by Sara Bennett
Dominic stayed awake during Mr Willoughby’s sermon, but only just. It was so tedious he was surprised to see so many people were present. He’d felt Sibylla’s sharp elbow in his ribs more than once, whenever his eyes threatened to close. Margaret was nearby but he didn’t once look in her direction. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to give Lady Strangeways any more ammunition, but he also wanted to wait until he could talk to Margaret properly. After yesterday’s dominant performance, he needed to choose his words carefully, and the last thing he wanted was for any attention from him beforehand to make her uncomfortable.
Snow was falling outside as the congregation made their way toward the door with its recessed porch and out to the churchyard. The vicar was there holding court with Lady Strangeways, as if she was his wife and not the frail looking woman at Margaret’s side.
It was time, he told himself. He had matters to discuss with her and the sooner the better. Dominic made his way over to them.
Margaret watched him come and her expression turned uneasy. He’d been right to avoid her in the church. She’d decided he was a dangerous rake and she was going to do all in her power to send him back to London. Well, he’d just have to persuade her otherwise.
He bowed politely. “Miss Willoughby.”
“Mother, this is the Earl of Monkstead,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
Mrs Willoughby smiled up at him, at the same time looking a little startled. “The earl? Margaret did mention you in her letters. She mentioned you rather a lot.”
“Mother,” Margaret murmured a warning.
Dominic felt his lips twitch. “Did she? How gratifying.”
Mrs Willoughby continued with her stream of thought as if he hadn’t spoken. “Though I did not know you were here in Denwick.” She looked to her daughter as if for an explanation, and then seemed to decide it didn’t matter. “You have come a long way from London.”
“A very long way,” he agreed.
Rumour had it that Mrs Willoughby wasn’t well but he wasn’t sure exactly what the matter was—apart from a certain vagueness in her thoughts she appeared well. Her eyes were the same green as Margaret’s, and there were other facial similarities that made him think she had been a very pretty woman when she was young.
She turned to her daughter again and spoke in a tentative voice. “I wonder … Margaret, do you think we could invite his lordship to luncheon today?”
Finally Margaret met his eyes and he read the sadness in them. “I think we can do that, mother.” She stared at him harder and he understood she was giving him a warning to play along with her mother’s lapse in memory. “Will you come to luncheon today, my lord?” she issued the polite invitation as if for the first time.
“Thank you, I will.”
From her smile he knew he had pleased her. Mrs Willoughby beamed up at him as well. “I’m so glad,” she said. “We so rarely meet Margaret’s friends and you made a great hit with her.”
Margaret didn’t bother to reprimand her this time. The colour in her cheeks deepened and Dominic longed to tease her and fluster her even more. But before he could decide what to say, the vicar had joined them.
His wife turned to him with a smile, excited to share the good news. “The earl is sitting down with us for luncheon!”
Mr Willoughby’s frown was impatient, his voice long suffering. “Of course he is. You knew that already, my dear. Why do you think cook has been busy all morning and yesterday you helped polish the silver? Now come along, let’s get back to the vicarage. I fancy a glass of sherry.”
Her face fell and she looked about her, as if to corroborate the truth. “I already knew that?” she whispered. Dominic saw her deflate, all of her pleasure leaking out of her. Margaret reached to squeeze her hand. “It’s quite all right, Mother. I had forgotten too.”
The vicar shot his daughter a look, as if deeming her kindness futile, then clasped his wife’s arm. “Come along, come along,” he said, and hurried her off toward the vicarage, scattering the onlookers as he went.
The churchyard was emptying, and Dominic and Margaret were left standing in the sheltered alcove which led to the church door. He imagined the Denwick weather made such an architectural device essential.
“My mother is unwell.”
Margaret’s quiet voice brought him closer. She wore the same brown cloak he’d seen her in before and her boots were sturdy beneath the hem of her plain blue gown. No adornments, not even a ruffle at her throat, and yet in his eyes she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He cleared his throat. “What does her doctor say?”
She frowned. “That she is tired and must rest. I want her to see another doctor, but my father … He prefers to believe nothing is wrong.”
He had the urge to wrap his arms around her and draw her into the warmth of his body, but couldn’t. She was talking to him again as if they were friends and he needed to behave in kind. So he contented himself with saying, “There are doctors she could see in London.”
She looked up at him, eyes hopeful, searching his, and then, disappointed, shook her head. “My father would never consider taking her there. And my mother … Some days she is afraid to leave her room. Some days she does not even know where she is or—or who she is.”
“These things can be managed,” he reassured her, although really he had no idea. But Dominic was confident that if anyone could create order out of chaos then it was he.
“By bullying her, you mean? I prefer not to use my father’s methods.”
“Margaret—”
She took a breath and he knew she was about to deliver the speech she had been preparing since the funeral. “What you did the last time we met, what you said … You must know I cannot allow you those liberties. Besides, you are only too well aware of the obstacles between us. You and I come from vastly different walks of life.”
“Perhaps there are differences in wealth and prestige, but in character we are perfectly suited, Margaret.”
“How can you say that? How can you speak to me in this way when we both know you are married, my lord?” Her eyes were even greener than usual, her lips red from the cold. He noticed that she was twisting her gloved hands together and reached to take them both in his larger hand, stilling her agitation.
“You are cold,” he said. “We should go inside.”
“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” she asked in despair.
He sighed. “I have listened. I am listening. But nothing you say will make me change my mind.”
Dominic could see her debating whether or not to ask him what it was he had made up his mind about. He was ready for her, ready to declare himself. He felt the heat in his blood, the tug of his heart, and he knew he wanted to tell her exactly how he felt, even if it meant that afterwards she turned and ran from him.
Time passed. It seemed she wasn’t brave enough after all. “You will not ask me?”
“I can’t.”
He brought her hands to his mouth.
Her lip trembled. “My lord … Dominic …”
He gazed into her eyes so there could be no doubt in her mind that he meant what he said. “Then I’ll tell you anyway. I think, at the inn, I was too rough with you. I let my feelings overrule good sense. But you should know that I desire you, Margaret. Deeply desire you. I want a life with you that means I can hold you and kiss you, wrap my arms about you in the darkness of the night and wake up with you in the morning.”
Her face had paled and a tear ran down her cheek. “Please don’t …” she gasped, but he had to finish what he wanted to say.
“I love you, Margaret.” His breath warmed her face. “I want to be with you. I want us to be together.”
She tugged, trying to pull her hands away, and he released them. She began to shake her head as if she was denying his words, wiping them from her mind. “You can’t,” she blurted out. “It isn’t possible.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is. Does my loving you
not change anything? Margaret, can’t you see how perfect we would be together?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice full of misery. “I’m sorry, but no, I can’t see that. And no, it doesn’t change my mind. I want you to leave Denwick. As soon as possible.”
10
Dominic’s handsome face was full of such intense feeling. His dark eyes were on fire with the emotions he had just expressed to her so eloquently. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and hold him. Kiss him. She knew now what it was like to kiss him and she wanted more, so much more. She wanted to say yes, please love me and take me away with you.
Only it couldn’t be. She was clinging on to reality by a thread and she couldn’t let herself weaken and fall. Denying what her heart craved was tearing her in two.
It was a relief when she heard voices behind her, coming from inside what she had thought was an empty church. Other people meant she could step away, give herself some distance, and compose herself. Become Margaret Willoughby again rather than the passionate woman she barely recognised.
“Margaret! Miss Willoughby!” Sibylla and Louis arrived together, both looking startled to see her and the earl. At first, as Louis’s earnest blue eyes slid between the two of them she thought he had noticed something wrong. Then it occurred to her that it was Louis himself who looked guilty, as if it was he who was somehow culpable.
Margaret turned to Sibylla. She was very beautiful, and it was understandable that some men would find it difficult to keep away from her, but she had never thought Louis was such a man.
“Lady Sibylla has agreed to sing during our Christmas service,” he said, as if that explained their tardy departure from the church. “We were discussing her choice of song.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Margaret said, hoping her enthusiasm didn’t sound too forced. It was a wonderful idea, but right now she was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but Dominic’s declaration. “But … I thought you were leaving very soon to return to London?”
Sibylla exchanged a look with her brother, but what it meant Margaret wasn’t sure.
“There is some more paperwork to finalise,” Dominic said, his voice not quite as even as usual. “That is, legal matters in regard to our great uncle’s estate. I want to be certain everything is done properly before I leave.”
“Best to be certain everything is done properly,” Sibylla repeated, nodding wisely.
Louis gave Dominic one of his earnest looks, although Margaret noticed that when he glanced at Sibylla his cheeks coloured. He looked more like a love-struck boy than the mild-mannered curate she knew.
“What you are doing with the house,” he said, “is very generous of you, my lord.”
“My brother is a very generous man.” Sibylla stated it as fact. “He has put aside his own wishes and feelings for the good of others on more than one occasion.”
Dominic frowned in annoyance. “You make me sound like a saint, Sib. I am very far from that.”
Margaret, until now so quiet, couldn’t help herself. “In my experience saints are a very tedious lot. Either they are so perfect it makes one despair of ever achieving such a state, or else they are suffering appalling torments with unbelievable resignation.”
Dominic’s frown lifted and his eyes warmed. She knew what he was thinking. This was the Margaret from Mockingbird Square he enjoyed sparing with, and he was glad to have her back.
Louis chuckled. “I have seen paintings of those saints, and I agree that few of us could aspire to such heights. Nor would we want to.”
There was an awkward pause and Margaret wished herself far away. She said quickly, “If any of us are to eat today then I need to go and see to luncheon.”
“Yes, of course.” Louis reached for her arm as if it was expected. Margaret supposed it was. They were going to become engaged at some point. But at the same time she glanced up at Dominic and what she saw both thrilled and disturbed her. The smile on his mouth had faded into a tight line and his eyes were filled with the need to possess. She was his, that was what his face was telling her. He didn’t want Louis to touch her he didn’t want any man to touch her but him.
She turned away, just as Sibylla slipped her hand through her brother’s elbow. “Will Lady Strangeways be eating with us?” she asked. “She called upon us at the inn.” Something in her voice made Margaret think the visit hadn’t been very affable.
“What did she say?” Margaret asked, looking back over her shoulder.
Sibylla looked to her brother and once again something passed between them. When she turned back to Margaret she was smiling but her eyes were cool. “I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding on her part. We will disregard it, Margaret.”
The four of them moved out of the churchyard and along the street toward the vicarage. Louis pointed out to Sibylla some of the gargoyles on the exterior of the church, their faces barely recognizable from centuries of rain and wind. While the two of them chatted, Margaret and Dominic were silent, but she felt his presence acutely. And suddenly their conversation of moments ago returned to her with a rush.
He loves me. Dominic loves me, Margaret Willoughby. He wants to spend his life with me.
She didn’t know what to say, how to behave, and at the same time she knew she would have to respond. And there was only one way she could respond. She would have to send him away forever and already her heart was breaking at the thought.
“And see this one here …?” Louis pointed and at the same moment stepped away from Margaret, while Sibylla did the same from Dominic. Heads close they moved to stare up at the blob of stone—well that’s what it looked like to Margaret.
She would have gone on alone but the next moment Dominic was beside her, his low, husky voice making her tingle all over. “So you’re not a fan of saints? I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”
“Why, because you are so far from sainthood?” It was easier to verbally spar with him than talk about what was important.
“Very far, Margaret, as you know only too well.”
There was that look in his eyes again, making her think he wanted to kiss her and so much more. She swallowed, narrowing her gaze at him. “If you were a saint then I think you would be the patron saint of meddlers. St Dominic the Meddler. It suits you.”
He laughed, delighted. “I’ll have it carved above my door in Mockingbird Square.”
“You sound very jolly.” Sibylla was back, smiling now, her gaze curious.
“We are all very jolly today,” Dominic replied. “When did you develop such an interest in architecture, Sib?”
Sibylla pulled a face at him. “I’ve always been interested. When I was living in Italy I saw a great many old buildings. Lived in them too.”
Louis picked up on the theme. “I have always wanted to see the world. I envy you, Lady Sibylla.”
“You would not envy me if you knew how dreadful the accommodations were where we were staying, Mr Scott. Beauty does not always equate with comfort.” Her laugh was light, as if such difficulties were all simply a part of living. Margaret wondered if Louis knew Sibylla had scandal attached to her name, and whether it would bother him if he did. Somehow she didn’t think it would. He had an understanding soul.
The curate turned to Dominic. “Have you travelled too, my lord?”
Dominic blinked, as if he had been dragged out of his own deep thoughts, and then cleared his throat. “Not as much as my sister. Now that the war with Napoleon is over I hope to. That is, if I can find the right companion.”
“And how will you do that?” Louis asked. “Find the right companion, I mean, my lord?”
“Oh, I believe I have already found that person.”
Did he mean her? She remembered that night in Mockingbird Square when she said goodbye to him, there had been talk of travelling. Could he be remembering that now, or was there some other person he was thinking of? She didn’t know what was worse, wanting to travel the world with him and knowing she couldn’
t, or imagining him doing so with another woman.
They had reached the vicarage door. Margaret forced herself to turn to face him, and asked in a tight little voice, “How do you know this person wishes to travel with you? What if they say no?”
Before he could answer Sibylla interrupted, shooting another glance between Margaret and her brother. “There is one thing you should know about Dominic,” she said. “He always gets his way.”
“Not always, surely,” Margaret retorted, though she knew she sounded impolite.
He smiled down at her. “Would you like to wager on that, Miss Willoughby?”
Margaret turned away, shaken, her emotions in turmoil. How could he say such things to her when he knew she had no answers?
Inside the vicarage it was warm, and the smells of roasting meat permeated the air, but she barely noticed. Louis was busy helping Sibylla remove her fur lined cloak, and before Margaret could do more than untie the cords at the throat of her own plain woollen one, she felt Dominic’s hands on her shoulders.
“Can you imagine seeing the world with me beside you?” he asked, his voice too low to be heard by anyone but herself. “Exploring places we have only ever dreamed of or read about in books?”
“We would argue,” she said, breathless, wanting to escape him, but he wouldn’t let her. His hands remained firm on her shoulders.
“Of course we would argue. That’s part of the fun of being with you, Margaret. You don’t try to please me by agreeing with me. And I would be an exacting companion, I admit it. I would expect you to pay me a great deal of attention.”
“Would you?” she managed to say past the lump in her throat.
“Oh yes. And I would concern myself very much with your comfort and well-being, down to the smallest detail. You would never be safer than in my hands.”
If she leaned back just a little she would be resting against his chest. He was so close to her already, she could feel his warmth through her clothing, or perhaps she was imagining it. If he bent his head slightly he would be able to kiss her cheek, and if she tilted her head, he would trail his lips down her neck as he had in the little room at the inn.