was already in love with Lady Miranda Reynolds, whom he’d married not long after the party.
The performance had been a disaster.
“I fear I may have played a bit too…forcefully,” Margaret said, understating the truth. The impromptu recital had resulted in embarrassment to both herself and Aunt Agnes. Margaret did play with passion, so much so that she sometimes forgot everything but the music. She and the piano would fuse together as her fingers flew over the keys, the notes pulsating through her.
I may have writhed against the piano bench.
“My aunt was not pleased with my performance.” Heat washed up her cheeks.
“I don’t imagine she was.”
Margaret had been banned from the piano for the remainder of their stay at Gray Covington. She’d been made to embroider instead. It had been pure torture.
“You are masterful on the piano.” Welles had moved a step closer to her, trapping her amid the wisteria.
“I didn’t realize you cared so much for music. Do you play?” Certainly her…emotional display while playing had been mortifying, but she couldn’t fathom why Lord Welles had found it so memorable. Even before coming to London, Margaret wasn’t the sort of young lady who attracted attention from a man like Welles. Aunt Agnes claimed Margaret to be so drab, she faded into the wood panels of the dining room during a dinner party.
“I learned as a child. My mother adored music.” A frown tightened his wide mouth. “But I’ve never played as you do. That is a level I could never hope to achieve.”
Welles had been enamored with the music. Even as absorbed as she was, she’d noticed him watching her, his eyes half-closed in pleasure while his friend continued to speak to him.
His friend. The dim-witted gentleman she’d met at Gray Covington. He’d been in the company of Lord Welles.
“Carstairs,” she abruptly blurted out.
“I beg your pardon?” His mouth curved upward, brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.
Finding Welles hiding in the wisteria was far better than the plague of locusts she’d been wishing for earlier. He was an associate of Lord Carstairs. “The gentleman who accompanied you to Gray Covington. Lord Carstairs.”
“I know who Carstairs is, but what has he got to do with anything?”
Footsteps sounded on the terrace. Winthrop.
“I beg your discretion, my lord.” Margaret placed a hand on his forearm as she peeked through the wisteria at Winthrop.
“Why, Miss Lainscott, are you being hunted?” Welles shot a pointed look at her fingers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “And I stand corrected. You are incredibly timid.”
Margaret snatched her hand back and lowered her voice. “I have a strong desire to renew my acquaintance with Lord Carstairs.”
Welles hovered over her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his larger form.
“For what purpose?”
“Marriage. To me.”
“I see.” Welles sounded more amused than outraged by her admission. His smile stayed in place as he nodded. “Do go on. I confess I’m speechless.”
“I know this isn’t exactly the type of thing to discuss at the present time,” she waved her hands about, “while hiding from Lord Winthrop in the wisteria.”
“You are hiding. I was merely enjoying a cheroot.”
“I would ask your assistance in reintroducing me to Lord Carstairs—”
“For the purpose of marrying him, due to husbandly qualities which I can only assume at this point?”
“Miss Lainscott?” Winthrop called from the terrace. “Are you in the garden?”
“Damn and blast,” Margaret swore under her breath as she glanced at Winthrop and then back to Welles. “Yes, my lord. Please pay attention. I haven’t much time to make my point.” She stamped one slipper-clad foot.
Welles chuckled softly. “There she is.”
“There who is?” She had only precious moments to spare before Winthrop’s velvet-clad form pounced upon her with lemonade clutched in one moist hand.
“A most interesting young lady.”
“I’m not at all interesting, my lord.”
“I beg to differ.”
“My aunt has decided I must marry, and I fear her choice for me is Winthrop.”
“I can see why you would be less than enthusiastic about such a match. And your aunt’s desire to marry you off is common knowledge.” His voice lowered, humming deliciously in the small hollow of the wisteria. “I’m not sure what your requirements are, but I’ll assume Winthrop doesn’t meet any of them?”
Margaret was rapidly becoming horrified at the turn in conversation and slid further into the blooms and vines. This was the last thing she’d ever thought to discuss with Lord Welles. “He only meets one of my criteria.”
“Lack of intelligence? Poor choices in footwear?”
A sound of surprise escaped Margaret at his correct