Margaret looked away from him. He hadn’t even touched her. Not really.
Phaedra popped up in the chair, apple core in hand, to tug at his coat sleeve. “Tony, come up to the conservatory. I’ve been practicing a new piece I would love for you to hear. Olivia is out with Mama so you can’t hear the flute, but even so, I think you’ll like it. Miss Lainscott says I’m quite good.”
“I should like nothing better, demon,” he replied with affection.
Phaedra fairly skipped out of the parlor. “I’ll have Pith bring us refreshments.”
Margaret avoided looking at him until the humming in her skin halted and the door clicked shut. Hopping off the ottoman, she lifted her skirts, careful not to dislodge any of Romy’s carefully placed pins, and tiptoed to the decorated screen in the corner to change.
Romy was talking to herself as she picked up some discarded pins and bits of thread from the floor. She never once glanced toward the screen; she was too busy debating with herself on whether to add lace to the edge of the gown’s bodice.
Margaret breathed a small sigh of relief. Romy hadn’t picked up on the tension floating in the air between Margaret and her brother. Phaedra had been too absorbed in her apple. Satisfied no one had noticed, she dipped behind the screen only to catch sight of Theo.
Welles’s mysterious middle sister had lowered her paintbrush and was watching Margaret, a smile tugging at her lips.
9
The streets of London faded from view to be replaced with countryside as the ducal carriage neared Lady Masterson’s small estate outside the city. Dressed again in a coat of indigo, Welles had arrived on time to escort the duchess, Romy, and Margaret. Romy had protested her brother’s lack of a costume, but Welles only shrugged and said again that he’d no interest in appearing in public as a woodland animal.
Margaret took in the dark blue of his coat, the buff trousers and boots, everything elegantly cut and exquisitely tailored, but free from any sort of embellishment. He could have easily been a barrister or a wealthy merchant rather than a future duke. But no one would ever mistake him for either of those. Ordinary gentlemen didn’t look like Welles. Nor did most of the titled ones.
Romy and the duchess kept up a steady stream of conversation, requiring Welles to interject occasionally while Margaret listened. Every so often he would glance in her direction, but he’d not spoken to her directly, not beyond the polite greeting he’d murmured as he’d handed her into the coach.
Margaret told herself she didn’t miss his teasing.
The duchess looked out the window and clapped her hands in pleasure. “I’d no idea Lady Masterson was hiding such a treasure only an hour’s ride from London,” she exclaimed as the carriage pulled onto a winding drive. A lawn stretched out from a lovely stone two-story house sporting profusions of blooms hanging from every window.
Margaret wasn’t certain what she’d been expecting as she exited the carriage behind Romy and the duchess. Her vision of a garden party was limited to the few she’d attended in Yorkshire where elderly women showcased their hothouse orchids and won a ribbon for a splendid tasting pie.
Lady Masterson’s garden party was quite different.
Several gentlemen and ladies were bowling on the lawn while liveried servants ran to and fro. The grass further down the rise had been cut to resemble a large chessboard. A dozen guests, sporting either a black hat or a white hat as they were “moved” about by the two teams played a friendly game of chess. Cards were being played under one tent. Everywhere, servants circulated carrying trays heavy with refreshments.
The hostess, golden and beautiful, was far younger than the Yorkshire matrons by several decades. Lady Masterson was closer in age to Margaret and already a widow, as the late Lord Masterson had died several years ago. She stood boldly at the entrance to her lavish gardens, daring anyone to remark on the bright fuchsia gown hugging her voluptuous curves with its scandalously low-cut bodice. Fat, golden curls, woven with tiny rosebuds, fell about Lady Masterson’s shoulders in artful disarray as she greeted her guests, the flat American accent drawing looks of disdain.
Lady Masterson was quite something.
At their approach, she gave a little wave with one gloved hand and excused herself from the group of guests she’d been speaking to.
Welles, a smile crossing his wide mouth, bowed and took her hand, brushing his lips across the knuckles.