel-toned liquid, while another sat waiting for her. Margaret picked up her glass and took a seat in the chair beside him. Her heart was beating madly, unsure what his presence here meant.

“I am a supporter of the arts.” She took a sip of the wine.

“I’m glad.” He gazed at her intently, as if considering what else to say. Welles was rarely at a loss to be charming or conversational. It was unlike him to be so hesitant with her.

Margaret stared into the fire. She was still hurt from their last encounter, bruised and bleeding from the accusations he’d thrown at her, even though she knew the source of his anger. The remnants of the letter from the duke, which had sent him from her, had been sitting charred in the fire grate for her to find after Welles left the house that night.

Welles reached out and took her hand in his, surprising her. He laced their fingers together. “I miss you.” The words were low and thick. “I don’t want to, but I do.”

The room grew silent except for the sound of the fire.

“Now would be the appropriate time for you to say you’ve missed me as well.” He turned to her.

“Why did you marry me, Welles?”

A log popped in the fire. “Because I wanted you,” he said, confused. “Youknowthat.” The dark waves of his hair fell to touch his cheek. “Allof you. Not only the naughty bits, although they are very lovely indeed.” A deep sigh. “I’m making a mess of this.”

“I don’t want you to be here in spite of yourself, Welles. I don’t wish to be the source of your resentment especially since I would have been perfectly happy with Carstairs.”

---