Reckless (Mockingbird Square Book 4)

by Sara Bennett

  She hesitated as if she had had a speech prepared yet had forgotten the introduction. She cleared her throat.

  “You once said you would save me.” Although there was no one close enough to hear them, she dropped her voice so that he had to bend his head to hear her.

  “I should not have said it,” he responded. “That would be meddling, and I know how much you hate me to meddle.”

  “No, you should not have said it,” she agreed, tucking one of the loose strands of hair behind her ear. She sounded almost angry.

  He wanted to lean in even closer and run his tongue around the shell of her ear. He wanted to set his teeth gently into her flesh and then lick away the sting. Dominic knew he would not act on the impulse but the urge was there, and tonight it was disturbingly strong.

  “And yet, I believe it was kindly meant, my lord,” she said. And then she spoilt it by adding, “As much as you are ever kind.”

  He smiled but she was already rushing forward with her prepared speech—he was certain now that it was prepared. He imagined her in her room, scrawling words on a sheet of paper, only to tear them up and start again.

  “You thought I was in a situation I could not escape and you wanted to help me. But sometimes as much as one would like to change one’s fate, it just isn’t possible. Your saving me isn’t possible.”

  Margaret wasn’t looking at him but he suspected she was holding back tears. Again he had that urge to kiss her. To take her in his arms and carry her to his bedroom just as his rampaging ancestors had carried away any woman who appealed to them. He could lock her in until she saw sense, or he did. But that wasn’t going to happen, it was never going to happen, and he was old enough to know the difference between wishful thinking and cold, hard reality.

  “Well, that just sounds sad,” he responded in a teasing voice. As if nothing she had said had done more than brush feebly against the hard shell of his heart.

  Now she did look up, and there wasn’t even a spark of anger in those green eyes. She gave him a long, speculative stare. “And yet I think you have bowed to your fate, my lord.”

  Ah, she was clever. He said nothing. What could he say? She was absolutely right.

  She gave him a little rallying smile, but he didn’t have it in him to smile back. “I may be far away, but you may be sure I will think often of Mockingbird Square. I will miss all of my friends, even those who haven’t had their happy endings provided by the Earl of Monkstead.”

  He knew she expected him to argue the point, or make fun of her words. He could have teased her into anger, but suddenly he was tired of their game. Margaret might disagree with him, but she was sincere and honest, and for once he would be the same.

  “I will think of you often.”

  She nodded, accepting his statement, and her green eyes lingered a moment longer on his. Then she turned away and left him standing in the midst of this room full of guests.

  He was Dominic Frampton, the Earl of Monkstead, the owner of Mockingbird Square, wealthy and important, and yet right now he had never felt so empty or so alone.

  Much later

  Dominic heard the library door open a crack, and his sister’s face peered in. She smiled when she saw him in his favourite chair, a glass of brandy in his hand, glowering back at her.

  “Ah, there you are. Sulking.”

  “I am not sulking,” he began, before he could stop himself.

  She laughed. “Then you are being miserable because your Miss Willoughby is leaving. Why don’t you stop her, Nic? You could if you wanted to.”

  He thought about arguing with her, pointing out that Margaret wasn’t his, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. “And what could I offer her?” he asked instead. He held up his glass. “‘Dear Margaret, will you run off with me? We can spend our lives together, being shunned and ostracized.’ I’m sure she would agree.”

  Sibylla studied him with interest. “Why don’t you ask her? You never know, being ruined by you might be more palatable than marrying a man chosen for her by her parents.”

  “And you are such an expert on the subject, Sib,” Dominic mocked.

  He thought she might be hurt and he’d have to apologise, but if she was she didn’t show it. Instead she pulled a face at him. “At least I made my own decision without interference from our father, and most of the time I was happy.”

  He grunted and took another sip of the brandy, swirling the remainder in his glass, watching the colours change in the light from the only lamp still burning. It reminded him of Margaret’s hair in the candlelight, and suddenly she was so present to him he could hear her voice and see her smile.

  It was going to take him some time to regain his usual equilibrium, time and quite a few glasses of brandy.

  “Goodnight, Sibylla,” he muttered pointedly.

  She closed the door.

  2

  Winter 1816, Denwick, Northumberland, England

  The air was brisk, and every breath Margaret sighed out was cloudy white. She hurried across the village square, which was small and mean compared to Mockingbird Square, making her way toward the vicarage. Her father would be waiting and she was already late, and that meant he would notice her.

  Mr Willoughby, the Vicar of Denwick, was very much the poor relative when compared with his brother, who had made himself a tidy fortune in trade and manufacturing. He had hoped to rise high in the church hierarchy, but despite all his efforts it had never happened, and he was stuck here in a poverty-stricken parish. It made him a disappointed and embittered man, who used every opportunity to make those around him miserable as well. He seemed to find pleasure in it.

  Since she’d returned home two months ago, Margaret had tried to be invisible when it came to her father. That might have sounded like an impossible task for an only daughter, but it was amazing how, if she worked away at her allotted tasks in the background and said very little, and if there was nothing in his day to irritate him more than normal, he barely paid her any attention at all.

  The situation was not ideal. Far from it. But even when the vicar was at his worst, she still had her private thoughts to escape to. Since she’d left London she had found that the faces of the people she knew there had become clearer. She suspected that with time they would fade, of course they would, but for now they were her companions in adversity.

  A month ago, her cousin Olivia’s visit had lifted her spirits. Olivia, accompanied by her husband Rory Maclean, had been on her way south to Mockingbird Square from their castle at Invermar. But when they left to continue their journey, Margaret had fallen into a melancholy. She’d wished so much that she could go with them—Olivia had even tentatively suggested it. But how could she leave? She felt as if that avenue of escape had closed forever and she was trapped in this humdrum reality. Some days she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  Margaret had never been a dramatic girl. She was sensible and thoughtful, and rarely let a situation overwhelm her, so this new intense Margaret made her apprehensive. As well as struggling to breathe under the weight of her family’s expectations, she felt as if she only had two choices—explode in frustration, or wither away into a husk of her former self.

  “There you are, Margaret. You’re late and we’re all waiting.”

  Any hope she’d had of slipping inside without a fuss was dashed. The vicar was standing in the sitting room doorway, frowning. Hastily, she divested herself of her outdoor clothing.

  “I’m here now, Father.”

  “The fire needs feeding. I have rung for a servant, but either they are completely deaf or the house is empty.”

  “Servants are always deaf,” Lady Strangeways murmured as Margaret entered the sitting room. “Margaret, you are looking peaky. I fear the bloom of youth is well and truly behind you. What is your age again, girl?”

  “Twenty-three,” Margaret said, although she doubted her ladyship expected an answer. Sometimes it was best to say nothing. Lady Strangeways was a force to be reckoned with in the
parish and a woman the vicar deferred to far more than his wife or daughter. A middle aged widow with the coldest grey eyes Margaret had ever seen, the woman was a bully and everyone knew it.

  Her father had a larger group of parish ladies than usual gathered in his sitting room today. They were meeting to organize the Nativity play which was to take place on Christmas morning, in only a few weeks. There were sure to be arguments caused by the usual push and pull between the stronger personalities, each wanting to get their way. Margaret suspected her father enjoyed ruling over his little kingdom and granting favours to those he deemed worthy.

  Rather like the Earl of Monkstead. The thought popped into her head, surprising her.

  As Margaret moved to the fireplace and busied herself in adding fuel to the flames, she tried to imagine Dominic Frampton seated among the ladies of the parish of Denwick. What would he do while they argued among themselves? Would he sit back like the vicar and enjoy the disharmony, or would he step in and create order? She had a feeling that the earl would soon have them agreeing to everything he said. He might even find a new husband for Lady Strangeways.

  No, she told herself with relief. The earl was nothing like her father.

  “Why are you smiling, Margaret?” Lady Strangeways demanded. “I distrust people who smile. It shows a sad wont of gravity.”

  “Yes, why are you smiling?” the vicar asked. Then, with a vindictive smile of his own, said, “My daughter has developed the habit of day dreaming since she returned from London. I have told her she must break herself of it.”

  “Rightly so,” Lady Strangeways said. “I shall lend her my Sermons to Young Women. I’m sure that will occupy her.”

  “Have you a copy of Glenarvon?” Mrs Black, the inn keeper’s wife asked excitedly. “I believe it is all the rage in London.”

  Lady Strangeways pursed her lips. “I do not read romantic novels and neither should you. They corrupt the mind.”

  Margaret bit her lip to stop another smile, and moved to take her seat at the desk by the window. She had read Glenarvon herself, while in London. The story, about a naïve innocent bride degraded by an aristocratic rake, was certainly racy. She wasn’t sure it had corrupted her, as Lady Strangeways seemed to think it might, but it had certainly kept her thoughts occupied. One evening, alone in the town house and with nothing else to do, she had even found herself trying to imagine herself in the role of the girl. She had asked herself who might play the rake, and Monkstead had sprung to mind. But it seemed too silly to imagine him behaving in such a fashion. Monkstead, she’d decided after much thought, was more likely to be the silly girl’s husband, a much more appealing figure.

  Besides, novels weren’t real life, no matter how she sometimes wished they were.

  Real life for Margaret was currently an endless round of monotonous tasks. In Mockingbird Square she had felt as if she was an actual person, someone who had opinions and would be listened to, but now she was back home that person was fading away. She was becoming a ghost of her former self.

  She dipped her pen in the ink pot and prepared to take notes of the meeting.

  “I would like to put my nephew forward to lead the singing,” one of the ladies said decisively. “He has a perfect baritone voice.”

  “Oh no, I think we can do better than Peter,” said Lady Strangeways.

  Margaret only half listened as her ladyship proceeded to demolish any suggestions that did not meet with her approval. The vicar sat back, nodding, saying very little, and—Margaret was sure—reasoning that if her ladyship took over management of the play then he wouldn’t have to. Unfortunately, it would then be left to Margaret to soothe all the ruffled feathers and try to broker peace between the warring parties. This year she would also be expected to organize the sewing of the costumes—Lady Strangeways considered the old ones far too scruffy.

  A year ago it was her mother who would have dealt with all of this, but now she no longer had the strength or the will. Whatever the matter was, it seemed to have started six months ago, and Margaret had returned home to find so many tasks left undone or done badly. Not only had she found herself in charge of running the vicarage, but also those parish matters that had once fallen to her mother.

  Margaret had spoken to her father about her mother’s deteriorating health but he’d always dismissed her concerns, telling her that Doctor Lowry had been to see her and prescribed rest. Margaret’s arguments that Doctor Lowry was too old and set in his ways to be of much help were similarly dismissed.

  “You should have come home earlier,” the vicar had informed her tersely, “instead of gallivanting about in London. Things would not have got into such a state if you had been here.” Then, forcing one of his counterfeit smiles, he had said, “Never mind, it isn’t your fault,” which meant he believed the exact opposite.

  After the meeting came to an uncomfortable end, and the women had gone, some of them casting dark looks at Lady Strangeways and others pleading ones at Margaret, her father locked himself away in his study to write his Sunday sermon. Margaret was momentarily alone. There was work to do in the kitchen, helping the cook slice vegetables for luncheon, or else the endless household duties that Margaret knew would not get done if she did not attend to them.

  As for her eventual marriage to the curate, Margaret knew that would bring her no respite. She would still be required to visit the vicarage every day, because her father expected life to carry on as normal.

  I think I am going to save you, Margaret.

  The words came out of nowhere and seemed to hang in the air about her. She could hear Monkstead’s deep voice, being extremely irritating as usual. Not to mention arrogant and conceited. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them quickly away because she had discovered it was fatal to let herself cry. Once she started she couldn’t seem to stop.

  It was odd how she missed a man she disliked so. She’d found herself wondering what he was doing while she went about her mundane tasks. Was he interfering in one of his innocent neighbour’s personal affairs? Well, of course he was! Perhaps he was at his window, gazing out over the square as if it belonged to him. Which, of course, it did. He was like a king from ancient times surveying his kingdom. But, as she’d come to realise while she was living in Mockingbird Square, he was also alone. Notwithstanding his wealth and importance, Dominic Frampton, Earl of Monkstead, was a lonely figure. Perhaps that was why she had felt drawn to him despite all the reasons to avoid him. Because Margaret was alone too.

  That last evening they had spoken together Margaret had told the earl that she believed in fate, that things happened when they were meant to, and her fate was to come home to Denwick and marry the curate. She’d meant what she said. She wasn’t a naïve fool. It was all very well to imagine a different future, but she knew there was very little that could be done to change hers. Of course, that didn’t mean that sometimes she didn’t find the weight upon her shoulders crushing.

  I think I am going to save you.

  What if she’d said yes? What if she’d begged him to do just that? To make true the impossible and …

  “Margaret? Margaret, where are you?”

  Her mother’s voice called to her from upstairs. Margaret shook off her daydreams, because that was all they were. She might remember Dominic staring down at her that final night, hearing his voice, memorizing his words, but it was in the past now.

  “Coming, Mother!”

  Mrs Willoughby was standing in the middle of her bed chamber in her nightgown, as if she had forgotten whether it was time to get up, or time to go to bed. Her anxious face brightened with relief when she saw her daughter.

  “There you are, Margaret. I seem to have misplaced my, eh, my…” Her voice drifted off and she looked around, completely lost for words and inspiration.

  “Let me help you,” Margaret said gently. She began to dress her, while her mother obediently lifted her arms for sleeves and stood still while her gown was buttoned and tied. “Will you come downstairs?”
Margaret asked, putting the last pin into her mother’s grey hair. “Perhaps you’d like to answer some of father’s letters for him? You know how he lets them pile up.”

  Mrs Willoughby shook her head, moving to her usual place by the fireplace and reaching for her needlework. She wouldn’t take more than a stitch or two, and soon she would close her eyes and drift into sleep. Margaret knew that her mother slept most of her days away and would forget to eat if her daughter didn’t come upstairs with a tray.

  Her mother’s sister had visited last month, making the journey from Edinburgh. Aunt Lily would have liked to stay longer, but she and the vicar had argued, as they always did. Lily did not like the way he treated her sister, and the vicar considered her a disruptive and meddling influence.

  Margaret regretted her aunt leaving, and she thought her mother missed the company of her only remaining sibling. She had even suggested to the vicar that her mother visit Lily in Scotland, but he had scoffed at the very notion.

  After she had tidied the room, Margaret made her way back downstairs. The house was quiet, and when a man jumped up from the bench seat by the front door, speaking her name, she gave a gasp of surprise.

  “Miss Willoughby.”

  It was Louis Scott, her father’s curate and her future husband. Although their engagement was yet to be announced, everyone in the parish knew they were destined to be together.

  “Louis! Did you want to see my father? He’s in his study.”

  Louis gave the study door a wary look and shook his head. Unlike her father, Louis Scott was a gentle, kind man. He would make the sort of vicar that his parishioners would love dearly… if he ever got the chance.

  She could even admit to herself that she and Louis would comprise a good team, so it made perfect sense for them to marry. This vision of her future should have filled her with joy—it was a practical solution and she was a practical woman—but it didn’t.