“Phaedra! I said no such thing. Pray, mind your tongue. We have a guest,” the duchess said, glancing at Margaret.
“Oh, I think Miss Lainscott discerned all she needed to about Carstairs after meeting him at Gray Covington, didn’t you, Miss Lainscott?”
Margaret choked on her bite of scone. “I find him very pleasant.”
“He is incredibly pleasant.” Welles slapped one hand against his thigh. “I’ve always said so. Doesn’t remind one of a pear or any other fruit either, does he, Miss Lainscott?”
Lord Welles was a horrible man. She should never have confided such a thing to him. “Not at all, my lord.” Margaret took another bite of what remained of her scone, hoping he didn’t mean to inform Her Grace and the others of her request to become reacquainted with Carstairs, or of the reason.
“What an odd thing to say, Welles,” the duchess said. “Comparing gentlemen to fruit. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were foxed.”
“Not in the least, Your Grace. I was only making conversation with Miss Lainscott. Have you ladies been practicing your music? God, don’t tell me you’ve allowed Romy to torture my piano?”
Margaret momentarily stopped the chewing of the scone in her mouth. The Broadwood was his piano. And she’d spent the better part of the day with her hands on the gleaming keys, her fingertips caressing the beautiful ivory and wood. Almost like touching Welles himself.
The soft hum across her skin became more pronounced.
“No, I am thankfully relieved from duty,” Romy informed him. “I shan’t be distressing your piano any longer.”
“I can almost hear it sigh with relief,” he said.
“Mrs. Anderson visited and suggested Miss Lainscott might enjoy a day of music.” The duchess nodded to Margaret.
“Ah, the Royal Society of Female Musicians.” Welles tapped a finger to his lips, his eyes never leaving Margaret’s face. “How is Mrs. Anderson?”
Warmth bloomed across Margaret’s chest as Welles studied her. He made no disparaging remarks about the efforts of Mrs. Anderson and her friends, nor about Margaret’s involvement.
“Quite well,” the duchess replied. “She will be busy with her own commitments for the remainder of the year, but Miss Lainscott has agreed to accompany Phaedra and Olivia in her stead.” She nodded at Margaret. “Relieving Romy and, indeed, all of us.”
“How kind of Miss Lainscott.” Welles popped another biscuit into his mouth.
Margaret hadn’t actually agreed to Her Grace’s suggestion but from the look on the face of her hostess, the decision had been made for her.
“I haven’t yet seen Lady Cambourne since arriving in London,” the duchess said in a thoughtful tone. “I suppose I should pay her a call. She may be useful in garnering support for Romy.”
“Why do I need support garnered?” Romy plucked what looked like a feather stuck to the lace of her sleeve and shot her mother an exasperated look. “I thought you said I could spend this season just enjoying myself.”
“I wish to ensure your launch is successful,” the duchess explained calmly.
“Much like any ship or more appropriately, an over-sized barge,” Phaedra said innocently. “You aren’t properly launched until someone whacks you with a bottle of champagne.” She made the motion of cracking a bottle. “What do you think, Mama?”
Romy ran after her sister who skirted around the perimeter of the conservatory to finally return and hide behind Welles. Phaedra stuck out her tongue.
“Girls.” The duchess clapped her hands. “Cease. Phaedra, we are not christening your sister with spirits. Romy, dearest, it never hurts to have Lady Cambourne in your corner.”
Welles watched his sisters’ antics with a great deal of affection. It was obvious he adored his half-siblings. He turned back to Margaret, his eyes shining in the light streaming through the room, and pierced her with a look. It was as if he could discern every curve of her body beneath the plain day dress she wore. The humming fell lower to nestle between her thighs, becoming more insistent the longer he stared at her.
Hastily, Margaret looked away. Welles had the most alarming effect on her; she could not let him distract her. She needed to be working on a way to have a private conversation with him about Carstairs.
The clock in the room struck the hour and Margaret looked up in alarm. Her aunt could not return and discover her gone.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” Margaret set down her plate. “I must return home. The hour grows late, and my aunt will expect my return.” Her chance to speak to Welles would have to wait, at