by Sara Bennett
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, enjoying the view, as the Ice Maiden turned to fire.
“How dare he?” she breathed.
“Because he’s greedy and he can,” Sebastian replied evenly. “I suppose in a way it’s understandable. All his life he’s been told he’s a blue blooded aristocrat and he should have the means to flaunt it, and suddenly he has the means.”
Lavinia stopped in front of him, staring down at him. Sebastian knew that a gentleman would rise to his feet, but he was enjoying her transformation far too much to care. “That woman at the theatre,” she said, with suddenly understanding.
“His mistress, Mrs Chandler. Yes. I spoke to her.”
“Why would she care about me or Oliver?” Lavinia retorted, dark eyes flashing. “She’s getting what she wants from Martin.”
“One doesn’t have to have breeding to have a conscience,” he responded coolly.
Her teeth worried her lip and he felt himself go hard at the thought of what he wanted to do to her mouth. It felt like only yesterday he’d had that right. Their assignations had gone on for months before she was declared with child and Patrick had put a stop to them.
“I trusted Martin,” she admitted. “Or perhaps I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Understandable,” he replied. “And are you thinking straight now?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“Do you need my help?”
Her surprised gaze flew to his. For a moment he thought she would agree but then she shook her head. “I think I need to deal with Martin myself. If I am going to make my own way in this world then I need to face up to my family. I have let myself be persuaded and manipulated long enough.”
Lavinia had married Patrick when she was only seventeen, and in many ways Martin had simply stepped into his authoritative shoes. She was right, Sebastian decided, she needed to take control of her own life. No matter what had once been between them and how hurt he felt about that, he admired her strength. He was proud of her.
“You are capable of anything if you put your mind to it,” he said gruffly. “We both know that, Lavinia.”
Her eyes grew soft, full of emotion. “Sebastian . . .” For a moment he thought she was going to say something meaningful. She hesitated, lifting her hand, and he held his breath, wanting her to touch him. Desperate for the contact.
And then her fingers brushed against his jaw and she took a step closer, her soft curves pressed to his hard muscle. His control was shaky. It was a long time since he had held a woman, this woman. His woman.
Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes lying on her creamy skin, and there was a flush along her cheekbones. Her luscious mouth parted.
“Lavinia,” he murmured, and his lips pressed to hers, chastely at first. Her breath sighed out as if she had been waiting for this as long as he, and he deepened the kiss. She tasted the same, and he’d missed her so much. She wound her arms around his neck and he pulled her up against him. He opened his eyes, wishing she would open hers, so that he could read what was in them.
“Lavinia,” he groaned. “Look at me.”
Her expression was dazed, her dark eyes hazy. This was the Lavinia he had known, the woman who trembled in his arms with a passion they both knew was rare and beautiful. Then she gave a gasp, as if suddenly realising what was happening and who was holding her.
“Sebastian,” she said, sounding shaken and struggling to withdraw. “I can’t . . . it isn’t possible, not now. Not ever.”
He let her go although his arms and his heart felt empty. “Why not?” he asked her, his voice husky with need and edgy with frustration. “Why isn’t it possible? You are a widow, there is no Lord Richmond to stand in our way. Why not, Lavinia?”
She stared at him, as if she were debating whether he was genuinely asking her to tell him. As if she thought he should know.
“You know why,” she breathed.
He frowned, resisting the urge to shake her, or kiss her, or both. “Do I?”
“You and Patrick used me,” she went on. “I let myself be used, for my duty and friendship to him, and because I was already half in love with you. And then I fell deeper in love with you even though I knew it was wrong.”
“And yet when Patrick was dead you abandoned me,” he spoke evenly despite the melee of emotion pounding in his chest and his head. He needed to hear her reason; after all this time he was desperate to know what had sent her running from him.
She was chewing her lip again. “Sebastian, I did come to the hospital. When you were wounded, I did come. I sat with you. I was there. And then Martin . . . he told me what had happened. So I left and I didn’t come back.”
She was there! He shook his head, confused. She had been there by his side and he hadn’t known. “What did Martin tell you?” he demanded, sounding as if he was barely hanging on to his composure.
She stepped back and shook her head. Her voice was bewildered. “Why are you doing this? Why are you forcing me to tell you what you already know?”
There were tears in her eyes but he wouldn’t stop. “Tell me!”
“Martin said that you and Patrick were seen together at Waterloo, in the heat of the battle, and you pushed him into danger. You killed him. Everyone knew you had done it because we were lovers and you wanted me for yourself. Tell me, Sebastian, how could I turn around and align myself with the man who had killed my husband?”
So this was why . . . Suddenly her actions made a terrible sense.
He shook his head. “That is what your brother told you? He was right about the ugly feelings between Patrick and I. Our friendship was over. You saw that for yourself. But we were soldiers, there to fight for our country, and personal matters had to be put aside. So I put them aside. There was some rumour . . . some nonsense, but Wellington soon quashed it.” Suddenly he was furious. “You didn’t think to ask me for my side of the story?”
“I remembered the conversation we had had before you left. You asked me how I would feel if Patrick was killed . . .”
He took a step closer to her but she held her ground, lifting her chin and waiting for his excuses. She’d already made her mind up that he was guilty, Sebastian realised. She’d made it up that day in the hospital, and that was why she had refused to see him and sent his letters back unopened.
“Then let me enlighten you,” he said. “Let me tell you what I have never told anyone because I did not want to cause you further grief. Patrick hated me despite Oliver . . . because of Oliver. I might have set my personal feelings aside to concentrate on fighting Napoleon, but he hadn’t. He’d decided it would be better if I were out of his way, permanently, so he lured me into the battle. He had a pistol, and I’m sure I’d be dead now—an unfortunate casualty of war—if a cannon ball hadn’t landed next to us. He died immediately and I was injured.”
She swayed. “You can say that but—”
“But I’m lying?” he said, deceptively gentle. “You’d believe your brother, Lavinia, who is busy spending Oliver’s inheritance and no doubt would have done anything at the time to prevent me from marrying Patrick’s widow? Because that would mean he couldn’t have what he has always wanted—the money to go with his blue blood.”
She didn’t answer. He was wasting his breath and Sebastian had had enough. He had loved and longed, and fought, for this woman and it was obvious to him now that she did not want him. He was done. He turned his back, reaching for the door, his hand closing around the doorknob. Only then did he pause.
“Goodbye, Lavinia,” he said, and he meant it. He couldn’t do this anymore. This really was goodbye.
Ten
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Monkstead bowed over Lavinia’s hand, begging her pardon for the intrusion. He’d arrived as Captain Longhurst was leaving, but the other man had looked at him as if he didn’t recognise him, and did not respond to his greeting. The atmosphere was turbulent, and even if Lady Richmond’s face had not been pale and drawn, he wo
uld have known all was not well between her and the Captain.
“Perhaps I should return another time, Lady Richmond?”
She shook her head.
“Has Captain Longhurst upset you?”
She stared at him, her dark eyes full of emotion. He had never seen her so vulnerable. “I upset him,” she said, her voice on the verge of tears. “I hurt him.” Her voice wobbled and she bit her lip.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured, sitting down. “But lover’s tiffs are like rain storms, wild and distressing while they last, and next thing the sun is shining again.”
She laughed but it sounded more like a sob. “This is no lover’s tiff, Monkstead! This is a hurricane raging through the islands of the Caribbean destroying all in its path!”
So dramatic, he thought. Who would have thought Lady Richmond with her icy demeanour could be so theatrical. He liked her better like this.
“And yet those islands have survived many such storms,” he offered gently.
She seemed to realise she was not herself and cleared her throat, trying to pull herself together. “I’m sorry. My maid shouldn’t have let you in, but now you are here . . . ?”
“Of course, Lady Richmond. My apologies—I will state my business and be on my way. My sister is arriving in London tomorrow and I am hosting a supper in her honour tomorrow night. I know it’s short notice so I wanted to deliver my invitation in person.”
She put a hand to her throat and the smile she gave him was forced. “If I am able then I will be happy to attend. At the moment I am . . .” She shook her head.
“I understand.”
“Do you? I wish I did. I was unaware you had a sister.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you asking everyone in the square? Will Miss Willoughby be there?”
He was startled, wondering why she had chosen to ask about Margaret in particular, and then he remembered that the two women were friends. “I do intend to ask her,” he said evenly.
“You know that Margaret will be leaving us soon?” she rambled on. “Going home to marry the curate. She doesn’t want to, but she is being ‘persuaded’ it is the right thing to do by her family.”
She shook her head and for a moment he thought she was on the verge of another wild outburst.
“Perhaps you can convince her to stay, Lady Richmond.”
Lavinia sighed. “I wish I could. We will miss her, will we not?” She was looking directly at him.
There was an awkward silence. Did she suspect his feelings for Margaret Willoughby were not quite as uncomplicated as he pretended? Perhaps, but she wouldn’t know for certain, he was sure of that. Monkstead was a master of emotional disguise and when it came to Miss Willoughby he kept his feelings buried deep.
“I don’t think Margaret will miss me,” he replied with a smile, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest that she looked at him as if he was the devil, and an annoying devil at that.
Lavinia gave him a little smile. “Because she pretends to dislike you so much? I am always rather suspicious of those sorts of declarations, Monkstead. Especially when they are spoken so often and so forcefully.”
He smiled back at her. “You speak as one who knows, Lady Richmond. Are you thinking of Captain Longhurst? If I remember correctly, you were avoiding him in my library not so long ago.”
“That was an entirely different matter,” she muttered.
“Was it?” he said, watching her fidget. “Sometimes it seems as if our fate is set, and that we have no say in what will happen next. That isn’t so. We have choices.”
She shook her head. “You talk in riddles, Monkstead. What has this to do with Margaret Willoughby and Captain Longhurst?”
“There are impediments to happiness, but they are not insurmountable.”
Her eyes flashed. “Sometimes they are insurmountable. Sometimes it is best to accept one’s fate.”
Monkstead had spent years ‘fixing’ other people, giving them the happy endings he himself had never had. Lavinia Richmond seemed to be a particularly difficult case, and yet it wasn’t in him to give up.
“I think you know I am an interfering sort of neighbour,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile. “But if you tell me that there is nothing to be done then I will step away and leave you to your lonely, bleak future without the man you love.”
Her eyes widened and then filled with tears. “You are cruel,” she whispered in a shaky voice.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I am. To myself as well as others.”
“I have made my bed, and to unmake it now . . . you have no idea what repercussions I would bring down upon myself and others. Besides . . . Captain Longhurst has washed his hands of me.”
He waited but she said no more, staring at the patterned carpet in front of her as if it held the answers.
“As you wish,” he said, and rose to leave. And yet he hesitated, reluctant to give up on her. “You should speak to him, Lady Richmond. Captain Longhurst is not the sort of man who will refuse to listen if he thinks your argument is heartfelt. He is a soldier and a brave one.”
Her gaze fixed on his. “An honourable one,” she added.
“Trust him,” he told her, “and trust yourself. What is the worst that can happen?”
“I can be broken-hearted and miserable,” she answered.
“But aren’t you that already?”
Margaret waited patiently while William the Pug inspected a corner of the central garden. He missed his friend, but Rory and Olivia had taken Archie Maclean’s dog back with them to Invermar. Olivia had suggested William come too, but in the end they decided the pug was far too civilised a dog for the wilds of Scotland, and would be much happier here in Mockingbird Square.
Margaret was a little lonely in the town house without her cousin and her husband, although she had her acquaintances in the square. Lavinia Richmond had become more of a friend than she had ever imagined when they first met. That cool, polite façade was just a mask, and as she grew to know her better, Margaret begun to understand that Lady Richmond was very unhappy.
A niggle of worry wormed its way into Margaret’s mind, but it was hardly her business to interfere in the other woman’s romantic entanglements, no matter what Monkstead might think to the contrary.
The earl had made it clear he believed Lavinia needed their help and he thought they would be remiss if they didn’t at least try to bring her and Captain Longhurst together.
Margaret thought he was arrogant and a know all.
And yet seeing Lavinia looking so pale and miserable made her wish there was some practical way of helping. Perhaps Monkstead was right, and Lavinia needed a nudge in the right direction?
She admitted to herself she would miss Mockingbird Square. Over the past months this place had become her home, and when she was far away she knew she would think often of its inhabitants. One in particular, no matter how stupid of her it was to imagine he would ever think of her. Monkstead was as far out of her orbit as the sun.
“Miss Willoughby.”
Monkstead. It was as if she had magicked him out of thin air. Would he know she had just this moment been thinking about him? Margaret schooled her features to polite indifference before she turned.
The earl was smiling at her, his dark eyes warm and amused. She seemed to amuse him endlessly, although she didn’t know why. There were a great many things she didn’t know about the arrogant earl, but she told herself she had no wish to understand him better.
“My lord,” she said.
William trotted over to the earl’s boots and inspected them. She wondered whether he might do more, and almost hoped that he would. Perhaps the earl’s consequence was too much for the pug because he sat down and stared up into Monkstead’s face, his tongue lolling.
The earl ignored him, his dark gaze focussed on Margaret.
“I hope you will come to supper tomorrow night, Miss Willoughby. My sister will be there, and I have promised her she will meet the residents of Mockingbird Square.”
>
“Hasn’t she met them before?” Margaret asked, puzzled.
Something shifted in the earl’s dark eyes, something she hadn’t seen before. As if he didn’t want to answer her question. Interesting.
“She has been away,” he said, and shifted his ebony cane from one hand to the other.
Margaret was intrigued. “Away where?” she asked, momentarily forgetting her manners.
Monkstead raised an eyebrow.
“My apologies. You don’t have to answer,” she said quickly, disconcerted to see the earl less than his usual urbane self.
“It’s no secret,” he said, staring down at her. “You will hear the gossip soon enough, Miss Willoughby. My sister eloped with a most unsuitable man, and now . . . it is over. He died on the continent and she has come home.”
A scandal! Margaret didn’t know why she was so surprised, but she was. And Monkstead suddenly looked vulnerable, and she had never considered the earl less than full of annoying self-confidence.
“She eloped?” she repeated, and then felt her face colour as he gave her a sardonic look. “I mean . . . at least she married for love. Even if it was unfortunate and . . . everything.”
She was making a fool of herself. His eyes had taken on a gleam, as if he wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he was enjoying it all the same. “So you are a romantic after all,” he said, with a trace of mockery now.
“Just because I do not meddle in the lives of my neighbours does not mean I am not an advocate of happy endings,” she retorted, stung. “It’s just that not everyone can freely follow their heart.”
“Are you following your heart by marrying the curate, Miss Willoughby?”
She was no longer surprised he knew her intimate details—Monkstead knew everything. It was as if he could sniff gossip on the air. That didn’t mean she liked him knowing, and her voice was cool when she replied. “Would you call it romantic to marry someone you didn’t love and barely knew, just to please your father?”