by Sara Bennett
So she continued to sob into his shoulder while he continued to hold her. After a time he found her a handkerchief and she buried her nose in it, still not moving from her comfortable spot. Her tears began to slow and she was exhausted. It was as if a dam had burst and all the emotion she had been holding back had flooded out, and she wasn’t sure what was left.
“You are a wicked man,” she said in a shaky voice.
“I know, but I mean well.”
With a sigh she lifted her head. Despite wiping away her tears with his handkerchief she must look a fright. He was watching her, his dark eyes warm with emotion. She saw sympathy and understanding, but she knew that neither of those things meant he was going to turn around and take her home again. She accepted that he wasn’t. She was even feeling a little bit relieved about that.
“I didn’t know what to do. At home, I mean. I felt overwhelmed,” she admitted to him, her voice catching. She stopped another sob by biting her lip.
He bent closer, as if to comfort her. “I could see that,” he replied gently.
She set her hands on his shoulders. “This isn’t the solution,” she said as sternly as she was able.
“It is one solution,” he replied, sitting back a little to observe her, his arm firm about her waist to prevent her moving from his lap. “It is the solution I have chosen.”
She stared at him but he said nothing more, just watched her curiously, waiting to see what she’d do next.
“How will running away with me help? My father will be furious. I won’t even be able to escape by marrying Louis. I’ll have to stay a spinster forever. And what of the new parish? Will the Dean allow my father to accept such a rise in status when his daughter has a scandal hanging over her head and the Willoughby name?”
“I will deal with it,” he said.
“You’ll …?”
“Of course I will. Who do you think I am?”
She blinked at him, yet again amazed at his arrogance. “My father will refuse help from you on principal!”
“Your father might be a bully and a brute, but he’s a practical bully and brute. He won’t refuse my help, Margaret.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes, wanting to argue, almost wanting him to be wrong. Knowing it, his mouth twitched into a smile and he tipped the end of her nose with his fingertip.
“You’ll see,” he promised. “I am going to raise your father to the dizzy heights he’s always wanted to reach, and I will see to it that your mother lives out her life comfortably and happily. There will be nothing left for you to worry about, Margaret.”
“But why?” she cried. “Why would you do all this for me?”
“You know why. Because I love you, and by compromising you I get to keep you.”
“Unless I refuse to be compromised,” she retorted. “Others may believe I have succumbed, but at least I will know the truth.”
“Very true.” He sounded out of sorts.
“If I refuse, will my refusal change your mind about running off with me?” she asked in a voice that strove to be calm.
Dominic shook his head at her. “No. Never.”
“But—”
“Margaret, I want you to understand that whatever happens between us, I will fulfil my promises. I want you to be free. No longer shackled or a martyr. You may never be mine, not in the way I had hoped. That is true. But even if you do not stay with me, if you don’t want to be my love, then it will still make me happy to know I have been instrumental in changing your life for the better.
Dominic sounded sincere and she could not doubt he meant what he said. He would not pressure her into accepting him as her lover. He wanted to give her a happy ending, or as happy as he could manage in difficult circumstances.
Margaret opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She needed to think. Reluctantly, she climbed off his lap and returned to her side of the coach. There was a rug folded on the seat beside her and she drew it over herself, realizing how cold it was without Dominic to keep her warm.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked in a more reasonable voice. “Answer me truthfully now.”
“A friend of mine has a hunting lodge and it’s empty. We will go there.”
“An empty hunting lodge?”
He smirked at her uneasy state. “Don’t worry, Margaret, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. As you so rightly pointed out, being in my company is enough to ruin you in the eyes of others. I don’t need to carry you unwilling to my bed.”
There was a bitterness in his voice that stopped her from answering in the forceful manner she was about to. Had she hurt his feelings? she asked herself. But then didn’t he deserve to be hurt after what he had done to her this day?
I am ruined.
She repeated the words to herself, savouring them, wondering why they didn’t strike the sort of terror into her heart that she knew they should. How many times had she heard whispers in the village about girls who had done things they oughtn’t and the consequences they faced? Her father had castigated a couple only last month for an act of fornication outside the sanctity of marriage.
Margaret remembered feeling sorry for them, the poor young things. The girl with her tear-streaked face and the boy trembling with terror as they stood before the vicar. They were married as soon as could be, but according to her father the stain would remain.
Margaret looked out of the window and saw that the light was fading. Soon it would be night, and by morning she would be damaged goods. She could expect to be shunned and whispered about and treated with contempt for the rest of her days. If Lady Strangeways heard the news she would be sure to spread it far and wide, until there was nowhere Margaret could go where it was not known. No man would want her.
She closed her eyes and let both facts soak in.
She was ruined.
She was free.
And she didn’t know how she felt about either.
14
Dominic helped her down from the coach. When she swayed he held her hand, steadying her, while in front of them the door to the lodge opened and a small woman peered out at them.
“Are you Sir Peter’s guests?” she asked.
“Yes. My wife is very tired. Are our rooms prepared?”
Margaret glanced up at him in surprise but said nothing. She had said nothing for the final part of their journey, and although he must have wondered what she was thinking he’d let her be. She supposed there would be time enough to discuss her fate over the next five days. What else would they do? Margaret had already told him she intended to resist his charms and he certainly showed no intention of forcing himself upon her. It occurred to her that a man like Dominic, a wealthy and powerful earl, could do whatever he chose with her and be immune from censure or punishment. That he chose not to said much about what sort of man he was. All the same, with neither one of them choosing to make a move, they were at a stalemate.
“Yes, sir. Your rooms are ready. This way, sir. Madam.”
The hunting lodge was small, but it had everything needed for their comfort. There was a row of stag heads on the wall, staring glassily down upon them. The servant, Mrs MacLeod, informed them she was the housekeeper and lived in a cottage at the back.
“I haven’t opened up all of the rooms,” she said. “Only the ones required for your stay. Your coach driver and servants can lodge in the quarters above the stables until you need them.”
Dominic exchanged a few words with her but Margaret wasn’t listening. She had never been in a hunting lodge before. She knew it was the sort of place that wealthy gentlemen owned or visited with others of their kind, to shoot and hunt, and no doubt drink and carouse.
“Your bed chambers are here.” Mrs MacLeod led them up the stairs, pointing out two rooms opposite each other across the landing. “I hope you are comfortable. Supper will be ready in the small parlour in half an hour. Goodnight to ye, sir. Madam.”
A moment later, Margaret was alone inside her room.
&n
bsp; She noticed there were items of clothing on the bed, as well as other personal objects she would need, because of course she hadn’t been able to pack. Dominic had thought of everything, and—as was often the case with him—she didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. The idea of being without a change of clothing or a hair brush had been worrying her on the final part of their journey.
There was warm water in a jug, and knowing she only had half an hour until supper, she washed her face and brushed out her hair. There was no time to properly change, so she smoothed her crumpled blue gown in front of the mirror which was fastened above the elegant dressing table.
She didn’t look any different, she told herself, and if there was a new sparkle in her tired eyes then she refused to acknowledge it.
A moment later, she left her room and found Dominic waiting for her on the landing.
“The housekeeper said we were guests of Sir Peter. Who is Sir Peter?” Margaret asked him as they descended the stairs.
He smiled. “Sir Peter Grey, of course.”
Her eyes widened at this mention of the important gentleman her father was always trying to impress. “You know him?”
“We were at school together. I’ve known him for years.”
“Oh.”
They found the small parlour. It was a cosy room which opened off the larger dining room—one of the rooms Mrs MacLeod had not prepared. Margaret was rather glad when she saw more animal heads lining the walls.
Their supper was simple—cold meats and bread and cheese—and had been set on a table by the fireplace where logs burned merrily. A lamp stood near the door behind them, but otherwise the room was lit only by the flickering firelight.
Margaret found she was hungrier than she had thought. She supposed she could have refused to eat and locked herself safely in her room. Shouldn’t starvation have been preferable to ruination? But the thought didn’t appeal to her at all. What was the point in starving herself? She was ruined in the eyes of society regardless. Besides, the room was warm and comfortable, and Dominic was pouring her a glass of red wine. She’d much rather be here with him.
She looked up and found his dark eyes intent upon her. He took a sip of his wine, and she let herself take in his strong fingers clasped about the goblet, and the movement of his throat. His dark hair was a little untidy, as if he’d merely run his hands through it instead of using a brush, but as always his clothing was immaculate.
Outwardly he was the same man she had first encountered in Mockingbird Square, but he was no longer a stranger. She felt as if she had come to know and understand him.
“Sir Peter Grey must know I’m not really your wife,” she said. Then, with a spurt of anger, “I imagine there are many ‘friends’ of Sir Peter who bring their supposed wives here.”
“I’ve never been here before now,” he said, “and I’ve certainly never brought another woman.” He reached for her hand.
She let him hold it, wondering what he was going to say. It occurred to her that even if he had not been to this place before, Dominic could still have stayed elsewhere with women he passed off as his wife. How did she know? And why was she feeling this hot spurt of jealousy?
He was not hers, just as she was not his. They were not married and could never be. And there was grief in that acknowledgment.
She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. When she looked at him the earnest expression on his face made her go still.
“If I could I would take you to the border and marry you right now,” he said. It was as if he had read her mind. “Or we could return to London and I would arrange a grand ceremony with guests from the highest to the lowest in the land, so that you would know how much you mean to me. But I cannot.”
“Because you already have a wife.”
He looked down at her fingers, his own tangled with them, and she could see he was considering his next words. In the end it was Margaret who spoke.
“I’m not so naïve that I don’t understand there are many marriages of convenience,” she said, trying to sound reasonable and ignore the pain in her chest. “People marry for reasons other than affection, especially the wealthy and the aristocratic. Olivia married for love and I envy her that. She fought against the naysayers to get her way. I understand that isn’t possible for everyone.”
“My own situation wasn’t quite as simple,” he said, and glanced up at her as if to gauge her mood. Or perhaps he just felt uncomfortable speaking about something so intensely personal, something she knew he rarely talked about.
She began to remove her hand from his but he tightened his hold on it. After a moment she let it be.
The fire had burned down to glowing coals and everything was still. Wherever Mrs MacLeod had gone, she was unlikely to disturb them again until the morning. If he wanted to tell her of his past then she would listen, although she already sensed it would not be a cheery story.
“My father was a gambler,” he began reluctantly.
He looked up at her again, as if to note her response, but she simply nodded and waited.
“Gambling is in the Frampton blood, along with all the other things that made my family rich and powerful, but my father had the trait to a marked degree.
“He was a good father to his children, better than most, but the gambling was an illness he couldn’t control. In the end it was his downfall, and through him, it was mine.
“He lost everything to a man who didn’t want our estate or our money. He wanted protection for his daughter. She had been born into a world where she could have had anything she wanted, but the tragedy was she would never be able to take advantage of it. Her father loved her and wanted to give her security. He knew when he died his wishes would be ignored by his other relatives. He had already heard rumours that she would be locked up in a Bedlam and left there to die.
“That was why, when he had my father at his mercy, he demanded only one thing from him. That I, his son, marry his daughter.”
Margaret stared down at his bent head. They were still holding hands and she had felt his grip on her tighten as his tale unfolded. As if he didn’t want to lose her. As if she might find his story unpalatable and leave him sitting here alone.
“So you married her,” she said for him.
“I did. For the sake of my father’s gambling debts—which were colossal by the way—I married that poor creature. Even though I knew I could never be a proper husband to her or she a proper wife. She was a poor creature, more of a child than a woman, and yet over the years we almost became friends. She could not leave her room, so I became her eyes in the world. She had her nurse write to me, long letters full of strange fantasies and longings. She set me tasks …” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say, I pitied her and tried to ease her days. In recent years she has grown worse, and now she has servants for her every daily need. She cannot leave her bed or even speak, and although death would be a blessing for her, she lives on. And I am still married to her.”
Margaret considered his words. They were dramatic and emotional, but she had learned that Dominic could be both beneath his grave expression and his teasing smile.
“How old were you when you married her?” she asked instead.
“I was barely nineteen.”
“So you have been married to her for …?”
“Nearly fifteen years.”
It sounded shocking. “I know divorce is difficult to secure … and not always granted, but couldn’t you have divorced her? Had your marriage annulled?”
“Her father was determined that would never happen. The marriage contract he had drawn up covered all of those areas. If I were to do either then my father and I would lose everything we had gained. Our fortune, our estates, everything.”
“And yet you could have done it.”
“I could have. If I wanted to be reduced to a pauper and see her locked away in an asylum.”
“It seems as if I am not the only one who wishes to play t
he martyr,” she said.
He grimaced. “I prefer to think of it as an act of kindness.”
“Hmm.” She might have said more but decided against it. She did not want to argue the point with him, and besides, she understood very well why he had allowed himself to be forced into such a situation and then found it impossible to escape.
Margaret lifted her other hand and brushed her fingers across his hair, combing back the dark lock that had fallen into his eyes. He started and looked up at her, and then sighed.
“At first I believed being married to her wouldn’t matter to me. Not so terribly much. Many men of my rank are married to women they do not love and go off to find their pleasures elsewhere.”
“Is that what you did? Found your pleasures elsewhere?”
Despite her efforts to sound calm he must have heard the jealousy in her voice—who would have thought that the vicar’s daughter could be such a possessive woman? He bent his head lower and kissed her hand, and then turned it over and kissed her palm. There was a desperation about him that hadn’t been there before, and she sensed he was worried that what he had said would turn her against him even more.
“I won’t pretend there haven’t been other women in my life, Margaret. There have been. I have had several mistresses—one I kept for nearly a year. At my age you would not expect me to be a virgin.”
She gave a startled laugh. She supposed she should be offended and tell him she was a respectable young woman with innocent ears, and how dare he? But Margaret had never been one to be offended by plain-speaking. The truth was she thought herself rather worldly.
“But there is one distinction between those women and my wife. And you,” he went on, and now he was looking into her eyes, so close she could see his dark pupils against the dark brown of his irises.
“What is that?”
“Love. I love you and I never loved them.”