it was impossible to mistake the bright fuchsia of her gown. They ran toward the folly, no doubt seeking shelter from the rain.
Margaret turned from the sight, hating how quickly the jealousy she’d experienced earlier had returned.
“I do wish Welles had decided to come back to London with us, but I suppose he’ll find another way home. Or perhaps stay the night, as I’m sure some of the guests are doing.” The duchess leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. “Good Lord, but I’m tired. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be out amongst the ton and pretending to like most of them.”
“Papa would be very proud of you.” Romy grinned at her mother. “You made an effort.”
“I daresay he would be. Even more so since I managed to have Welles escort us.” Sadness flitted across the duchess’s lovely face. “I wish I was as successful in getting him to come to Cherry Hill.”
Romy took her mother’s hand. “I know. Maybe someday Welles will relent.”
Based on her earlier conversation with Welles, Margaret thought it highly unlikely Welles would ever relent. The look on his face when speaking of his father had been one of loathing.
“Welles and his father do not get on,” the duchess said as if sensing the direction of Margaret’s thoughts. “An estrangement borne of a mistake my husband made long ago that he regrets to this day.” Her fingers drummed upon her thigh for a moment before she turned to the window and fell silent.
The sky grew increasingly gray the closer they drew to London, a dismal finale to the bright sunny day and the garden party. Margaret closed her eyes, thinking again of her conversation with Welles. She had the sense he rarely spoke of his mother, and Margaret was deeply honored Welles had chosen to share such a private story with her. Again, her heart tugged strongly in his direction, wishing for something that could never be. He would forever be a rake. Unprincipled. Refusing to marry.
He kissed me.
Her hand came up as the words thundered in her mind, her palm flattening over her chest against her heart.
And I kissed him back.
13
The following day, Carstairs arrived to call on her as promised.
Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the shock on her aunt’s typically sour countenance at the arrival of the Viscount Carstairs. He walked into the parlor, all smiles, with a small nosegay in hand for Margaret, bowing politely to Aunt Agnes.
While her aunt sipped her tea, darting looks of disbelief in their direction, Margaret and Carstairs discussed the merits of rabbit hunting. What was more appropriate? A snare? A rifle? A bow and arrow?
Aunt Agnes bit off the edge of a biscuit and munched loudly.
Lord Carstairs proceeded to spend the remainder of his visit describing in minute detail a hunting lodge he’d once visited. His observations were incredibly detailed, especially in regard to the animals he hunted, and were a trifle gruesome. While not incredibly bright, Carstairs was well-mannered, respectful and, most importantly, genuinely seemed to like Margaret. She could secure Carstairs all on her own with no help from anyone.
With a promise to call at the end of the week, Carstairs departed, bidding both her and Aunt Agnes goodbye.
“Lord Carstairs is a delightful young man,” Aunt Agnes said after he left. “However, we aren’t certain of his intentions and thus must continue to allow Winthrop his courtship as well. It would be best to have more than one suitor to choose from.”
Margaret only nodded demurely.
As if anything would induce her to choose Winthrop over Carstairs.
Carstairs, bless him, called again two days later bearing more flowers, this time for her aunt as well.
Aunt Agnes pursed her lips, giving him a brittle smile, her disappointment Winthrop hadn’t dropped by to call apparent.
Margaret rang for tea, delighted both by his visit and her aunt’s displeasure.
“I confess, Miss Lainscott,” Lord Carstairs said as he accepted a small watercress sandwich, “I had never thought to meet a young lady who enjoys grouse hunting as much as myself. Why, it rivals even Miss Turnbull’s love of trout fishing.”
Margaret’s hand paused as she reached for a sugared biscuit. Miss Turnbull was proving to be troublesome. “I enjoy fishing as well,” she assured him.
Aunt Agnes coughed, her hand pausing over her embroidery hoop. She’d mostly stayed silent at Margaret’s sudden knowledge of the outdoors.
“Splendid. I have an outing in mind. A small stream runs just at the end of a park I know. You and Miss Turnbull can cast your lures.” Carstairs