think it out of place for him to dance with her. The duchess had made it clear at Lady Masterson’s garden party she considered Margaret to be a friend of the family. Margaret and Romy had been seen together walking in the park along with Theo. It was perfectly natural for Welles to grant her a dance.
“Very well. Let’s discuss your agenda for the evening.” His wide mouth held the barest hint of a smile. A dark line of hair stretching along his jaw begged for her touch. Or the press of her lips.
“You should speak to your valet,” she finally said, flustered to be studying him so openly. “He didn’t shave you close enough.”
“What a thing for you to notice, Miss Lainscott.” He spun her, pulling Maggie close so her skirts wrapped around his legs. Welles took the opportunity to notch one muscled thigh between hers.
A lazy coil of warm honey twisted around her core at his actions. Heat flooded up her body, while her fingers tightened on his sleeve.
“You’re blushing, Miss Lainscott.”
She raised her chin to see him watching her, a knowing look in his eyes. He knew exactly what he’d done to her and relished her reaction. She supposed this was how casual lovers behaved, as if their joining was merely amusement, and not fraught with emotional consequence.
“The ballroom is warm.”
“Such wantonness sits contained within you, Miss Lainscott. It begs to be set free. It’s a shame only the Broadwood has seen it. And me.” His teasing was tinged with something sharp. She had come to know the timbre of his voice, and though it was well hidden, anger bled into his words.
“Is there a point to you tormenting me?”
His wide mouth pulled tight. “You are certain, Miss Lainscott, on your course of action? You wish to be compromised tonight, publicly? Forced to marry? Despite the scandal?”
Maggie nodded dully. When put in such a way, it didn’t sound appealing at all. Then she caught sight of Winthrop along the wall. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Very well. The library has a large trout mounted on one wall.”
“Excuse me?”
Welles turned her and his hand moved up her back, pulling her closer. His eyes fell to her bodice, taking in the swell of her small breasts against the gown. “I used to boast to Carstairs about the size of the trout, one my grandfather caught in the Scottish Highlands. He’s been asking to see the damn thing for years. You are the trout.”
“I see.” Not a welcome comparison, but so be it.
“I’ll bring Carstairs to the study at half past eleven and get him settled with a glass of brandy. He likes brandy. You should remember such a thing for the future.”
“I’ve taken note,” she said, detesting this conversation.
“I’ll make an excuse to leave, and you’ll arrive. A short time later, you’ll be interrupted probably by my stepmother or someone equally prestigious, like myself.”
Margaret looked down at the buttons of his coat, counting six in all. She thought of the hard, muscular chest she’d been pressed against while playing the piano, now hidden beneath the coat and the buttons. He’d been so beautiful standing over her, naked and unashamed. Her heart would carry Welles and their night at Elysium for the remainder of her days.
“Maggie.” The baritone vibrated through the material of her gown. “Are you well?”
“I’m listening.” She tilted her head at him, ignoring the ache in her chest. “I’m to throw myself at Lord Carstairs after dazzling him with my knowledge of fishing lures. Thank you again for the book, by the way.”
He smiled, this time with warmth, as he took her in. “Good girl. Remember, half past eleven. Don’t be late.”
The music ended, and Welles led her off the floor to Aunt Agnes and a scowling Lord Winthrop. Winthrop claimed her for the next dance, a horrible experience in which she was much too close to his moist form, dancing about in his ridiculously feminine shoes. Any more of his attentions and the beautiful dress, her gift from the duchess, would be ruined.
One more hour and this would be over.
24
At exactly a quarter past eleven, Margaret excused herself. Winthrop had wandered off some time ago, likely put out by her nonexistent responses to his attempts to speak to her. The smell of talc and Winthrop’s overuse of pomade had only served to unsettle her stomach further. Finally, he waddled in the direction of the gaming tables, probably to gamble away her dowry before he’d even wed her.