of this man’s voice, though they’d only been in each other’s company one other time. An odd fluttering started low in her belly.
A large, impeccably dressed form moved out of the wisteria and into a patch of moonlight. The cheroot clutched between his teeth dangled from a wide, sensual mouth as he smiled at her.
“Lord Welles.” Margaret’s blood pulsed louder in her ears. He was as beautiful as she remembered, even more so with moonlight creating shadows across the sculpted lines of his handsome face. She hadn’t seen Welles since Lady Cambourne’s house party at Gray Covington when Margaret had made such a spectacle of herself.
“You seem unsurprised to find me lurking about your aunt’s garden.” A dark lock of hair fell over his brow as he tilted his chin to take her in. He pulled the cheroot from his mouth with an elegant wave of his hand and tossed the stub to the ground.
“This particular bit of wisteria speaks to me often.” Margaret’s blood hummed louder, lighting her nerves on fire. Her attraction to him, which she equated to a feeling of intoxication, hadn’t abated in the least since she’d last seen him. During the house party, Margaret had convinced herself the racing of her heart at his nearness was only a schoolgirl crush. The feeling would disappear in time, certainly by their next meeting. Which was now.
I was terribly mistaken.
“I assume Winthrop will find only an empty bench upon his return.” Welles shook his head and made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Not very nice of you, Miss Lainscott. But then,” his voice deepened until the vibration caressed Margaret down to her core, “I’m certain you aren’t as agreeable as you pretend to be.”
His comment surprised her. Margaret’s timid mouse disguise had served her well during her time among the ton. No one, except perhaps her friend, Lady Kilmaire, suspected she was anything else. It was far easier to deal with her aunt as well if she was beneath notice. Even worse, Margaret knew that at the slightest sign of rebellion, Aunt Agnes would take her piano away.
“Why would you say such a thing, Lord Welles?” She deliberately kept her voice meek and timid.
“Because it’s true?” Soft laughter bubbled from the depths of his chest. “I’m not fooled, Miss Lainscott. I see you.”
A flutter started low in her stomach at his amusement, the sound filling her senses with a harmony of swirling purples, blues, and greens. “I don’t think we are acquainted enough, my lord, for you to infer such a thing.”
A quiet snort of disbelief followed her declaration. “True, Miss Lainscott. But during our brief time together at Gray Covington, you made an indelible impression upon me and it was not that of a timid, reserved young lady.”
She had made a cake of herself during the house party with her performance on the piano; still, Margaret couldn’t, for the life of her, remember making any sort of impression on Lord Welles. The thought caused another round of fluttering inside.
The pale light of the moon shifted across his eyes and she caught a glimpse of sapphire.
Margaret purposefully looked down to study the toe of her slipper, not willing to meet his gaze. His eyes were famous among the women of London. She’d heard young ladies swooned at only a glance from Lord Welles. Margaret was glad she couldn’t see the startling rings of blue, each one successively darker as they neared his pupils, the deep color flecked with bits of gold. One pea-wit debutante had even written a poem about Welles and his eyes, much to the ton’s amusement.
“Your performance at the piano, the passion you exhibited…” He halted for a moment as if weighing how to express himself. “I found it all quite captivating.”
Welles had the most glorious tonal quality to his voice, as if Margaret were being addressed by a large cello. She could have stood there and listened to him speak all night.
“It was the highlight of my stay at Gray Covington,” he finished.
And meeting Welles had been the highlight of Margaret’s stay at the Cambourne estate. The invitation to the house party at Gray Covington had been unexpected but welcome. At the time, Aunt Agnes had wanted to dangle Margaret before the Earl of Kilmaire who was seeking a wife and would be in attendance. Her aunt’s idea had been to have Margaret give the guests an impromptu performance on the piano to gain Lord Kilmaire’s attention, a futile effort because the earl