she said. Leo had the same deep resonance to his voice as Welles, though his didn’t sink into her bones and cause her skin to hum.
“Now that the pleasantries are over, shall we get on with this?” Welles practically snarled at the vicar, causing the poor man to redden. He was ignoring Margaret completely; she could have been Aunt Agnes for all he’d noticed.
“I would have a word with you, my lord,” Margaret interjected and smiled politely to the vicar, “before we continue.”
Welles’s eyes were glacial, the beautiful blue rings like frost on a pond. “Now?”
“Yes.” She turned toward the door without waiting for him to agree.
A nervous, cackling laugh left her aunt before catching Margaret by the sleeve to bestow a brutal pinch to her upper arm.
Margaret winced and jerked away, glaring at her aunt. Aunt Agnes didn’t care for the recent changes in her niece’s temperament. Which was fine with Margaret since she didn’t care for her aunt.
Welles stared down at Aunt Agnes from his much greater height. His voice lowered dangerously. “If you dare touch her again in such a way, I will pinch you, Lady Dobson. And I promise you won’t find it pleasurable in the least.” He leaned close. “Despite what you may have heard.”
Her aunt’s smile faltered, jet black eyes flashing with dislike. “I understand completely, Lord Welles.”
Leo chuckled softly from his place by the vicar.
“Good. I suspected we’d get on.” He gripped Margaret’s arm and began to pull her out of the drawing room. “Please excuse us for a moment.” He walked her into the hall. “Where?”
“My aunt’s parlor.” She shrugged off his hand.
Welles scowled reluctantly, letting go.
Opening the door to her aunt’s parlor, she waited for him to enter and then shut the door quietly. Margaret paced across the worn Persian carpet several times before coming to a stop before him. “You don’t want to marry me.”
A dark brow lifted. “It isn’t you in particular, Maggie. I don’t wish to marry anyone at all. But I am, in fact, getting married today. To you. You’ve ten minutes before I haul you back in front of the vicar.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m fairly certain I do.”
Margaret took in every glorious bit of him. She was in love with Welles and had been for some time. But marriage to a man who would never love her in return, when her own heart was so involved, was daunting, to say the least, especially since she was certain he would only grow to resent her over time. Eventually, her heart would be broken and shattered by his dislike. Welles hating her was in many respects a far worse fate than being married to Winthrop. “It was only a kiss.”
“Yes.” He gave her a lascivious look. “Between your legs.”
A tremor rippled across her skin. Margaret remembered every moment of their night at Elysium. “But not the night of your stepmother’s ball. No one need ever know about…the other,” she stuttered. “I never expected marriage of you—”
“And let us not forget Winthrop. Should I disappear, you’d still have that waddling pear-shaped problem. What are you going to do, Maggie, if we don’t marry? Form a rope out of bedsheets and rappel down the side of your aunt’s home to make your escape?”
“I would leave by the front door.”
Welles snorted in derision. “You’ve no choice and neither do I.”
“I had a choice,” she said, growing irritated at his mocking attitude. “And you deliberately ruined my opportunity with Carstairs.” She saw not a shred of affection for her in his eyes, only icy resignation and resentment, as if she were to blame for all his ills. Anger simmered and burned beneath the snowy white shirt and indigo coat he wore, spoiling the air around them. And every bit of his rage was directed squarely at her.
“You blame me for this.”
A tic appeared in his cheek. He looked as if he wanted to strangle her.
Dear God, he did.
The unfairness of the situation, the feeling she was nothing but a burden, a piece of bloody spoiled fruit no one wanted but couldn’t dispose of, bubbled to the surface, exploding in a torrent.
“I don’t want to marry you, either.” Her hands curled into fists as she faced him. “I’ve no desire to be subjected to your foul mood and resentment for the remainder of my days. Good Lord, I already live with someone who hates me. I didn’t trap or ensnare you, my lord, so please cast your withering stare elsewhere.”