a small bird sewn into the silk.
“You are masterful with a needle, Romy.” Margaret squeezed her friend’s hand. “A true artist.”
“Thank you,” Romy said. “But unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to practice my art, as you call it. Perhaps, if I never marry, I could set up my own modiste shop.”
“You’re a duke’s daughter,” Margaret said, bestowing a smile on the younger girl. “Isn’t marriage a requirement?”
Romy shrugged, her attention taken by the gown of the woman before them. “Yes. More’s the pity. I’ll be expected to make an impeccable match, preferably to one of the few dukes floating about London. Most are at least three times my age, and the few that aren’t elderly, I find distasteful.”
She dropped Margaret’s arm and took out a small notepad and pencil hidden in the pocket of her gown. The duchess had paused to speak to someone she knew which gave Romy a moment to sketch discreetly. She looked up and frowned, her pencil stilled, gaze focused.
Margaret followed her line of sight directly to a stilted looking gentleman with coal-black hair. A scowl marked his features, turning his lips down in an ugly manner.
“He’d be far more attractive were he not frowning,” Margaret said. The man was striking in a wild sort of way, and coldly austere, possessing none of the elegance that imbued Welles so effortlessly.
She clenched her hands, resolutely pushing Welles aside and conjured up an image of Carstairs. Or at least as much of him as she could recall.
“Gloomy Granby.” Romy nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “There’s one of the last unwed dukes in all of England. I pity the woman who attracts his attention. An iceberg possesses more warmth.” Romy tugged at Margaret’s hand. The duchess was on the move.
Margaret took in the beauty of Lady Masterson’s garden party, wondering at the young widow’s vision in planning the event. The women attending were dressed in every color under the rainbow, drifting about the lawn like a mass of peonies, roses, and daisies all having escaped the confines of their carefully maintained flower beds. The duchess was much sought after, many of those present wishing to renew their acquaintance with her and ask after the duke. It was clear the duchess hadn’t left her country estate for some time due to the ill health of her husband. Romy and her mother both spoke in glowing terms of the duke and with much affection, in sharp contrast to Welles. The mere mention of his father brought a scowl to his face.
She wondered what had happened between Welles and the duke to cause his sentiments to be so different.
Margaret smiled so much in the next several hours, her cheeks began to ache. Few of those she met recognized or remembered her until she mentioned her aunt’s name. She supposed that was fair; to be honest, Margaret didn’t remember any of their names either.
Scanning the gardens, she struggled to remember what Carstairs looked like. All she could recall was light brown hair and a vacant expression. Finally, thanks to Welles’s previous description of his friend’s costume, she spotted him. It was impossible to miss the antlers rising above the shoulders of the small group surrounding him. Excusing herself from Romy’s side, Margaret struck out for Carstairs intent on reintroducing herself. It was bold, true, but they had met previously.
Margaret halted halfway across the lawn, spying a familiar indigo coat and set of broad shoulders. She nearly turned around but pressed on. She thought of Winthrop taking her hand the last time he had called, recalling the squeeze of his sweaty fingers against hers. The memory steeled her resolve. Margaret strode forward, confident she looked her best, and with a mountain of determination. It would have to be Carstairs
Time was running out, and she’d no time to find a better candidate.
10
Tony saw Miss Lainscott’s approach far before she faltered in her steps after catching sight of him. He’d been watching her, albeit discreetly, since he’d left the side of his stepmother and sister. Her small, determined form, costumed so fetchingly as an iris, filled him with intense longing. Desire was an emotion Tony was well-acquainted with, but his feelings for Miss Lainscott were bordering on obsession.
The idea that Miss Lainscott, a woman of unique, untapped sensuality and above-average intelligence, would waste herself on someone of Carstairs’s limited abilities was nothing short of shameful. It bothered him far more than it should have.
Carstairs was speaking, but Tony didn’t hear him; all his attention was