of his voice. She hadn’t heard the low, rumbling baritone in so long, she thought, for a moment, that she’d imagined it. Ignoring the sudden fluttering of her heart, she turned and made her way to the piano bench, meaning to sit down.
“Were you expecting Henri, perhaps? Or another one of your destitute artists?”
“What are you doing here, Welles?” He’d been lying in wait for her, that much was obvious, but Margaret assumed he would choose the drawing room or even her chambers should he wish to speak to her. But not this room.
“I live here. Christ, what have you done to my study, Maggie?”
This was now her conservatory and to that end, she’d replaced some of the starkly masculine furnishings with lighter pieces of furniture and redecorated. The room was now all pale blues with only a touch of brown and she’d replaced the heavy velvet curtains with a wispier fabric.
She came toward her husband. Welles was glorious, as usual. He sprawled across one of the dainty chairs she’d recently purchased, his big frame far too large for the delicate piece of furniture. One long leg was hooked over the arm. There was no coat of indigo tonight, only a stark white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, half-tucked into a pair of leather riding breeches. Her heart twisted pleasurably at the sight.
“This is now my conservatory, my lord. I entertain guests here.”
“Oh, yes, your hordes of penniless musicians. Like Henri.”
There wasn’t anyone of Margaret’s acquaintance named Henri, but she didn’t bother to mention that to him. An open bottle of wine sat on a side table to his right; a Bordeaux. Welles held a glass of the jewel-toned liquid, while another sat waiting for her. Margaret picked up her glass and took a seat in the chair beside him. Her heart was beating madly, unsure what his presence here meant.
“I am a supporter of the arts.” She took a sip of the wine.
“I’m glad.” He gazed at her intently, as if considering what else to say. Welles was rarely at a loss to be charming or conversational. It was unlike him to be so hesitant with her.
Margaret stared into the fire. She was still hurt from their last encounter, bruised and bleeding from the accusations he’d thrown at her, even though she knew the source of his anger. The remnants of the letter from the duke, which had sent him from her, had been sitting charred in the fire grate for her to find after Welles left the house that night.
Welles reached out and took her hand in his, surprising her. He laced their fingers together. “I miss you.” The words were low and thick. “I don’t want to, but I do.”
The room grew silent except for the sound of the fire.
“Now would be the appropriate time for you to say you’ve missed me as well.” He turned to her.
“Why did you marry me, Welles?”
A log popped in the fire. “Because I wanted you,” he said, confused. “You know that.” The dark waves of his hair fell to touch his cheek. “All of you. Not only the naughty bits, although they are very lovely indeed.” A deep sigh. “I’m making a mess of this.”
“I don’t want you to be here in spite of yourself, Welles. I don’t wish to be the source of your resentment especially since I would have been perfectly happy with Carstairs.”
“Would you? Been perfectly happy? I think not.”
“If you have come to lay blame at my feet again, please rethink your position. We can continue to have a distant marriage. I’d prepared myself for such a thing before I met you. I find I enjoy my independence with no husband underfoot.”
He put down his wine glass and stood. For a moment, she thought he meant to leave her again, with the Broadwood and her hopes, but instead, he came to her, kneeling at her feet. His hands went to her thighs as he placed his head in her lap, nuzzling at her stomach.
“I was gone overlong,” he whispered, the words vibrating down between her thighs. “Forgive me.”
Margaret shook her head, all her pain over their separation coming to the forefront. A tear ran down one cheek. “You were,” she choked out before sinking her fingers into the dark waves of his hair. “We should talk, Welles. There are a great many—”
“No. Later. No talking.”
Hands dipped beneath the hem of her dress. The warm caress of his fingers traveled up her silken-clad legs to her thighs