tug at the reel, the line snapped, sending them both to land on their bottoms on the grass in an awkward sprawl. Margaret’s bonnet fell off her head and she heard a slight tearing sound in the region of her sleeve.
Carstairs laughed. “Goodness, Miss Lainscott, are you all right?”
Margaret giggled. The entire day had been ridiculous.
Miss Turnbull, ever the good sport, laughed as well and ran forward, struggling to help them both up. Even their chaperone, Aunt Louise had a hand pressed to her lips to stifle her amusement.
Margaret looked toward the stream. Her line was long gone as well as the old fishing lure she’d found in Lord Dobson’s desk, stuck amidst several buttons and a lone cufflink. It had been a boon to find the lure. She’d claimed to Carstairs it had belonged to her father.
“Oh, dear, Miss Lainscott. You’ve lost your father’s lucky fishing lure.”
“My father had several, Lord Carstairs. I’ve others.” She’d have to search through Lord Dobson’s things again to find another. Or not. Carstairs wouldn’t realize she’d no idea how to fish or hunt until after they were married.
“My lord, Lord Welles begs your apologies. He was late for an appointment and had to take his leave,” Margaret heard one of the footmen utter. “The matter was quite urgent.”
“Oh, too bad.” Carstairs smiled his usual pleasant, empty smile, while Miss Turnbull looked at him in adoration.
Margaret stared at the empty spot on the blanket where Welles had been sitting. He’d left without telling her goodbye. It pained her more than it should have.
14
Nearly two weeks later, sitting before the Broadwood at Averell House, Margaret wondered if she’d mistaken Carstairs’s interest. Or perhaps after their fishing excursion, Miss Turnbull had managed to truly sink her hooks into him. She went over their conversation repeatedly at the stream and there was nothing to indicate he wasn’t interested in pursuing her further. Before entering the carriage to take them all home, Carstairs had made a point to pull her aside and ask if she would be present at the duchess’s upcoming ball at the end of the month.
Margaret assured him she’d be there. But Carstairs hadn’t called on her nor had she seen him at the few events she had attended with her aunt since. It was as if he’d simply disappeared.
The only gentleman who did call on her was Winthrop.
Margaret’s fingers slowed. She refused to think of Winthrop.
She looked around the empty conservatory, glad for the solitude. Miss Nelson was suffering from a cold, and the duchess had taken Phaedra and Romy shopping. Theo was somewhere on the third floor behind the closed door of her studio, painting miniatures. Margaret supposed she should have gone home, but she’d no desire to hear her aunt mutter how grateful she was for Winthrop now that Margaret had ‘scared off’ Carstairs.
I didn’t scare him off.
Her right hand pressed several keys in succession.
No, that wasn’t right.
She tried another series of notes before pausing to write down the sequence in her composition book. Her sonata was beginning to take shape in bits and pieces, the melody accompanied by a swirl of purples, blues, and greens in her mind. But mostly a cacophony of blues, particularly sapphires and indigo. Which made sense because those shades were the colors Margaret most associated with him. She’d never before considered a person when music came to her; usually, it was a place or a series of noises, like the clopping of horses making their way down the street. Not even in the throes of grief over her father had Margaret written music specifically in his memory.
Only Welles.
“I guess that stands to reason,” she said out loud to the empty conservatory. “I’m playing his piano.”
“Indeed, you are.” The lovely baritone echoed in the stark silence of the room.
Margaret’s hands stilled on the keys as footsteps drew closer to her place on the bench. The air around her suddenly came to life, the hairs along her arms rippling in anticipation. Her body arched back unconsciously, wanting to be touched. “Lord Welles.”
A bare fingertip, devoid of gloves, gently traced the outline of her collarbone. The touch was so brief, she wondered if it was only her imagination.
Welles came around the bench to lean against the piano. “That’s the tune you were humming at the stream the other day.” His voice lowered to an intimate rumble. “Your sonata.”
Margaret’s entire core grew taut as a slow, languorous ache started to hum low in her belly. “Yes. You find such a