by Sara Bennett
“He is selling the house then?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? He’s going to hand it over to a benevolent society, to be used as a refuge for the poor of the parish. With a suitable amount placed in trust to help run it, of course.”
Margaret knew she had to be staring; she felt a little dizzy. It seemed a very generous thing to do and for some reason she had not expected it of him. Although she wasn’t sure why not. She knew so little about this part of his life, and being told that the earl had a desire for philanthropy was rather thrilling. She had often thought that, if she had the funds, she could do so much more for those in need. Dominic had the funds and he was doing more. Why was her knowledge of his compassion so very appealing?
“No, I didn’t know,” she said softly. “Is he always so generous?”
“Oh yes. Don’t let his silence on the matter fool you, he’s absurdly generous. Just look at what he has done for me.” She looked up. “Nic, there you are! I was just telling Margaret about your plans for Great Uncle Cecil’s house.”
“Were you indeed?” That familiar voice was right behind her and Margaret turned before she could stop herself. No time to hide what she was feeling or put the mask back onto her face—when she looked up at him he saw everything.
His eyes darkened and a smile tilted his mouth. “Miss Willoughby,” he said, his voice with a slightly husky edge. “Do you approve?”
“I don’t think it matters whether I approve,” she began hurriedly, looking away. “I think the people of Denwick will approve and thank you very much.”
“Excuse me, I need to speak to someone,” Sibylla squeezed her arm and vanished into the crush. Margaret had a feeling she had left them alone on purpose, although they weren’t truly alone. It just felt like it.
He leaned closer. “I wish you would look at me like that again, Margaret.”
She pretended to be inspecting the refreshments table. “Like what?”
“As if I am capable of wonderful things.”
“You exaggerate,” she scoffed, still refusing to look at him.
“Margaret.” He said it as if it was an order.
Once again she looked up at him—she couldn’t help it—and found herself trapped in his gaze. Embarrassingly, tears filled her eyes and she didn’t know why.
“Don’t,” she whispered, turning away from him. “I can’t … it’s not possible …”
He had his hand on her arm and took her three steps into a small alcove that led off from the parlour. There was a low door at the end of it and he opened it. Startled, she glanced behind her, but no one seemed to have noticed their disappearance. Lady Strangeways had her back to them, and the vicar was deep in discussion with some of the other men, while, surprisingly, Lady Sibylla was chatting with Louis Scott.
Then the door was closed and they were alone in a much smaller room. There was a table by a window looking onto the backyard of the inn, a chair, and not much else. Perhaps this was where he had been when she arrived, discussing business with the solicitor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. Did he know what her father would say if he’d seen them go off alone together? Did he realise the storm of disapproval and condemnation she’d find herself at the centre of?
He didn’t seem to realise and if he did he didn’t care. “I’m doing what I feel like doing every time I see you,” he told her.
He was already pulling her into his arms. She tried to catch her balance but couldn’t, stumbling against him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, so they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. She was too stunned to pull away, aware of the hard muscle that defined him, and that perfectly balanced her own soft shape.
We are made to be together.
The thought entered her mind before she could stop it, and once it was there she knew it was true. She could feel the steady thump of his heart against her cheek and the warmth of his breath in her hair as he bent his head to hers.
“My lord …” she whispered, wondering what on earth she was doing here and why she wasn’t struggling and screaming.
“My name is Dominic,” he reminded her, his voice deep and intimate.
“You must let me go,” Margaret told him in what was meant to be a firm and no nonsense tone, but instead turned soft and breathy and not at all convincing.
His fingertips slid down the side of her face and when they reached her chin, he lifted it so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes again. He was very close.
“I want to kiss you, Margaret,” he said in a tight voice, as if he was on the verge of losing control.
When she opened her mouth to protest his closed over it. She’d enjoyed his kisses before, but she had told herself they couldn’t possibly be as wonderful as she’d remembered. Only they were. The warm and insistent pressure of his lips, of his tongue caressing hers, gave her tingles all the way down to her toes.
“Oh,” she said, or something similar, as it was difficult to speak sensibly when someone was kissing you. Besides, she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.
She felt him smile, his mouth curving against hers, and something about that made her insides melt with longing.
His lips pressed a little more firmly and his tongue played with the crease in her lips, dipping inside her mouth in a way that made her ache. She swayed, her arms lifting so that her fingers could cling to his shoulders, and then his neck. The hair at his nape was softer than she’d thought.
“Where is that girl?”
The voice was right outside the door. Her father, sounding pained, as if Margaret made a habit of disappearing every time he wanted her. She stiffened and took a step back, afraid they would be discovered at any moment.
The earl’s mouth slid along her cheek, his breath warm in her ear. “Softly,” he whispered. “Unless you want him to find us?”
Margaret stepped back further and frowned up into his face. “What do you mean?”
“It would certainly solve your problem, wouldn’t it?”
“It would solve nothing!” she gasped, trying to keep her voice down.
“Wouldn’t it?” He made a sound in the back of his throat, and his fingers brushed against the pulse in her neck, slipping down to the soft collar of her gown. Then his fingers ran back and forth along it, slowly, mesmerizingly, and she found she was barely able to breathe. Her chest was rising and falling so rapidly that her breasts pushed against his chest, and the sensation was exquisite.
Although it would be so much better if we were naked.
Again the thought lodged in her head, and shocked her into protest.
“My lord …”
“Dominic.”
“Dominic, we should open the door now.”
His lips traced the shape of her jaw and she found herself tilting her head to accommodate him. His finger was underneath her collar now, touching her skin, brushing the upper curves of her breasts. She knew she should stop him. No man had ever been so forward with her, and yet she didn’t want him to stop. In her heart she wanted more. She wanted to experience all there was to know between a man and a woman, and she wanted that man to be Dominic.
His lips found the hollow of her throat and his tongue dipped in, and her head fell back on a soft moan.
“So responsive,” he said, and licked her again.
The tingling seemed to centre itself in her breasts, and she found herself wanting to press closer to him, rub against him, which was quite worrying. Whatever he was doing to her was making her unhinged.
But his suggestion that he allow them to be caught had frightened her. She could picture the expression on her father’s face, and on the faces of all those she had known from childhood, and it was too much to bear. Then there was Louis—what would he think? No, it was time to put a stop to this.
“Let me go.”
Dominic lifted his head and there was a gleam in his dark eyes that made her want to run, and at the same time made her want to stay.
&
nbsp; She didn’t wait for his response but pulled away from him, scrabbling behind her at the door, searching for the handle. It clicked and she hastily slid through.
The alcove was invisible from the room, unless you were standing right in front of it, but again no one was. Her heart was still beating wildly but she told herself she was safe. Then she remembered how he had kissed her and held her, and she touched her mouth and knew that it was swollen.
She couldn’t face anyone in this state. Keeping her head down she made her way out of the parlour.
“Margaret?” Louis was calling to her, but she didn’t turn.
“My mother. I need to check on my mother,” she said hurriedly, and made her escape into the corridor.
A moment later she was outside the White Boar, the cold air stinging her face, clouding her breath, and numbing her feet through her thin slippers.
Winter had well and truly come to Denwick and right now its bleakness felt appropriate.
Dominic went to the table and poured himself a tankard of ale. He’d lingered in the small room until he thought he was respectable, but had hoped Margaret might have remained in the parlour. He should have known she’d take fright. He shouldn’t have pushed her; he’d known it, and yet couldn’t seem to help himself. When he’d kissed her, touched her, he’d been on the verge of losing control.
He’d wanted to let himself go.
Dominic had never claimed the title of ‘rake’; he was too considerate for that. He had never seduced an unwilling woman, or even one who blew hot and cold. His lovers had always been as keen as him to find physical satisfaction, no matter how brief. But just now, with Margaret, he’d found himself wishing he was the sort of man who would push through his partner’s doubts and convince her to let him have his way with her.
The way she’d responded, the sounds she’d made, he knew she wanted him, too. He also knew that if he ignored her concerns she would run away, and that would be the end of any hope he might have of winning her over. Had he been too dominant just now? Had he lost her completely?
“Nic, this is Mr Scott.”
His sister’s voice brought him around. She was looking at him as if she knew there was something wrong. No doubt she would try to question him once they were alone, but for now, thank God, she was silent.
“Mr Scott the curate?” he asked, although he knew it must be him.
“The very same,” Sibylla said smugly.
The man was in his mid-twenties, with fair hair and guileless blue eyes. Dominic could already tell the curate was a good man—he had that air about him—the sort who would treat Margaret well and probably love her too. He knew he should let nature take its course, or fate, as Margaret would say. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Despite all his doubts a moment ago he wasn’t ready to give up. He refused to walk away from the woman he wanted to devote his life to. The woman who was perhaps his last chance of finding the sort of happy ending he’d given to others.
Did that make him selfish? He didn’t care. Dominic had come to Denwick with the intention of saving Margaret and making her his, and he hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, his resolution had grown stronger over the past few days.
Louis claimed his attention. “I have heard much of you, my lord.” His smile had an innocence that was faintly disturbing when Dominic considered what he had just been doing to the man’s intended. “Margaret has mentioned her stay in Mockingbird Square many times.”
“Has she?”
“Although I think she was a little lost there. Denwick is her real home.”
Dominic had the strong urge to punch the man in the nose. Sibylla must have sensed it, because she reached out and took his arm firmly in hers. “She fitted in to Mockingbird Square perfectly,” she said. “We were sorry to see her go.”
“Oh.” Louis’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “Mr Willoughby believed London was prejudicial to her health.”
“Are you sure it isn’t Mr Willoughby who is prejudicial to her health?” Dominic asked, giving up on restraint.
But Louis didn’t appear to find his words offensive. Instead he considered them for a moment. “Yes, you may be right,” he said. He gave them his sweet smile. “Nevertheless, she is home now and I am glad to have her here. She is a remarkable young woman, as you are no doubt well aware.”
Dominic gritted his teeth.
“I am sure you are a great help to her, and the vicar,” Sibylla said quickly. When he turned his smile on her, she seemed a little dazed. “Uhm. Will we be seeing you on Sunday at luncheon, Mr Scott?”
“I hope so.”
The curate looked a little dazed himself, Dominic decided. His sister could have that effect on men, but they didn’t usually have the same effect on her.
“Perhaps,” Louis began, and then bit his lip. “It may be presumptuous of me, but Margaret mentioned that you sing. We have a Christmas play, and I wondered if you would like to take part. There are still roles to be filled and …” He blushed. “Of course, you may be gone from Denwick by then.”
Sibylla glanced at Dominic. “Perhaps we can stay a little longer …?”
“Of course, Lady Strangeways would need to approve,” Louis said hurriedly, looking flustered now, as if he’d forgotten the biggest hurdle of all.
Dominic coughed back a laugh. “I’m sure Lady Strangeways would be delighted to have my sister in her play. Although I think ‘sing’ is doing Sibylla a disservice. She has an exquisite voice.”
Sibylla blushed and then coughed too. “Apart from your little party in Mockingbird Square, I have not done any singing for a long time, Nic. You are giving Mr Scott the sort of high expectations I can never live up to.”
But Louis appeared delighted. “Then you could do a piece on your own rather than take part in the play! That would not require Lady Strangeways’ approval, so we will not have to bother her.”
“If you … I suppose so. What should I sing?”
They moved closer to each other, heads together, and Dominic had the impression they had forgotten all about him. This was a surprise. Sibylla had always had a fancy for men who were bad for her, and here she was blushing and simpering, quite giddy in fact, with an angelic curate.
It couldn’t last, he warned himself. Lady Strangeways was sure to put paid to Mr Scott’s dreams. She would not want ramshackle Sibylla taking pride of place, or any place at all, in the Christmas celebrations.
And if that happened then there would be really no reason to stay longer in Denwick. Except that he couldn’t tear himself away.
9
There seemed to be more people than usual filling up the church pews, all listening to Mr Willoughby’s sermon. The vicar found it gratifying, imagining it was his words that had brought the villagers from far and wide. “The church will probably be full to bursting when they hear I am leaving!” he said to his family that morning, before he ascended the pulpit. Then, with a frown at Margaret and his wife, he said, “You haven’t told anyone, have you? The news is a secret until it is properly announced by the Dean.”
“No, Father, I haven’t told anyone,” Margaret answered automatically. It wasn’t entirely true. She had told Aunt Lily in the letter she had sent asking her to stay for Christmas. Surely that would not matter? Who could Lily tell after all?
But no matter what the vicar thought was the reason for the good turn out this morning, Margaret knew differently. Once again it was Dominic and his sister the congregation had come to see. A real live earl from London in their little village? What could be more exciting?
Margaret was in a pew to the side of the pulpit, holding her mother’s hand to keep her seated—leaving her room always made her nervous—and doing her best not to turn her head and gawk like the rest. Though she did not have to turn her head very far because Dominic and Lady Sibylla were in the pew directly adjacent to her and across the aisle, while Lady Strangeways was seated on Margaret’s side, as close to the pulpit as she could be.
Maybe it
was her new found flair for the dramatic, but Margaret felt as if the woman had placed herself like a bulwark between the vicar’s family and the worldly temptations of the earl and his sister.
Lady Sibylla ducked her head to see around Lady Strangeways and gave Margaret a smile. She seemed bright and bubbly and definitely recovered from her cold. Dominic did not turn his head at all, staring straight ahead with a grave expression on his face, as if his thoughts were heavy indeed.
Margaret reminded herself yet again that he would not be staying much longer. With the disposal of the house well under way and Sir Cecil buried, Dominic had no reason to stay. None at all. And once he was gone they could all be comfortable again, which was a good thing. Yes, a very good thing.
“Margaret, you are squeezing my hand too tight,” her mother murmured, with a nervous glance.
Margaret loosened her grip. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t let Lady Strangeways intimidate you,” she whispered.
“I don’t. I try not to.” Margaret was surprised by how coherent her mother sounded.
“She may be a lady now, but she began life as a maidservant in Lord Strangeways’ house in Yorkshire.” Mrs Willoughby put a finger to her lips, as if this was a secret. “Once they were married, they came here to escape the gossip. Your father has forgotten the truth, or prefers not to remember. Over the years, Lady Strangeways has become more and more like those who once looked down on her.”
Margaret hadn’t known that story, and although it was a surprise, it also explained the woman’s bitter tongue and difficult personality. But more of a surprise was how intelligible her mother was today. “You remember that?” she asked curiously.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s just … some days you don’t remember.”
Whatever her mother would have said was interrupted by the vicar, who had noticed their lack of attention and sent them a ferocious glare. Mrs Willoughby gave a little giggle, as if she’d reverted to girlhood, and Margaret couldn’t help her own lips twitching. After that they remained silent for the rest of the sermon.