clinging to Carstairs’s arms as she landed a fish, squealing in delight as he reeled it in. Their heads leaned into each other so close, Margaret thought the younger woman might throw caution to the wind and kiss Carstairs. Shouldn’t her aunt be paying more attention? She glanced over at Aunt…Bollocks. She racked her mind for the elderly woman’s name.
“If you have come to mock my effort to avoid a marriage that will make me miserable, please leave.”
“I would never mock you, Maggie. Nor do I think this a lark for you.” The smile left his face.
Margaret’s hands stilled against the blanket. No one had called her Maggie in a very long time. Not since the only man who had ever loved her, her father, had died. A lump formed in her throat. “What are you doing here? Do you have another improper request to make of me?”
“I was out for a ride and happened to see the carriage and recognized it as belonging to Carstairs. I thought I’d see what he was up to. No need to be so suspicious,” he answered.
She looked behind her to see a horse tethered some distance away.
Miss Turnbull’s high-pitched giggle filled the air.
“Ho, Welles.” Carstairs held up the tiny fish struggling on the line. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Margaret looked up at Welles. “A remarkable coincidence.”
Welles contemplated her for a moment before saying, “Don’t you know, Miss Lainscott, there is no such thing as coincidence?” Welles stood as Miss Turnbull and Carstairs stumbled up the slight incline.
“Miss Turnbull.” He charmed her with a smile. “How lovely you look with a fishing pole in your hand. And you’ve caught something.”
Margaret grit her teeth, knowing Welles was referring to Carstairs and not the fish.
The younger woman was quite pretty with her wide blue eyes and broadbrimmed hat, tied with a large bow beneath her chin. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a bloody Gainsborough painting. Miss Turnbull’s appearance only added to Margaret’s irritation. She swatted at the cloud of gnats determined to bite her.
“Now that you are here, Welles, you must join us for our picnic.” Carstairs nodded and the two footmen rushed forward, each carrying an enormous wicker basket. Two chickens, sliced apples, berries, fresh-baked rolls, an assortment of cheeses, and two bottles of chilled white wine appeared on a tablecloth spread out on the grass.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Welles deferred.
“Yes, you do,” Margaret said under her breath.
A smile tugged at his lips. He’d heard her.
“Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding in the least.” Miss Turnbull gazed at him with awe, dazzled that the glorious Lord Welles would picnic with them. “We’ve enough food to feed half of London, I’ll warrant. Douglas,” she blushed prettily and put a gloved hand to her mouth, “I mean, Lord Carstairs, has a robust appetite.” She lifted her chin in challenge, eyes meeting Margaret’s.
I really should have pushed her in the stream myself.
“Then I’d be delighted.” Welles escorted the laughing young lady back to the blanket where Margaret sat. He bent and plucked the rod from Margaret’s hands and she caught a whiff of clean male and sunshine. “I’ll just brace this over here.” He walked to the stream and made a small pile of rocks. “Perhaps you’ll get lucky and your lures,” he intentionally emphasized the word, “will do the trick. If not, I’m happy to help.” He winked at her.
The audacity. Her insides shivered in response.
Welles’s strides were as graceful as the rest of him and unconsciously sensual. She imagined he danced or sat a horse the same beautiful way. Her gaze flicked to Carstairs and back to Welles. There really was no comparison. Carstairs was attractive, but he wasn’t Welles.
The four of them sat around the enormous mound of food while Miss Turnbull’s aunt snored softly.
Carstairs, kind to a fault, asked if he should wake her.
“No. Auntie Louise likes a nap in the afternoon. Which is why I had Cook pack us this delicious wine.”
Miss Rebecca Turnbull wasn’t quite as innocent as she appeared. Nor as unintelligent. Margaret accepted the glass of wine from one of the footmen and assessed her competition with a keen eye.
Welles sat down next to her, stretching out his legs, and munched on a chicken leg. Margaret watched in fascination as his teeth tore at the meat before he swallowed.
Blue eyes sparkled back at her. Welles was very aware of his effect on women. Even Miss Turnbull, as besotted by Carstairs as she was, watched him as if he