responsibility to produce an heir. She looked up into his handsome features, now glacial and remote. There was nothing playful or sensual about him now. If anything, the dangerous look on Welles’s face should have given her pause.
Margaret reached out and gently clasped his larger hand in hers.
Welles inhaled sharply at her touch but did not pull away.
Her heart, the organ which she guarded so selfishly, beat loudly, drowning out even the sound of the frogs in Lady Masterson’s pond. It was a terribly bold, forward thing to do to take his hand. The pieces of Welles, more complicated than Margaret had ever imagined, all fit together seamlessly in an instant.
He didn’t speak again, though his features softened, and he squeezed her fingers.
Margaret squeezed back.
They stood silently, save for the frogs, hands joined, while the rest of the party continued below on the lawn. After a few minutes, Margaret felt the tension in his body ease and Welles released her hand. He turned to her, the breeze batting the waves of his hair against his jaw. Lifting his hand, Welles tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. His touch lingered for a heartbeat before one finger gently caressed the delicate skin of her cheek.
Margaret’s entire body arched in his direction, pulled by some unseen force.
“Welles.” His name broke from her lips in a dark whisper. She should be down on the lawn, chasing Carstairs about, avoiding being stabbed by his ridiculous antlers. Possibly she should consider pushing Miss Turnbull into the pond. “I should go.”
“Shh.” The finger ran along the side of her face to the corner of her mouth.
Margaret’s eyes fluttered closed, unable to meet his eyes as he carefully traced her lower lip before the lightest touch of his mouth on hers took the breath from her body. She stayed in place, her eyes shut, listening to the frogs until his lips left hers.
She took a deep breath wanting to ask him why he’d done such a thing but when she opened her eyes, Welles was gone.
12
“Oh, Mama, did you see what Miss Howard was wearing? The fabric was so thin and sheer.” Romy sighed wistfully.
“I believe she was an orchid.” The duchess bestowed an indulgent smile on her eldest daughter as the coach pulled away from Lady Masterson’s estate.
“I didn’t have a chance to ask where she purchased it or the modiste responsible for the cut of her gown. I should like to see the design.”
“I believe her mother uses Madame Fontaine. I ran into her on Bond Street the other day while shopping with Olivia. You could start there.”
Romy took out her notebook and started writing something down.
The duchess shook her head at her daughter’s obsession. “Did you enjoy yourself, Miss Lainscott? Were there any gowns that caught your eye?”
“It was a wonderful party, Your Grace. I found some of the costumes to be quite…unusual,” she said, thinking of Miss Turnbull’s hair. “I was introduced to Miss Turnbull—”
“Speaking of pea-wits,” Romy interjected, not looking up. “I’m wondering what induced her to put a nest of robin eggs in her hair, though I was relieved to find the eggs were fake.”
“Do not be unkind, Romy,” the duchess cautioned, “though I’m in agreement. Miss Turnbull has set her cap for Lord Carstairs, and her father favors him as well.”
The thought of Miss Turnbull securing Carstairs should have bothered Margaret more, but just now, with the rain pattering against the top of the coach, all she could think of was Welles. It had only been a brush of his lips, but he’d kissed her. Margaret could still feel the featherlight touch against her mouth and the warmth of his hand in hers. She looked out the window in the direction of the folly, feeling a relentless pull in Welles’s direction.
Damn it.
Margaret pressed her nose against the window. Carstairs was who mattered. Thankfully she’d made a good impression today and piqued his interest. All her reading on grouse hunting and the handling of firearms had been beneficial, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks to Lord Dobson. Carstairs had found her before Margaret had made her way to join Romy and the duchess, asking if he could call on her.
Margaret had agreed immediately. There was no point in beating around the bush.
Through the rain streaming down the window, Margaret could just make out Welles’s large form running across the lawn, his strides wide and graceful. He held the hand of Lady Masterson; even from a distance,