enough. Margaret had hoped to make it through another season before her aunt would force the issue of marriage. But clearly, time had run out.
Her mind ran through a host of acquaintances she’d made since coming to London who had professed interest in her. There weren’t a great many, the only disadvantage to her strategy of intentionally falling beneath notice. Several possessed the same entitled, cruel nature as Winthrop. One or two exhibited a sign of intelligence, which wouldn’t do. Most were in need of a fat dowry. Margaret was an heiress; her money had attracted nearly every gentleman who bet on the horses too often or carelessly gambled. She’d have to be discerning.
Winthrop had begun to bore her with the details of a party he’d recently attended. She ignored him and continued searching her memories, discarding one gentleman after another. This was more difficult than she’d anticipated. Suddenly, a pleasant face swam before her. Kind. Vacant eyes. Enamored of the outdoors. Spoke extensively of a hunting lodge. She’d made his acquaintance at Gray Covington last year during a house party she’d attended. He would suit her perfectly if he were still unmarried. His name was Carter…Carson? Bollocks. She should have made more of an effort.
Unfortunately, Margaret drew a blank at his name. Not an unusual occurrence. She was terrible at names.
Cool air blew against her face, helping to banish the smell of Lord Winthrop’s overuse of talc. As he stood before her, droning on about his own self-importance, wrongly assuming she was interested, Margaret decided to tackle the problem at hand. She needed a suitable excuse to make Winthrop go away, lest he try to steal a kiss and attempt to compromise her. Aunt Agnes would be thrilled.
Margaret went with a headache. Overused by ladies in her situation, to be sure, but she wasn’t feeling especially creative tonight.
“Oh, my.” Her fingers fell against her temple. She looked up at Winthrop from beneath her lashes. “My lord,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “you have my gratitude for seeing me out into this blessedly cool air, but my headache has not abated.”
Margaret hoped Winthrop had paid so little attention to her earlier that he wouldn’t remember she’d not mentioned a headache. She cast her eyes down as if mortified to be in such a state.
“You should have asked me sooner to escort you out.” The reprimand, coming as it did from the pompous, overstuffed pear, was a bit unwelcome.
Margaret bit her lip to keep herself from giving him a sharp retort. Sometimes it was very difficult to pretend to be such a milquetoast. Touching him tentatively on the forearm, she murmured, “Would you grant me one more favor, Lord Winthrop?”
He stepped forward, his heavy, velvet-clad form far too close for comfort.
“I’m so terribly thirsty. Would you mind fetching me a glass of lemonade? I am certain such refreshment and the cool air will revive me. I would be incredibly grateful.”
Disappointment mixed with annoyance on his florid features. But Winthrop, thankfully, was too much of a gentleman to decline. “Of course, Miss Lainscott. Sit here and I shall return promptly.” He dutifully waddled back inside to find the refreshment table.
Once he was gone, Margaret breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against the stone wall. There was a path leading to the servants’ entrance just down the steps before her and through an opening in her aunt’s wisteria. She would be upstairs in her room within a matter of minutes. Eliza, her lady’s maid, could send word to her aunt and Lord Winthrop that she’d regretfully had to retire for the evening with a headache. Aunt Agnes would be furious tomorrow, but Margaret couldn’t tolerate Winthrop’s presence any longer.
Standing up, she brushed her skirts and hurried down the steps leading into the gardens. Her aunt hadn’t instructed the servants to light torches in the garden, not wishing to incite any young gentlemen inclined to ruination, but there was moonlight and Margaret knew the way by heart. This wasn’t the first time she’d escaped into the wisteria. As she slunk along the wall, careful not to tear her gown, she caught the scent of a cheroot mixing with the aroma of the garden.
A dark shape moved along the vines and blooms, startling her.
“Nicely done, Miss Lainscott.”
Margaret froze at the greeting, allowing the deep baritone to melt into her skin. She forgot names with regularity. Titles. Sometimes faces. But never the sound of a person. And especially not the resonance