“I believe Lord Welles is downstairs.” She pointed down to the man on the gaming floor.
Peckam followed the direction of her finger and shook his head. “No, miss. That’s Mr. Murphy, not Lord Welles. This way, please.”
So that’s Leo. Margaret’s eyes lingered on Welles’s mysterious half-brother. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but from a distance, he looked remarkably like Welles. The duchess and her daughters spoke of Leo often and with great affection, though if he visited, it hadn’t been when Margaret was there. She watched him for a moment longer, wishing he would turn her way.
“Miss?” Peckam was waving her down the hall. The second floor was quiet once they walked past the landing. Muffled sounds came from behind the row of doors as she passed. Each door was painted a different color and numbered.
The two ladies who’d preceded her into Elysium earlier came down the hall from the opposite direction. Giggling, with wine glasses dangling from their fingers, they stopped before one of the rooms and opened the door without knocking.
As Peckam ushered her by, Margaret caught sight of a man, lying on his side, facing the door.
The man was naked save for the mask covering his face and was quite…well endowed.
The two women entered the room with another giggle and closed the door behind them.
Margaret looked away, her cheeks flaming. Again, she questioned her wisdom in coming to Elysium. But after Winthrop’s proposal and Carstairs’s sudden disinterest, Margaret needed to see Welles.
It was madness to be here, Margaret knew that. Scandalous. But she could still feel the warmth of Welles’s larger hand in hers at Lady Masterson’s party. How he’d told her about his mother. The press of his lips. The look of understanding on his face when she’d told him she heard music in the flowers.
I want to be here. Her heart beat louder in her chest.
As sure as she was that she would marry Carstairs, Margaret took no joy in it. He was only better than Winthrop.
I want Welles.
She and Peckam walked the entire length of the second floor to yet another set of stairs with a velvet cord strung across the steps. Two thuggish looking men stood guard before the barrier. The brute on the left, with a shock of red curls falling across his forehead, nodded at Peckam and lifted the cord for Margaret to step under.
“Have a good night, miss.” Peckam made a short bow. “At the landing, take a right. Lord Welles’s rooms are at the far end of the hall.”
Rooms? Welles lived here?
Margaret climbed the stairs to the top, reaching a small landing. Two narrow halls led from the junction of the landing, with an enormous set of double doors at the end of each. She turned right, as instructed. One of the doors stood ajar as the notes of a Chopin nocturne floated out to wrap around her.
Welles was playing the piano.
Margaret stepped through the doorway and stopped.
The room wasn’t overly large and was sparsely furnished, though even in the candlelight she could see the rugs and furniture were all expensive. A large, overstuffed chaise, the size of a small bed, faced the piano. Two leather wing-back chairs sat at angles before a fire blazing on the hearth; a small table sat between them. A sideboard filled with various bottles and decanters took up one corner. There was also a washbasin and a stack of towels. A bookcase lined one wall and was packed full of bits of paper, books, and ledgers. Above the fireplace, a painting hung—a landscape of a pond surrounded by thick woods.
But it was the piano, and the man playing Chopin which commanded Margaret’s attention.
Another Broadwood, she could tell by the lines and the sound even without seeing the gold lettering across the front. Welles had discarded his coat and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. The thick waves of his hair curled in disarray around the edge of his collar and the stark lines of his jaw. His hands floated gracefully over the keys as he bent forward in concentration. The Chopin piece was as beautiful as it was difficult. It was one Margaret played often.
A bolt of longing struck her. For the piano. For him.
Sensing her presence, his fingers slowed on the keys, the gold signet ring he wore on his pinky finger winking at her in the light. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat along with