my leave now.” He leaned close until she could feel his breath against her neck. “Miss Turnbull can be a formidable opponent. She’s been after Carstairs for some time and is well known for her passion for trout and bass fishing. Perhaps this will help even the odds.” He tapped the package with one knuckle. “Good day, Miss Lainscott.”
His steps echoed in the empty conservatory, but Margaret did not turn around. As soon as the sound of the door closing met her ears, she took her hands from the keys and looked at the package he’d left. The idea of more studying to capture Lord Carstairs held little appeal. The thought of marrying Winthrop even less so.
Don’t you want to experience passion?
She did; that was the problem. Margaret shut her legs tightly against the sudden fluttering between them at the mere thought of playing the piano half-naked for Welles. He’d deliberately not mentioned such a thing to her again. She knew Welles wanted Margaret to come to him.
Margaret didn’t consider herself completely innocent, only inexperienced. Her plan, before her father’s death, had been to stay unmarried but not celibate. She had planned to take lovers, though her choices in the small village where her father’s estate lay were slim, to say the least. But in preparation, she’d purchased a copy of the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson. Margaret rarely decided to do anything unless she educated herself first. Sex was no different.
Harriette Wilson had been a courtesan of some renown and her recollections of her lovers were exceptionally detailed. Welles was wrong. Margaret knew something of passion, just not firsthand. She knew what sex entailed at the very least. Would it be so terrible if it were Welles who introduced her to such things? According to the gossips of London, he was incredibly skilled.
Her fingers banged against the keys.
Margaret liked Carstairs. He was a decent man. Honorable. She would have a comfortable life at his side though she doubted he would ever inspire the feelings within her that Welles did. But Carstairs was a far better alternative than Winthrop.
Her fingers flew to her lips, remembering the touch of Welles’s mouth, no matter how fleeting it had been. “I can’t believe I’m considering such a thing,” she said, standing up from the bench and gathering her things. “I’ve set my cap for his friend.”
She reached out, picking up the package Welles had left for her. The size and weight suggested a book. Wondering what sort of book Welles would bring her, she undid the ribbon and the brown wrapping paper fell away.
The Flyfisher’s Entomology by Alfred Ronalds
Margaret opened the book but there was no inscription, only page after page of fish and instructions on fly fishing. She shut the book with a snap, her hand lingering over the fine leather binding. He’d said he wouldn’t help her woo Carstairs, and yet Welles kept doing small things to ensure she would have what she wanted. Making certain she was at Lady Masterson’s where Carstairs was. Re-introducing them. Buying her a book on fishing.
Offering to show her passion.
The clock struck the hour and Margaret stood to gather her things, praying fervently that Carstairs had called while she was gone.
15
“Miss.” Henderson greeted her at the door with his usual mild dislike. “Lady Dobson awaits you in the drawing room.”
The drawing room? Alarm bells immediately sounded for Margaret. Her aunt only ever used the room for meetings of importance. Or intimidation. She handed over her cloak to Henderson but held on to her composition notebook and Ronald’s fly fishing treatise which she’d re-wrapped in the brown paper.
Henderson gave her a bland look, but his eyes darted to her hands as he clearly tried to discern what she carried.
“I’ll just put these away,” she said in a rush, hurrying to her room before the butler could stop her. “Please let my aunt know I will join her promptly.”
She didn’t want Henderson touching her things, especially not her composition book where she kept her music, and it would be unwise if he saw the book Welles had gifted her. Questions would be raised as to why Margaret was carrying around a book on fishing, and she didn’t want to add to what she assumed would be an interrogation or a lecture from her aunt.
Upon reaching her room, Margaret locked the door, thankful Eliza, her lady’s maid, wasn’t waiting for her return. She had suspicions Eliza was reporting back to her aunt, though Margaret couldn’t prove it. Margaret got