Another delivery from the same modiste who’d designed her gold gown had arrived this morning, the card inside signed with love from Romy. It appeared her friend was to blame for the stylish but somewhat scandalous neckline and expensive Belgian lace. The duchess had sent her a lovely pair of earrings. Pear-shaped diamonds, which now dangled from Margaret’s ears, catching the light every time she moved. Margaret had exclaimed in surprise when she saw the diamonds, sitting in a red box with a silver ribbon.
The earrings had come with an apology that neither the duchess nor her daughters would be present for Margaret’s wedding to Anthony Marcus Barrington, 10th Earl of Welles and heir to the Duke of Averell. The duchess and her household had departed unexpectedly the day prior for Cherry Hill, the duke’s seat. The duke had taken a turn for the worse and the duchess, ever devoted, wished to be at her husband’s side.
Margaret understood. Besides, she wasn’t certain she would be married today.
Aunt Agnes was beside herself that Margaret had brought Welles up to scratch. Dozens of invitations for her aunt had arrived in less than a day and had begun to stack up on the table in the foyer. As the aunt of a future duchess, Lady Dobson was more in demand than ever. Despite her aunt’s almost frightening bliss at the marriage, Margaret was less than happy.
This entire marriage was bound for disaster.
When her aunt had first informed Margaret that Lord Welles had offered for her, she had been certain Aunt Agnes was joking. Or having a hallucination. Welles would never marry. He’d told her so on more than one occasion. His aversion to marriage was well known in the ton.
Margaret should have been thrilled. She would not be a pariah, but a duchess. There was also the immense relief, of course, of escaping her future as wife to the pear-shaped Winthrop, but it was tempered by the thought that Welles was being forced. Had the duchess held something over his head?
He compromised you intentionally.
If he actually showed up to marry her today, she would have to ask him why.
“Don’t dawdle.” Aunt Agnes appeared in the doorway of Margaret’s room, now devoid of most of her things. Her trunks had already been sent ahead to Welles’s town house. Contrary to Margaret’s earlier assumption, Welles did not live at Elysium, but only kept a room there. He had a lovely home not three blocks from Averell House.
She didn’t really know him at all.
Margaret turned and followed her aunt downstairs to the drawing room. Strange, she’d managed to avoid this room, her least favorite in the entire house, for years. She’d never thought it would be the place where she’d be married.
“Come, Niece.” Aunt Agnes took her hand.
Margaret looked down at the claw-like fingers encircling her wrist. It was the first time Margaret could ever remember her aunt touching her with anything resembling affection. That she did so now seemed more disingenuous and impossible than marrying Welles.
She shook off her aunt and marched into the drawing room, blinking at the two men standing before the vicar. Welles and his brother, standing side by side, looked so alike it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t her anxious mind playing tricks on her. She’d seen Leo Murphy before, the night she’d visited Elysium, but that had been at a distance.
The two men were of like height; both possessed the same dark brown hair, handsome chiseled features, and identical pairs of Barrington blue eyes. Welles was leaner, the lines of his body more elegant. Leo was broader across the chest and stockier. When Leo smiled, as he was doing now in her direction, a dimple appeared in his cheek. But even if she hadn’t seen those differences, the splashy waistcoat Leo wore with its swirl of sapphire and gold thread was enough to separate them. Welles, who only wore dark-colored, exquisitely tailored and understated clothing wouldn’t be caught dead in such a thing.
I guess I do know him a little.
“Miss Lainscott.” The deep baritone melted over Margaret’s skin, luring her closer to Welles even though there wasn’t anything remotely welcoming in his tone. His chiseled jaw was hard, sculpted from pure ice. She might catch frostbite only by standing near him. “May I present my brother, Mr. Leo Murphy.”
Leo took her hand, his fingers tightening over hers. “A pleasure, Miss Lainscott.”