by Sara Bennett
“My lord, I cannot find anything that the moths haven’t feasted on,” the valet declared, holding up with his fingertips what had once been an embroidered waistcoat, the buttons now missing or dangling by threads.
“Put anything you feel beyond salvaging in a pile to be burned.”
“Then that will be just about everything,” the man replied. “And what of the bedding? It is a disgrace, my lord.”
“I agree with you there, but it may still be useful. Leave it for now.”
Perhaps, Dominic thought, the parish poor weren’t as fussy as his valet. He decided he would ask Margaret, and that lightened his heart. Although her lack of response to his declaration had been a little worrying. Sibylla had said that Margaret had come to the inn to visit her, but his sister had still been abed, recovering from her cold, and so they hadn’t spoken.
Just as well. He didn’t want Sibylla trying to interfere. Right now he needed Margaret to decide whether she wanted to remain here in Denwick and be miserable, or throw in her lot with him. He very much hoped for the latter.
But what if the thought of his kisses disgusted her?
The question was unwelcome. Just for a moment he found he was doubting himself, a feeling he wasn’t used to, but then he remembered how pleased she’d been to see him. Besides, he’d never kissed a woman yet who hadn’t enjoyed it. Did that make him conceited? Margaret would have a great deal to say on the subject, he was sure.
Leaving his valet, Dominic made his way upstairs to the attic. The door under the eaves was stuck, and he had to force it open with his shoulder. Hastily he jumped back to avoid a whoosh of dust, and still managed to sneeze. When he thought it was safe, he ducked under the lintel and entered as far as was possible.
Years of mice and rats being allowed free reign among the furnishings stored up here meant there would be little worth rescuing. He remembered coming up here as a child, full of the sick thrill of his uncle’s gory stories of Scots pouring over the border and massacring everyone in sight. The border was no longer visible—there were stacks of half rotten draperies blocking his view.
He knew the house was going to come to him, although he was yet to receive the finer details from his uncle’s solicitor. He could sell it or lease it, but he wondered if either was practical. Perhaps the parish would have use for it?
He was inclined to do what the Scots might have done all those centuries ago—set fire to the place and dance a jig as it burned to the ground. He and Sib could warm themselves by the flames and drink a toast to Great Uncle Cecil. Would the old reprobate have preferred to be turned to ashes rather than be buried in the chilly churchyard at Denwick?
The thought made him smile, just as the voice he’d been longing to hear called up to him from downstairs.
Dominic took a deep calming breath. He’d be lying if he told himself it was because he was looking forward to another intellectual tussle and not because those green eyes and smiling mouth heated his blood. For the past two nights he’d been tossing and turning, imagining kissing her until she begged for more. Unless that wretched curate had already kissed her.
Dominic felt himself go hot with fury. He didn’t want anyone to touch Margaret except himself—she belonged to him and him alone and if he had to call the curate out then …
He groaned at his own stupidity. He needed to keep a cool head. Yes, he was obsessed with this woman, and yes he intended to save her from the abysmal situation she had gotten herself into, but Margaret wasn’t someone who could be forced to his will. She’d had enough of that sort of nonsense from her father.
If he was going to convince her of the pleasures of a future with him, then he needed to persuade her with deeds.
“My lord?” she called again, and he had an irrational desire to hear his first name on her lips. “Are you there?”
He ducked his head beneath the lintel and was about to step out onto the landing when he remembered he’d warmed up enough to remove his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. The exertion of moving boxes and helping create order out of chaos had at least been beneficial in keeping him from freezing to death.
Dominic knew that a gentleman would roll down his sleeves and tug on his jacket, but as he often reminded himself, he was no gentleman. He half expected Margaret to take one look at him and tell him as much, and it was with that thought in mind that he finally moved to the railing and peered down at the marble floor of the entrance hall below.
Margaret was looking up, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her green eyes shining. She was wearing a practical brown woollen cloak with the hood thrown back, her dark hair a cloud about her lovely face.
It must have been the drop, or perhaps his lack of sleep, but Dominic felt his head spinning. That was the trouble with taking off the shackles of good behaviour. Now that he’d admitted to himself how much he wanted this woman, he wouldn’t be satisfied with less.
“There you are,” she said with a note of censure. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I was in the attic. I could just as easily have been in hell.”
“That’s most dramatic.” She paused. “I wanted to talk to you.”
He knew at once what she wanted to talk about by the determined note in her voice. She had been thinking about his words and she was going to warn him off. She was going to tell him again about fate and her determination to throw herself headfirst into the wretchedness her father had planned for her and that under no circumstances must he stop her.
He said nothing and she huffed in impatience, or more likely from feeling upset and awkward. Two men walked behind her carrying with what looked like a bureau. “Are you selling everything?” she asked, watching them go. Then, before he could answer, added, “This is foolish, yelling at each other. I will come up.”
As she moved toward the first flight of stairs he snapped into action. “No, stay there! I will come down to you. I don’t trust the stairs.”
“Oh, do take care,” she said quickly, and then looked as if she wished she hadn’t spoken. He smiled to himself. Margaret was worried about the meddling earl? It was a step in the direction he wanted her to go, even if there was a long way between concern for his safety and a willingness to cast aside all her doubts and join him in ruination.
When he reached her she was peeking into one of the nearby rooms, a frown on her usually smooth brow. “This house must have been habitable once upon a time. Sir Cecil was here on his own, wasn’t he?”
“Apart from a couple of elderly servants. Had I known the situation, I might have carried him back to Mockingbird Square, but I doubt he would have agreed to go.”
“Would that have stopped you?” she said, and finally turned to look at him. She seemed to notice his dishevelled state and her gaze took in the bare skin of his muscular forearms before skittering quickly away. He waited for her to make comment on his apparel. When she didn’t, he continued on with the conversation as if nothing was amiss.
“You shouldn’t feel sorry for him. My uncle was not an amiable fellow. He died as he lived, doing exactly as he pleased.”
“I suppose that is as good a way to die as any.” She was staring at a spot on the wall behind his shoulder. “I think you are right about him being an independent gentleman. I remember when I was younger my father did visit your great uncle. He only visited the once because I believe Sir Cecil was extremely rude to him, and I’m quite sure my father was rude in return. Had I known the situation I could have visited in his stead.”
He tried to imagine Margaret coming to see his irascible relative. Would Cecil have found her charming? Or would he have reduced her to tears? He thought she would have held her own but was glad she hadn’t been put to the test.
“You said there were two elderly servants?” she asked suddenly, gazing directly into his eyes with an anxious look. “Will you keep them on?”
“I’ve retired them to a cottage on my estate. They weren’t from Denwick and didn’t want to stay.”
&n
bsp; She looked relieved. “Oh.”
“Did you think I’d throw them out into the snow to fend for themselves?” he asked drolly. “What a pretty idea you must have of my character.”
“Of course I didn’t think that! I just … I’m sorry if you…I know you are not a cruel man, my lord.”
“But …?” he prodded, because he sensed there was a definite ‘but’ in her sentence.
Impatiently he reached up and unwound his dusty neckcloth with sharp jerks, before pulling it from around his neck. She watched him in amazement, stepping back as if he was holding a snake.
“My—my lord …”
“My name is Dominic,” he said, giving her a frown. “I wish you would call me that.”
She took a breath as if for courage. There was a blush in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. He knew she was finding it difficult to ignore his tactics. Good. He was tired of this; he wanted to know what she was feeling one way or the other. He wanted to know whether he had come all the way to this godforsaken place only to have his heart broken.
“It would not be proper to call you … that,” she responded at last. Her gaze slid down over his throat and jerked back to his eyes as if she’d been bitten. He might have laughed but he was too stirred up.
“Are you such a proper person, Margaret?” he mocked. “And see, I have called you by your first name. Censor me if you will. Good manners have never stopped you before.”
“I suspect the cold has addled your brain,” she told him in a voice that sounded more like the Margaret of Mockingbird Square.
“I disagree. I think it has clarified my addled thoughts,” he retorted.
“Or addled them even more,” she said, watching him cautiously. Did he look so deranged? Maybe he did. He felt deranged, as if he might demand she run away with him, right here, right now. But it was too soon, he knew that.
And then she bit her lip. She bit her lip and it was all he could do not to groan at the sight of her white teeth pressed into that plump flesh.
“I told you what would happen if you did that,” he said.
“Did what?” And then her eyes widened as he reached for her.
His mouth crashed down on hers. He was too full of emotion to be gentle, and besides, he wanted her to know what she was in for if she did choose in his favour. If that miracle did happen.
For a moment she was frozen, receiving his kiss without responding, and then she gave his shoulder a half-hearted blow with her fist. He raised his head slightly, so that he could stare into her eyes. She looked confused and excited.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Too slow,” he growled, and dove in again.
This time her lips clung, opened, letting his tongue slip in. He swept it through her mouth, claiming her, and she gasped. His arm tightened about her waist, the other holding her head so that he could deepen the kiss yet again.
This was the woman he had come here to find, not the brow beaten creature he’d seen at the vicarage. This woman.
Somewhere a door slammed, snapping her out of whatever spell she was under. She jerked and then began to struggle, and he finally let her go. She stumbled backwards and came up against the stairwell, using it for support as if her legs would not hold her up.
He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to say her piece.
“You … this is not …” Her bosom rose and fell, as if she was trying to catch her breath. Dominic thought she was magnificent, full of fire and emotion, the perfect mate for him.
“You said you wanted to speak to me,” he prompted her. “If it is what I think it is, then I don’t want to hear it. I am tired of being told what you believe is correct behaviour. I’m tired of hearing about what your future must be, Margaret. I have other ideas about your future—our future—and I’m putting them into practice.”
“You cannot force yourself upon me simply because you’ve decided I fit some matchmaking plan of yours,” she told him, hand clasped to her throat, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. Had he done that? He’d been so caught up in their kisses he couldn’t remember.
“I know your thoughts on matchmaking, Margaret. I wouldn’t presume to force anything on you.”
Her voice rose in pitch. “Then what were you just doing?”
“I was showing you in no uncertain terms how I feel about you. Did you like it? Because,” and he stalked closer to her, watching her green eyes grow big, “I think you did.”
He waited to hear whether she would deny it. Could she tell him she didn’t find him the least bit appealing?
“Margaret—”
She held out her hand as if to fend him off, and he noticed it was trembling. He almost felt ashamed. He knew he could take her in his arms again but even he was not that cruel. She needed time, and he wanted her to come to realise the inevitability of their alliance on her own.
“Did you walk here?” he asked her instead, wrapping his neckcloth back about his neck. “I’ll ask one of the servants to drive you back to the vicarage.”
“I—I rode my father’s horse,” she said.
“Then you definitely need to be driven home,” he teased gently. Before she could reply, he called out for one of his servants and gave him instructions.
Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling when he turned back to her. “You are very highhanded,” she told him.
“Is that all?”
She straightened her spine and made to walk past him, only to pause and look back at him over her shoulder.
“My father has asked if you and your sister would join us for luncheon after the sermon on Sunday.” Her voice sounded both breathless and resentful. “Please don’t feel you have to come. In fact, I would rather you didn’t.”
He smiled. “I’m happy to accept.”
Her gaze darted to his mouth and away again. She seemed to have more to say but whatever it was she decided against it. With a final glare, she walked out. He heard the front door close with a bang.
Dominic leaned against the bannister and smiled. Things were progressing well and he had given her plenty to think about. No doubt the curate would be at the luncheon and he would be able to cast an eye over him and decide how best to thwart any chance he had with Margaret.
She was his now, he could tell, and if she still had any doubts about it she wouldn’t for much longer.
7
Margaret sat ramrod straight in a corner of the earl’s coach as they drove the three miles back to the vicarage, while her emotions were in the sort of disorder they had never been in before.
She had ridden her father’s old pony to Sir Cecil’s house so that she could tell Monkstead … well, instruct him, on what he could and could not do. Mainly what he could not do. Instead he had manhandled her, argued with her, kissed her … Good lord, how he had kissed her! Who would have thought a kiss could be so visceral, so completely overwhelming, until she thought she was going to fall to the floor in a swoon. If she was the swooning type.
And she’d kissed him back. She could pretend all she liked but that was the truth. She’d kissed him back and she’d wanted to go on kissing him and if they hadn’t been interrupted who knew what might have happened? He could have picked her up in his arms and carried her … somewhere. To a sofa maybe, or a bed, although her practical mind would not allow for that, because Sir Cecil’s house probably didn’t have sofas or beds that were without dust and mould. Would Dominic have cared about that? Oh no, she had called him Dominic! In her mind, at least. But she thought he would care, he had sent her home in his coach, hadn’t he? So he would find somewhere safe and clean, and lay her down, and then he would take off his shirt—that was an important requirement of her fantasy—and then he would begin to kiss her again, only this time he would unbutton her gown …
“No, no, no!” The words sounded frantic and she tried to take a calming breath. “That is quite enough,” she scolded herself. “Stop it, Margaret.”
Did Do
minic really think they could carry on in this way and no one would find out? Was he so lacking in good sense that he couldn’t understand the scandal that would whip up about them if it was discovered they were more than mere acquaintances? Denwick was a small place and the people were always eager for gossip to pass their days. What if Lady Strangeways found out about them kissing? What if she told the vicar?
Margaret clasped her trembling hands together and told herself they wouldn’t find out because it was not going to happen again. She would make it clear to him next time they met. She would find a moment with him where she could make it perfectly plain that his attentions were not welcome and he must stop them and go home to Mockingbird Square.
It was only as the coach came to a stop outside the vicarage that she realised there was a tear drying on her cheek. Margaret dealt with it, ready with a smile when the earl’s servant opened her door for her.
“Thank you,” she said, and stepped down. The old horse was untied from the rear of the coach and returned to its stall. A moment later, Margaret was back in the safety of her home, although why she thought Dominic couldn’t reach her here she wasn’t certain.
She could hear voices from the vicar’s study, and the muted murmurs of the cook and her helper from the kitchen, while there was silence from upstairs in her mother’s bed chamber. The clock in the hall was ticking away the minutes until the next meal, and for a moment she imagined it was ticking away the minutes of her life.
Was she becoming as dramatic as Dominic? The Margaret she knew would not stand listening to the long case clock, not when she had so many tasks to perform. Where had that level-headed and serious young woman gone? What the earl had said to her, the declarations he had made, they could not be. They could never be. Surely he knew that? He was no fool, of course he did. But then why was he turning her life into a maelstrom with his kisses and making her want things she could never have?