were some exotic creature who’d wandered into their midst.
Carstairs, bless him, was oblivious to the fact he’d invited the fox into the hen house.
The meal passed pleasantly enough. Carstairs spoke of hunting a red deer in the Scottish Highlands. His description of the event, down to what he wore and the way he’d crouched in the undergrowth while rain battered him, held Miss Turnbull rapt with attention; Margaret, however, after two glasses of the excellent wine, was humming to herself while she listened with half an ear.
“What a beautiful song,” Welles said from beside her. He wasn’t listening to Carstairs either. “I don’t recognize it.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s a sonata I’m working on,” she answered with a shrug.
“You mean composing?” He kept his voice low so Carstairs and Miss Turnbull wouldn’t overhear. Elderly Aunt Louise had recently awoken and only cast a mild frown at the empty wine bottles as she munched on a slice of apple.
“Yes,” Margaret answered him. The wine had given her a light, floating feeling. “I studied composition for a time with Mr. Strauss, our neighbor in Yorkshire. He was once part of the Bavarian court and composed for King Ludwig. I learned much from him.”
“I see why you are so enamored of Mrs. Anderson,” he said, referring to the pianist who was friends with the duchess and had become something of a mentor to Margaret. “And Mrs. Mounsey. Is it your hope to compose and perform as those ladies do?”
“I,” she shrugged, “well, I think I would want to emulate them in some way. I don’t really like performing for large crowds, but I love playing.”
“Why don’t you like performing?” His brow wrinkled, honestly confused.
“I don’t like all the attention. I tend to get carried away. You saw me play at Gray Covington.”
Heat flared between them. “A most enjoyable performance.”
“Only because you didn’t have your music privileges rescinded afterward. My aunt forced me to embroider for the rest of our stay. I wasn’t allowed near the piano.” Margaret stuck out her tongue. “Embroidery is torture. Pure and simple.” She looked down, feeling a tug on her skirts.
Welles was absently running one forefinger along the hem, pulling gently on the sprigged muslin. “I’m sorry she did such a thing to you. Cruel.”
“Yes. The worst punishment anyone could give me. Music is,” she gave a careless wave as he watched her intently, “a balm for my soul. I see a field of flowers, but I also hear the music each daisy or buttercup makes.” She shrugged, embarrassed by her confession. “I suppose that sounds as if I’m daft. It doesn’t really make sense.”
“Of course it does. You and I might see only a sack of flour, but a baker sees a magnificent three-tiered cake. A bolt of shimmering green fabric stuck on a rack at one of the shops on Bond Street becomes a ballgown for a queen in Romy’s eyes.”
“You do understand,” she whispered, her heart wishing to leap out of her chest to his.
“I see you, Maggie.” Welles gave a careful tug on the tiny bit of her skirts he held between his forefinger and thumb. “No matter how you attempt to hide.”
“I’ve not given you leave to address me in such a way,” she whispered, wondering at the odd intimacy growing between them. The skin of her legs and arms grew warmer and Margaret knew it wasn’t from the dappled sunlight coming through the trees surrounding them. It was Welles.
“I know.” His fingers gave a sharp, noticeable tug before stilling.
Suddenly her rod, propped up on the small brace of rocks, tumbled free and slid in the direction of the stream.
“Ho there, Miss Lainscott. It appears you’ve caught a fish.” Carstairs hopped up and hurried down the slight incline toward the rod.
Margaret looked away from Welles and stood. “It appears one of my lures worked,” she said, delighted to have possibly caught a fish. Walking down carefully to Carstairs, she took the rod only to have the line pull and the reel unwind before she could bring in her catch.
In his excitement, Carstairs took hold of her hands, helping her reel the fish in, while Margaret laughed. Carstairs smelled pleasantly of mint, and his hands were warm on hers, but there was no prickling of her skin or unsettling of her stomach at his nearness. Determined, Margaret intentionally brushed herself against him.
Nothing. Not even so much as an ounce of the heat only the sound of Welles’s voice instilled in her.