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Monkstead was looking down at her. He was much taller than she and his eyes were dark and mesmerizing. Margaret told herself she would never fall under their spell. She had too much common sense. A man like Monkstead could pluck her up, ruin her and then cast her back without a second thought. If she let him, that was, and she had no intention of letting him do anything of the sort.
“On the contrary,” he said, and surprised her again. He took her hand in his, his fingers warm and strong, and she watched him warily, wondering what he was planning now. “Goodbye, Miss Willoughby,” he murmured. “At least, for now.”
Margaret stood there frowning, long after the door had closed on his elegant figure. It must take a monstrous amount of arrogance to enable one to play God with people’s lives, and yet feel no shame or guilt. She did not believe for a moment that he had had anything to do with Olivia’s decision, and yet he clearly thought it was all his doing.
Margaret let her mind drift to her own home, and her overbearing father and subservient mother. Her future would be a difficult road, and her choices would always be a negotiation between what her father wanted for her and what she wanted for herself. She did envy her cousin, that was true. Perhaps Monkstead would take her in hand next, find a love match for her?
The idea made her smile, although it was not a happy smile.
And now she had definitely spent enough time thinking about the Earl of Monkstead!
With a huff of impatience, she led William the Pug in the direction of his favourite place—the kitchen.
Outside in the square, the earl was walking quickly toward his own residence. He had done what he could for Rory and Olivia, but these matters were never certain. As Margaret Willoughby had rightly said, this may not have a happy ending, but he thought that surely it was worth the attempt.
His thoughts drifted to the other evening, when he was passing through the square, and Margaret had opened her window. She hadn’t known it, but he could see her quite well—her cloud of dark hair and her delicate neck.
He had always had a liking for green eyes, even when they snapped at him in irritation. He was perfectly aware that Margaret Willoughby disapproved of him and his methods.
The thought made him smile.
He’d always found women who were not attracted to him far more of a challenge than those who were, and he liked a challenge. He wondered what Miss Willoughby would do if she knew? He suspected she thought herself perfectly safe from his attentions.
His smile turned bleak. He might have taken up the challenge once, but he was not that man any more. Tempting as Margaret Willoughby was, she was perfectly safe from him.
Chapter Six
Summer 1816
On the border of England and Scotland
Rory Maclean stretched his arms above his head. He was waiting for his wife—Olivia was still inside the inn, doing whatever it was women did. Today they would cross the border into Scotland, and he tried to curb his impatience.
The weather had stayed fine on their journey north from London, and although Olivia had asked him once to pause, saying she was feeling queasy from the swaying of the vehicle, she had not done so again. They were making good time.
He hadn’t ridden inside the coach with her, preferring his own mount and the fresh air in his face—Rory had never been a man who enjoyed being cooped up, he couldn’t bear it. He wasn’t sure whether his wife was disappointed or relieved. The only time they came together was over meals in the inn, and apart from the basic polite enquiries about the journey, they said little to each other.
As for sleeping arrangements, Rory made certain his wife had the best room in the house, even if it meant he had to sleep in the stable with the horses. Not that she’d noticed. Olivia was used to the best, and it probably didn’t even occur to her that without his insistence and the handing over of monies from his dwindling funds, she would have had to sleep in something quite beneath her dignity.
Rory was sure that Olivia was regretting her hasty decision. He suspected that on that passionate night together, she had been swept up in her feelings. She had decided to come with him while riding that wave of ardour, and he doubted she had thought it through. Now that some time had passed, she would be wishing herself back in Mockingbird Square. All it would take was one argument between them and she’d demand he turn around and take her home. Rory didn’t want to give her that opportunity so it seemed sensible to keep his distance.
Once she reached Invermar she would see for herself how desperately poor Rory was. Her father had already told her the worst but seeing was believing. Not that he blamed the man for what he’d said, well not entirely. Mr Willoughby loved his daughter and he didn’t like Rory. He s
aw things in black and white, and the complexity of Olivia’s relationship with her husband was quite beyond him.
When Rory had walked into the town house and heard Olivia say she was leaving, he hadn’t expected the scene that followed. He’d made his grand gesture, feeling as if his heart was being torn from his body, only to have her follow him upstairs. Suddenly all of their differences were washed away on a tidal wave of love and desire.
They’d fallen into each other’s arms, and he remembered Margaret’s shocked face and the earl behind her, looking satisfied. As if, Rory had thought angrily, this was somehow his doing. And then all he remembered was Olivia, undressing her and throwing off his own clothing, and then her body cleaving to his, their mouths fusing, and the pleasure, oh God, the pleasure they found in each other’s arms.
It had felt as if they’d been apart for years rather than mere days!
He hadn’t expected his wife to agree to come north with him. Even when he asked her and she said she would, he’d still doubted it would really happen. In trepidation he had descended the stairs the following morning, expecting her to have changed her mind, and there she had been, her small portmanteau beside her. He’d been overjoyed, thinking that now their lives would return to the way they had been. He would have taken her in his arms but she stepped away, and that was when he’d noticed how pale she was and how determined. As if she was fulfilling her promise to him despite her own grave misgivings—she looked like a prisoner about to be transported to the colonies.
An hour out of London and his conscience began to work on him as he rode grim-faced beside his wife’s equipage.
Hadn’t he done her enough damage already? Only pain awaited them both if he allowed her to come. He kept remembering his mother’s face, the misery she had tried to hide from her husband and son, her longing to leave Invermar and go home to Edinburgh. He couldn’t bear to think of Olivia suffering like that—they would both become miserable—and as much as he wanted her with him, he must consider her feelings.
By the time they stopped at the next changing station, he had persuaded himself into insisting she return to Mockingbird Square. He’d even dismounted and was about to approach the coach, when the door had opened and there she was. Olivia had paused a moment, the breeze stirring her fair hair, as she’d bunched up her skirt slightly to negotiate the step, giving him a glimpse of her delicate ankle.
