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“A visitor, Father?” she managed, fighting her shock.
“Yes, a visitor. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” That impatient note was more like the man she knew. “I hope we still have some of that fruit cake and you haven’t given it away to the undeserving poor.” And he laughed as he said it, as if he was speaking to someone like minded. A man of the world.
It was only then that he stepped aside, and her gaze slid beyond him to the other occupant of the room. She was expecting to see the dean, but it wasn’t the dean, and her brain struggled to take that fact in.
And while her brain struggled her heart soared, taking her breath with it.
The visitor was tall, with short dark hair, and immaculately dressed in a dark blue jacket, tan breeches and polished boots. On his handsome continence was a knowing smile, and although he looked like the Earl of Monkstead, she knew it couldn’t be. The earl did not belong in Denwick, and he certainly didn’t belong in her father’s study.
Her mouth was hanging open. Before she could think to close it, he was bowing and saying, “Miss Willoughby, what a pleasure it is to see you again.”
She managed a curtsey, knowing it was unsteady, and said in a breathless voice, “My lord.”
When she straightened she found his dark eyes searching hers, and there was a question in them. His gaze slid over her features and a frown drew his brows together, as if whatever he saw did not please him. Which was odd, because she could only think how very glad she was to see him, despite knowing that feeling this giddy sort of elation was very wrong, and she had no doubt that she should be punished for it.
“Monkstead has called in regard to his uncle, Sir Cecil Throckmore.” Her father couldn’t wait any longer to take centre stage. “Sir Cecil is dead, Margaret, and he is to be buried here in Denwick.”
She tried to take it in. Sir Cecil was dead? She remembered then how Mrs Pritchard had mentioned to her that nobility from London were visiting their village. Had she meant the earl?
“I-I didn’t know,” she heard herself stammer. “I am sorry.”
“My great uncle was very old and his house was very cold,” the earl replied, the rhyme causing his lips to twitch in a way that was shockingly inappropriate, and yet so very like him. “I’m only surprised he lived as long as he did.”
The vicar smirked. “We rarely saw your uncle in church. He was not a devout man. Margaret, didn’t you hear what I said? Tea and some of your fruit cake for his lordship.”
Normally she would have rushed off to do her father’s biding, but Monkstea
d was still looking at her and while he held her with his dark gaze she couldn’t look away. “You will be happy to know that all is well in Mockingbird Square,” he said as if the vicar wasn’t huffing in impatience. “There have been three marriages and a christening since you left.”
And suddenly he looked so insufferably smug, as if he had made all of that happen single handed. How could she have forgotten how much she disliked his arrogant interfering in other people’s lives? She was almost grateful for the reminder, because her momentary tongue-tiedness was swept away.
“Indeed, my lord. It’s a wonder there is anyone single left in London.”
Her father made a hissing sound but she didn’t look at him because Monkstead’s smile only grew broader. Now there was a satisfied air about him, as if she had given him the reaction he was looking for.
“Tea, Margaret,” her father repeated, and this time there was no ignoring the hard stare he gave her. There would be retribution for what he considered her forward behaviour and she knew it.
The earl moved to open the door for her, leaning closer as she passed through. “Ah, there you are,” he murmured, for her ears alone. “I thought for a moment you had been replaced by a stranger.”
“Because I offered you my sympathy?” she replied, her voice as low as his.
“Because you were polite to me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him in a show of defiance that felt good and left the room without another word.
Normally it wouldn’t take her long to make the tea and set up a tray and carry it back, but her hands were shaking and her head was full of unsettling questions. Monkstead was here, and in the moment when she saw him, before her father explained the reason for it, she had thought … she had hoped …
She shook her head at her own stupidity. Why not admit it? She had thought he might have come for her, just as he’d said he would. She really was such a fool. Margaret took a deep breath and then another, putting her cold palms to her cheeks to cool them.
She glanced in the window pane, seeing her reflection against the gloomy afternoon outside, and wondering what the earl had seen when he looked at her just now. The heightened colour had left her cheeks and she was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes from worry and lack of sleep. She’d lost weight too. Lady Strangeways had been right when she’d said Margaret no longer had the bloom of youth. Perhaps that was why Monkstead had frowned—he’d thought she had changed for the worse. And then he’d fallen back into their old bickering ways as if they had never been apart.
Margaret had spent hours and hours reminding herself how much she disliked him, and yet once she was no longer in his presence he was the person she missed the most.
With a sigh she turned away from the window, telling herself there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. The earl was here because his great uncle had died. That was a fact. Anything else was pure fantasy.
By the time Margaret returned with the tray, the two men were seated in chairs by the fire, and her father was regaling the earl with stories of his hunting prowess.
She set the tea down on the table between them, glancing sideways at Monkstead and noting the hooded look to his eyes. He was bored or irritated. Perhaps both. Her father had never been the most fascinating conversationalist—except in his own opinion—and the earl was not a man who suffered fools.
