money.
Lifting her chin, Margaret once more reassured herself of the rightness of what she was doing and the fact that she had no real choice. Should she back down on her plans for this evening, she would find herself married to Winthrop. The conversation between Winthrop and her aunt in the carriage had left no doubt.
Spurred on by thoughts of Winthrop, Margaret quickened her pace.
Earlier, she’d danced with Carstairs and conversed with him at length on the merits of a particular type of fly used for fishing, knowledge all gleaned from the book Welles had given her. Carstairs had been enthralled with her description of an imaginary afternoon she’d spent fishing for bass with her father wearing wading boots. During their conversation, he had mentioned the trout residing in the library of the Averell mansion and his excitement in being able to view the trophy.
Margaret should have been relieved Welles was helping her but instead, the knowledge unsettled her further.
She had never ventured to the library on her previous visits, but Margaret knew the room lay a few doors beyond the conservatory. As she made her way down the hall to meet her fate, Margaret caught a few notes of music. She stopped, thinking at first it was the musicians below.
More notes floated out into the hall from the conservatory, a piece she didn’t recognize immediately, though it sounded vaguely like Chopin. One of the duchess’s guests was playing the Broadwood. Drawn by the beauty of the music, and overly possessive of the piano, Margaret stepped into the conservatory.
Welles was sitting at the Broadwood, an instrument he claimed he never played. His fingers ran in a fluid motion over the keys, drawing out the dark and melancholy notes of Chopin. She saw his fingers pause, and the last note hung in the air, the only sign he knew she was there.
Margaret told herself to take a step back and continue down the hall to the library where Carstairs would be admiring the trout, but instead, she walked silently into the conservatory, unable to resist the temptation of Welles.
Just once more before I compromise myself with Carstairs.
Without a word, Margaret sat next to him on the bench, basking in his presence and forgetting all about Carstairs. She could only see Welles. Only hear him.
One of his hands left the keyboard and took Margaret about the waist, tucking her in next to his side.
She snuggled against him, comforted for the first time since leaving Elysium. Her emotions quieted as she sunk into his warmth. “Welles, what are you doing here?”
“A lure much greater than any trout,” he whispered, leaning over to press a kiss below the base of her ear.
Margaret’s breath caught, unable to move as his lips trailed over the length of her neck before returning to her ear. His tongue traced around the curve, only stopping to suck the lobe between his teeth and nibble.
Her mind screamed to get off the bench and march into the library. Immediately. But her heart and body clung to Welles as if he were a life preserver.
Welles stopped playing and pulled her into his lap. The hard length of him rubbed against her backside as he pressed her against him. Fingers sunk deep into her hair, loosening the pins. She could still hear the music in her mind as his mouth, hot and demanding, took hers.
A sigh left her, one filled with surrender. Her body curled into Welles, seeking sanctuary even as her mind warned her of the danger of being here with him. When his tongue ran along the crease of her lips Margaret opened to him with a whimper. If she could just kiss him a moment longer. Just one more second with Welles, where her heart and soul wished to be, before a lifetime with Carstairs.
“Oh, dear.” The duchess’s voice sounded from the doorway.
I left the door open.
“Welles!”
Margaret struggled to break away, her mind fuzzy with desire, horrified at being discovered with the wrong man in the wrong room. One of her breasts was nearly out of her bodice. She looked up at the doorway, her fingers fumbling as she made a useless effort to fix her hair.
Oh, God.
At the doorway stood the duchess accompanied by Lord Carstairs and Miss Turnbull. All three stared at the sight of Margaret on Welles’s lap.
Welles’s hands tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh through the silk. He didn’t appear the least bit upset. In fact, he looked oddly satisfied.
Miss Turnbull’s mouth