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1
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair
The lights from the town house spilled from the many windows and reflected off the puddles in the square. It wasn’t the best of nights but even Dominic Frampton, Earl of Monkstead, couldn’t control the weather.
“Nic!”
Only one person ever shortened his name like that. A warm hand slipped into his, and he turned to his sister. Lady Sibylla was wearing the latest in fashion, with a neckline that bordered on risqué, and her hair a mass of shining dark curls. She was bubbling with excitement, her dark eyes twinkling, and only someone who knew her very well would notice the sadness in their depths.
“Sib,” he mocked, watching her scrunch up her face. There were lines there he didn’t remember from ten years ago, when as a young woman she’d thrown herself headlong into scandal. At twenty-seven she was still beautiful and he hoped despite the disgrace that clung to her name he could ease her path back into London society.
“Sibylla, if you please,” she huffed, but squeezed his hand at the same time, as if to reassure him she didn’t mind his teasing. “I had forgotten you lived in your own private little fiefdom in London,” she went on. “Do your neighbours know that they’re your property?”
She was only half joking. They were both well aware that their ancestors had been the sort of lawless raiders who took what they wanted, and with the money they made from their pursuits they had bought land. There was Monkstead Abbey in the country, and the chunk of Mayfair that later became Mockingbird Square. It was called after a mockingbird, so the story went, because the Monksteads were not aristocrats and certainly not respectable enough to mingle with the blue bloods surrounding them. So, like the American mockingbird, they had learned to fit in by imitation.
Dominic knew that, like the rest of his family, he was a fake, but he was a very good fake.
“I don’t own them,” he said. “I’m not that medieval.”
“Yes you are,” she retorted. “I’ve heard about your meddling, brother. I’m surprised you didn’t meddle in my affairs.”
He glanced at her and wondered if she was still joking. The truth was he wished he had. Sibylla had made a poor choice of husband, and to confound matters she’d defied their father by running off with the man. Eloped to the border, and then vanished for over a decade.
Dominic had done the opposite. He had married to please their father, agreeing to a girl he hardly knew because he felt he must, and setting himself up for a lifetime of regret.
“We haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory.” It seemed Sibylla had read his mind.
“We come from a family of rogues and no-goods, what can you expect?”
“At least I married for love,” she said softly, for his ears alone.
“I’ve had my share of affairs, Sibylla.”
“Yes, but you haven’t loved any of them.”
“Perhaps love is over-rated.”
She had opened her mouth to argue with him when he heard the footman at the door announcing their first guest. With relief, he made his way over to greet one of the gentlemen he’d invited expressly with his sister’s future in mind. He didn’t want to talk to Sibylla about his marriage, nor did he want to remember the past. With any luck she would forget all about their conversation by the time the night was over.
Some hours later the earl was able to declare the evening a success. The food had been praiseworthy and the company jolly. His sister had enjoyed herself, despite the fact that everyone here must have known about her past. She was a hit, and had even sung in accompaniment to the piano. Her voice was superb—he had forgotten what an exquisite voice she had. Yes, she was notorious, but so charming that no one apart from the most rigid members of society could bring themselves to snub her. And Dominic had made certain none of those puritans had been invited.
His gaze skimmed the room, noting the various faces. Captain Longhurst and Lady Richmond had arrived late, but there could be no denying their happiness. He watched them with satisfaction, telling himself that here was another success he had had a hand in. Another happy ending.
His gaze slid past them and stopped. A woman in her early twenties with dark hair was standing beside his sister. Sibylla seemed to have involved her in an animated discussion, and he shuddered to think what it was they were debating. His sister did tend to delve deeply into subjects that others avoided. But perhaps this was nothing too serious, because the other woman was smiling. He let himself admire her sparkling green eyes and flushed cheeks, before his gaze slid down to where her curves were on perfect display in a cream coloured gown. It wasn’t one he had seen her wear before, and Dominic thought he knew most of Margaret Willoughby’s gowns.
Sibylla leaned down to murmur something—she was quite a bit taller—and Margaret laughed with a surprisingly earthy note in her normally proper voice.
Dominic felt an ache in his chest, as if someone had reached in and given his heart a squeeze.
Margaret Willoughby was the one person in Mockingbird Square he was yet to gift a happy ending to. Not that she would want him interfering in her life. She had told him more than once what she thought of his addiction to matchmaking. Even so, he had looked about him at the possibilities in the square—there were a small number of unattached gentlemen—but after some deliberation he’d decided that none of them suited. There was something wrong with every o
ne of them, and that had puzzled him for a time. He’d been in denial, he supposed. Now, when it was too late, he could admit why it was those other men hadn’t come up to the mark.
Dominic didn’t want anybody else to have her because he wanted her for himself.
Margaret was a woman with decided opinions as well as being the epitome of respectability. She might have an earthy laugh and a sometimes wicked sense of humour, but she was the daughter of a vicar, and she was never going to ruin herself and bring disgrace upon her family.
Because that was exactly what a liaison with Dominic would bring.
He had become so deep in thought that he didn’t realise she was looking back at him, and probably had been for some time. Her smile was fading on her lips, the amused gleam cooling from her eyes as they narrowed with mistrust. But she didn’t look away. He wondered what she was thinking. That she would be glad to see the back of him? Margaret was leaving London to return to her home in Northumberland, and it was more than likely they would never meet again.
He supposed he should be glad. They had never been friends, not on her part anyway, but instead he felt a deep regret. Margaret may not have looked favourably upon him, but she had become his secret obsession.
Still she was watching him.
More than anything he wanted to walk over to her. He imagined the moment. He would tilt her chin and bend his head and do what he had wanted to do since the first time he saw her. Kiss her. Slowly at first, just a taste, and then deeper, until she was limp in his arms. Would that be enough to persuade her into his bed, where he could ruin her so completely that she could not marry that wishy-washy curate her parents were insisting upon?
He groaned softly to himself. If he was really the arrogant man she believed him to be then he would do just that. Unfortunately, he still had a whisper of conscience.
Margaret finally turned away. Her shoulders were tense and she put a nervous hand to her hair, tucking back some stray curls.
Idiot, he scolded himself. What if someone had noticed? And then he realised that someone had noticed.
His sister was giving him one of her curious stares.
“Monkstead!” A voice at his side claimed him and he turned away with relief, pretending to be all ears. The man was new to the square and Dominic still wasn’t sure he would fit in as seamlessly as he’d hoped. He was very careful who he let into his little fiefdom, as Sibylla had called it.
The gentleman was slightly inebriated. As he looked past the earl’s shoulder, his expression changed, a slack smile hovering over his lips. “Lady Sibylla!”
Dominic turned. His sister was indeed behind him and she had brought Margaret with her. They were arm in arm, but Margaret wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, and he suspected she had been escorted here under protest.
“Did you know that Miss Willoughby is leaving us, Nic?” his sister asked, the sorrow in her dark eyes underlaid with mischief. “She says she is going off to Northumberland, of all places!”
“I did know,” he responded, smiling politely at Margaret and trying not to show his annoyance at Sibylla’s interference. He refused to think of the irony in that. “When are you leaving, Miss Willoughby?”
