“I’m not teasing you. Or mocking you.” He shrugged. “You did ask what I wanted.”
Her head snapped back up in shock. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it, horrified by his outlandish request. And oddly fascinated. Her gaze flashed to his mouth for a brief second before a lovely rose color infused the skin of her cheeks.
“Dear God, you are serious. I can’t imagine why.”
“Humanitarian reasons, Miss Lainscott. Before you tie yourself to Carstairs, or, should you fail in bringing him to heel, Winthrop, wouldn’t you wish to experience passion? I doubt you’ll find it with either of your suitors. Think of your music, if nothing else. I am.”
The delicious blush crept back into her cheeks, but she did not look away from him. “You, my lord, are not a gentleman.”
“Alas, I’ve never claimed to be.”
She shook her head and looked out the window, refusing to look at him until the carriage rolled to a stop.
“Never mind. I rescind my request for your assistance.” Miss Lainscott placed a hand on the carriage door. “We’ve arrived at my aunt’s. I bid you good day, Lord Welles.”
7
Margaret paced back and forth across her bedroom floor, as she had most of last night and all of the morning. She hadn’t slept a wink thinking of her conversation with Welles. She couldn’t decide if he had been serious or not.
He had certainly seemed serious. The very idea sent a tremor of excitement up her spine.
Passion. He should have made a much more convincing argument. As if playing the piano for him in her underthings would inspire her musically or—
Arouse me.
Bollocks. The problem was, Margaret did find the thought of such a thing to be arousing, just as she did the improper innuendos he seemed determined to shock her with. The idea that Lord Welles wanted to see her in her stockings and chemise was nothing short of astonishing. And highly erotic.
Her pulse skipped a beat as she turned to view the invitation to Lady Masterson’s garden party. It had arrived earlier that morning and Eliza had brought the note upstairs with Margaret’s breakfast tray. Walking over to the invitation, she reread the words printed upon the fine vellum. A party to be held in the gardens of Lady Masterson’s estate just outside of London. Nature-themed dress was encouraged.
She’d no idea what a “nature-themed” costume entailed; Margaret had no intention of dressing up like a bird or something equally ridiculous. The ton was often bored and looking for new and inventive opportunities to spend their money. Lavish, themed parties seemed an appropriate way for a pampered group of overindulged people to do so.
She looked again at the invitation knowing Welles must have had something to do with Margaret receiving the summons, because she didn’t know Lady Masterson. The only other explanation was that Welles had told his stepmother of Margaret’s interest in Carstairs and the Duchess of Averell had requested the invitation issued. Either way, she was certain Carstairs would be there; the invitation appearing at the same time as her interest in him was too coincidental.
The problem was in explaining the invitation to her aunt.
Elysium. He had wanted her to come to him at a notorious gambling hell, half-naked.
Margaret spun on her heel and walked the length of the rug again. She had always wanted to venture into such a place. Elysium was a notorious pleasure palace and gambling establishment where all manner of wicked things occurred. At least according to gossip. What would it be like to visit Elysium in the company of Lord Welles?
A slow burn of excitement coursed down her breasts to settle below.
She could never do such a thing. Ever. What if someone saw her?
Don’t you want to know passion?
What if she walked into Elysium only to have Welles laugh uproariously at her appearance?
After tucking the invitation away, Margaret left her room and soon found herself in front of her aunt’s out-of-tune piano. Since playing the Broadwood, the ancient piano seemed even more decrepit than before.
Margaret ran her fingers over the keys, wincing at the sound. Clara, her mother, had been a pianist as well. She’d been playing for the amusement of her friends at a party when Walter Lainscott had seen her. The pair had fallen madly in love and eloped, despite the obvious differences in their stations. Her father had then brought Clara to Yorkshire where he bought her a gorgeous piano, specially crafted for her in Austria. But the piano hadn’t kept