The Theory of Earls - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,102

his handsome face. “I would never forget you, Maggie. Leo insisted I leave you be for a few weeks.”

“It’s possible I instructed him to do so.” She had, as a matter of fact, said something to that effect when she’d sobbed out her heart on her brother-in-law’s shoulder.

“I should not have listened, at any rate. If it eases your heart, I went first to my father. It was the only time I recall in which I could speak my mind and have no worry he would rebuke me. I’m sure Amanda heard most of it. She refused to leave.”

Margaret wondered what Tony had said to his father’s body. Maybe someday she would ask, but not today.

“And now I must beg your forgiveness. Again.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the pulse beating in her wrist before leaning down to press his lips to the small bump of her stomach. “And yours.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “I never meant to say such a horrible thing, Maggie. It was only the shock of it. My own bitterness toward my father turned against me.”

“I know.” She knew his soul. His heart. It had only taken him longer to see himself as she did.

“I wish to start fresh and put the past behind us. I promise to stop being a complete ass if you will vow to continue playing the piano for me in your underthings.”

She saw the hopefulness in his eyes, and something else Margaret had been afraid she’d never see. Peace. Whatever had transpired between Tony and his deceased father had calmed something within her husband.

“Even before I learned of my father’s passing, I had decided I could no longer continue to be a man I would grow to hate. Worse, a man you would have no love for.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips again. “Did you know this was my mother’s piano?”

Margaret nodded, her happiness tempered with the loss of the duke. How she wished Tony and his father could have ended their estrangement. But maybe they had.

“She would tuck me in next to her like this,” her husband said, grabbing her tightly to his side and positioning her under his arm. “And teach me my scales.” He played down the keys, filling the conservatory with music. “Did you know,” his voice lowered until it vibrated along the curves of her body, “I once compromised a young lady at the piano? She had designs on another man, but I didn’t allow such a thing to stop me.”

Margaret trembled as the hand at her waist slid up to gently cup her breast. “Did the lady in question object?”

“No.” The low timbre softened into her bones. “She had an affinity for music, particularly Chopin. Horribly intelligent. Behaves in a wicked manner behind closed doors.”

“She sounds marvelous.”

“Oh, she is. That is why I ruined her intentionally.” His tongue traced the curve of her ear. “I should have guessed, you know.” He cupped her stomach before his fingers trailed up her waist. “Christ, you were eating all the scones, and these,” he fondled her breasts, “have become much riper.” His lips moved to inspect the skin of her neck.

“I’m not a piece of fruit, Your Grace. And I wasn’t eating all the scones. Only most.”

“All. Whatever our souls are made of,” he kissed the line of her jaw, “hers and mine are the same. Do you know why I repeat such a ridiculous platitude to you?”

“It isn’t ridiculous.” It wasn’t. Margaret found it terribly romantic. “Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Margaret’s heart beat harder.

“But I love you seems so trite. We are each other’s music.” His mouth fell over hers, lazily trailing over her lips. “I will be the husband you deserve. And I will be the sort of father my child will be proud of. You will have no cause to look to Henri for affection.”

“You know there was never a wastrel Frenchman waiting for me,” she whispered.

“Only this reformed rake.” His eyes lowered, his voice thick with emotion.

Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling the scent of her husband, and pressed herself to his heart, listening as it beat. For her.

Epilogue

Margaret bent over the piano, or at least as far as the large mound of her stomach would allow. The sonata, the beautiful swirling notes of blue and green, poured out of her. She closed her eyes, her fingers gliding over the ivory keys with ease, as the conservatory at Cherry Hill echoed with the music Margaret had written for Welles.

Averell.

She still couldn’t get used to calling him Averell instead of Welles. She supposed it would take some time. In her heart, he was Tony.

Her husband had only briefly returned to London after the burial of the late duke, to close his house and handle some of the business of Elysium before returning. He would be a much more silent partner in the establishment moving forward. Tony had also wanted to check on Leo, who’d returned to London immediately after their father’s funeral. After reading the letter the late duke had left for him, Leo had paled and walked stiffly to his waiting carriage, neglecting to say goodbye to any of them.

Leo was not handling the death of the late Duke of Averell at all well.

Margaret did not return to London. Town held no appeal for her especially since she grew rounder with each passing day. She was determined to fulfill her promise to the late duke and care for the Barringtons as best she could. At least once a week, Margaret walked with her mother-in-law to the small hill near the duke’s grave and sat on a stone bench while Amanda spoke to her late husband. Several months after the duke died, a spill of wild strawberries had mysteriously sprouted into bloom atop his grave.

Margaret stopped and wiped a tear from her cheek. Amanda had insisted it was a sign from the late duke.

Strong arms wrapped around her, startling her from her thoughts, surrounding Margaret with warmth and love. She smiled, sinking into the familiar scent of leather, soap and the wind. A palm fell possessively over her stomach.

“How was your ride, Your Grace?” Her eyes fluttered open.

“Splendid. I had a heated conversation with my father.”

Tony had gotten into the habit of visiting the late duke’s grave. Always alone. Phaedra had ridden by one day and heard her older brother yelling at the headstone as if arguing with their dead father. Margaret supposed it was Tony’s way of dealing with his father’s death. After he visited the gravesite, he was often calmer. More at peace.

A ripple shot across her stomach, followed by a tiny kick.

His arms tightened around her. “He’s hungry, my love. It’s nearly time for tea.”

“Will there be scones?”

A dark rumble of laughter erupted at her back. “Dozens.” His fingers threaded through hers. “Pray don’t eat them all. I’m hungry as well.”

“Would you care to play a duet before tea?” Margaret gave him a saucy look.

Another chuckle escaped him. “Are you making an improper request? Madam, I’d no idea you were so wicked.”

Margaret elbowed him.

Tony looked down at her and brushed her lips with his. “Whatever our souls are made of,” he said softly.

Margaret cupped his cheek and whispered back, “his and mine are the same.”

The Theory of Earls is the first in my new series, The Beautiful Barringtons. Margaret and Welles are two of my very favorite characters from The Wickeds. I love the idea of an average girl capturing the heart (and the piano) of a rakish, handsome man like Welles. If you enjoyed The Theory of Earls, please leave me a review.

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Author Notes

The Royal Society of Female Musicians was a real organization and formed by Mrs. Lucy Anderson and Mrs. Anne Mounsey (among others) in 1839.

Chopin did attend a party thrown in his honor at the home of James Broadwood in London in 1837. While his music was being published in England at the time, I’ve taken some liberties with his popularity.

Broadwood was a piano maker of note (pun intended) during the time period and introduced a grand piano in 1827. Broadwoods were known for their quality of tone, something Margaret falls in love with besides Welles.

Lastly, fans of Wuthering Heights will recognize the quote Welles recites to Margaret instead of telling her he loves her. There are some who find the quote misused or overused, but I thought it the perfect way for Welles to express himself.

Also by Kathleen Ayers

The Wickeds Series

Wicked’s Scandal

Devil of a Duke

My Wicked Earl

Wickedly Yours

Tall Dark & Wicked

Still Wicked

Wicked Again