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Margaret glanced again at her cousin. Olivia’s bright head rested against her husband’s shoulder and she saw him lean close and murmur something that made her look up with a smile.
Love. It was almost tangible.
Margaret felt the weight of her own loneliness. She told herself not to be foolish. Love was a rare and precious jewel given to only a few, and she did not expect it for herself. For some reason her gaze slid across the heads of the earl’s guests, to the man himself.
He was listening to Lady Richmond, smiling down at her as she spoke, no doubt concocting one of his schemes. Margaret had tried to warn the other woman but she had not seemed to understand the danger.
Another guest claimed Lady Richmond’s attention and the earl stepped away. His eyes moved restlessly about the room, as if he was looking for someone.
Margaret decided it was time for her to leave. She had letters to write and William the Pug would be looking for his walk, as would the Macleans’ new dog. Large and brown, it had belonged to Rory’s father and was still in mourning, although it seemed to have taken a shine to William. She had reached the door and was putting on her cloak, ready to face the chilly autumn evening, when the servant helping her looked up and gave a startled curtsey.
“My Lord.”
Margaret turned, just as startled, and then frowned.
“Leaving so soon, Miss Willoughby,” said the earl. “We will miss you.”
She forced a polite smile. “I very much doubt that.”
He laughed softly. “You sell yourself short, Margaret. Come, let me walk you to your door.”
She didn’t want him to walk her anywhere, and he was perfectly aware of it, and yet it amused him to force his company upon her. But the servant was listening. She sighed. “Very well,” she said, as if she was agreeing to take some nasty medicine. “If you insist.”
Monkstead stepped outside. “I do insist,” he said. “And perhaps this time we can discuss Lady Richmond and how we are going to find her the happiness she deserves.”
