man, or perhaps less prone to dousing himself with talc, she might not be taking such drastic measures this evening.
“I adore the dress.” Romy took her hand. “Such a lovely gown. Where did you have it made?” She walked in a circle around Margaret, taking in every detail of the gold gown.
Surely Romy knew her mother had purchased it as a gift for Margaret. After all, she would have given the modiste Margaret’s exact measurements. “Don’t be silly; you know very well where this came from.” She gave a small laugh, lest Aunt Agnes wonder what they were speaking of. “Please tell the duchess I am most grateful. My aunt,” Margaret lowered her voice, “would never have allowed me something so exquisite. Or expensive.”
Romy’s lovely features wrinkled in confusion. “The dress was a gift from my mother? She never mentioned—oh, here comes Tony.”
Margaret’s breath stilled, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest at the appearance of Welles. A wave of dark hair fell against his cheek as the startling blue of his eyes caught hers. The light humming of her skin, her body’s response to his nearness, floated deliciously up her arms.
“Lady Dobson.” The deep baritone brushed over Margaret as he greeted her aunt politely, but he was looking at her.
Aunt Agnes bobbed politely.
He barely gave a nod to Winthrop before turning to his sister. “You look smashing, Romy. Did you design the dress?”
Romy twirled before her brother, powder blue skirts flowing around her like ripples in a pond. “What do you think?”
“Quite lovely. How nice to see you, Miss Lainscott.”
Margaret looked up at the touch of his hand on hers, unsurprised at the shocking trickle of warmth sliding between her thighs. She had ceased to wonder why she only responded in such a way to him. It was just part of Welles. Like the music she heard in her heart when he was near. Or the bits of gold floating in the deep blue of his eyes.
“It seems I have perfect timing,” Welles said, neglecting to release her hand as the musicians struck up a waltz. “Lady Dobson, with your permission.” He didn’t wait for her aunt’s reply, whisking Margaret out to the ballroom floor without a care for her chaperone. Or Winthrop, who was staring at both of them with disapproval. Margaret couldn’t risk angering her aunt lest she be sent home early before Carstairs would compromise her.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, though her body bent eagerly to his.
“I’m the son of the hostess. And a future duke. You’re a close friend of my sister’s.” He nodded in Romy’s direction. “It’s perfectly acceptable for me to whisk you onto the dance floor. It may even improve your standing amongst the ton.” His gaze roamed the ballroom, “Though considering my reputation, probably not.”
“But this is a waltz.”
“I’ve never been too concerned with what others think of me. You shouldn’t be either. Besides, do you really think Winthrop has the gumption to stop me?”
Margaret turned to see Winthrop’s face puffing with distress. Aunt Agnes spoke to him, one spindly hand clutching his forearm like an oversized spider.
“I don’t care what Winthrop thinks.” She pressed her lips together, trying not to tremble as Welles pulled her closer. A large hand settled on the small of her back, sending a tingle along her spine. “But I shouldn’t like to cause a scene. Nor put Carstairs off.”
He gave her an expert twirl and leaned in. “Have you a plan?” Welles was smiling again but she sensed he wasn’t truly amused. “For the intended ruination of Lord Carstairs?”
Margaret hadn’t quite figured out how to lure Carstairs away. “I suppose I’ll ask him to take me for a walk in the gardens.”
“A tried and true method.” His cheek grazed her temple. “I adore the sounds you make as you climax, by the way,” Welles purred into her ear.
Margaret missed a step. “Don’t say or speak of it again.” She bit her lip. “I beg you.”
“It’s a very fond memory. There are so many other things I wish to do to you. Delicious things.” The baritone lowered to a growl.
She missed another step.
“Cease. I do not want to discuss what transpired between us at Elysium.”
“Why not?” His eyes flared with blue fire. Angry.
Margaret looked away.
Her aunt and Winthrop were sending her withering looks from their place against the wall, but no one else paid the least bit of attention to Lord Welles swinging Margaret about the dance floor. He’d been right that no one would