smile on her face told him she preferred Carstairs.
Brave little thing. A bolt of longing for her shook him.
“I wondered what had set you off.” Leo shot him a look of empathy. “So he sent you a letter. What of it? You went to great lengths to marry her, but now you don’t wish to be under the same roof as she? Seems a waste.”
“We can have a politely distanced marriage. Many do.”
“True. But why marry her at all if you weren’t going to have her?” Leo shook his head. “You realize, Tony, that every impoverished, anguished artist with mediocre talent is sniffing about her ankles under the auspices of wanting her patronage.”
Tony knew his wife was carrying on splendidly without him, hosting small gatherings to discuss art and music, garnering a host of admirers. He received regular reports from Fenwick. Maggie had finally blossomed without him, earning a reputation as a charming and witty hostess in the weeks they’d been parted. Her true self had finally been revealed, and she was touted for it.
I always saw who she was. Always.
“Yes, she’s busy turning my home into a refuge for parasitic musicians,” he snapped at Leo. “What of it?”
“Especially one impoverished parasite by the name of Henri Bouvard.” Leo watched him closely. “I’m told he plays Chopin with much passion.”
Jealousy sparked and flared inside him. “She’s free to do as she wishes,” Tony heard himself say, knowing his brother was deliberately goading him. “As am I.” He’d tried to return to his former state of rakishness after their marriage, but Tony was having little luck doing so. Not one woman who propositioned him could play the piano, and only two possessed more intelligence than a potted fern.
“The duke is dying, Tony. Your wife is very much alive.” His brother shook his head. “For the love of God, go home. Christ, you’re miserable.” Leo stood and walked toward the door. “But if you are so stubborn as to stay, take my advice, and at least bring yourself a proper bed.”
Tony waved his brother out. “I’ve work to do. Your concern for me is duly noted.” He didn’t need or want his brother’s advice. What did Leo know anyway? Tony would be perfectly content living at Elysium, bed or not. He could avoid his wife forever. Pushing the conversation with Leo aside, Tony bent again to his task.
Another sharp pain of longing struck him.
He stared at the ledger before him for a good thirty minutes after Leo left him, not seeing the lines of numbers or lists of transactions.
All he saw was Maggie.
33
Her husband had returned home.
After weeks of living apart with no communication from Welles, Margaret had gotten used to her more solitary existence and her independence. She was content. Not happy, but happiness was overrated. Purpose and passion were what mattered.
In control of her inheritance, finally, Margaret had recently made a large contribution to the Royal Society of Female Musicians and had even hosted a very small, charitable event in support of the organization. She’d played the Broadwood, much to the admiration of the guests in attendance, although her performance lacked some of the passion with which she usually played. The colors of her music had become less vivid. Muted. Dimmed.
She blamed Welles.
Today after paying an overdue call to Mrs. Anderson, Margaret was greeted by Fenwick with the startling news that Welles was back in residence.
About bloody time.
She looked at the doors separating their rooms, wondering if Fenwick had been mistaken. No sounds emanated from behind the door nor did she hear Welles in the house.
Perhaps he’d only come back to collect his things.
The thought was as painful now as it had been on their wedding night, but Margaret refused to go to Elysium and retrieve her husband. If Welles was determined to be stubborn, so could she. After instructing Fenwick to have a dinner tray brought to the study and intentionally not asking after her husband, Margaret made her way downstairs. She often had dinner with the Broadwood before a warm fire, finding that doing so made her feel closer to Welles and helped heal the pain of the separation he’d forced upon them both.
She swung open the door, glad to see the fire was already crackling merrily in the hearth, and the candles lit. But there was no dinner tray in the usual place. Wondering if she’d beaten Fenwick to the study, Margaret turned, meaning to go in search of the butler.
“Hello, Lady Welles.”
Margaret halted at the sound