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As Margaret turned to go, the earl came to his feet.
“Miss Willoughby, please join us.”
“Margaret has much to do,” her father said coldly.
Monkstead turned his head and Margaret didn’t see his expression, his back being to her, but her father did. To her amazement a faint flush rose in his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Do join us, Margaret, my dear.”
She was so surprised that she drew up a straight-backed chair and sat down immediately.
“Has Lady Richmond written to you?” Monkstead asked.
She made sure not to meet the earl’s eyes as she finished pouring from the tea pot. “Yes. I was sorry I could not attend their wedding.”
“They are leaving for America once the Atlantic storms pass.” He was still watching her; she could feel his gaze upon her face.
“They are lucky to be allowed this second chance.” A glance, a half smile, and she handed him his cup, careful to avoid his fingers. She was afraid to look him in the eye and afraid to touch his skin, at least until she was able to reign in her confused feelings.
The vicar frowned, taking a bite of his fruit cake, and she knew she was in for a lecture about modesty. Her father believed women were useful for domestic concerns but should otherwise stay in the background. She wondered what he would think if he’d heard the conversations she’d shared with the earl in Mockingbird Square. And then she decided it was probably better that he hadn’t.
Yet Monkstead had never made her feel as if she was doing anything wrong. They disagreed, often, but thinking back over their encounters, he had encouraged her to tell him what she thought, even if he did not agree with her. There’d been a buzz between them, a sense that, with words anyway, they were well matched.
She wished he hadn’t come to Denwick. His presence only reminded her of the contrast between what her life had been for a few short, blissful months, and what it was now.
The vicar cleared his throat. “Are you expecting many people at Sir Cecil’s funeral?”
Margaret suspected he was hoping for the presence of lots of lords and ladies, so he could puff himself up when he spoke to the Dean a little later this afternoon.
Monkstead immediately dashed his hopes. “I doubt it. There were no children from his union with my great aunt, and he was not the friendliest of fellows. My father died several years ago, and he was not the social sort, so it will only be my sister and myself to mourn Sir Cecil’s passing.”
The vicar made a sound very much like a disappointed grunt but forced himself to rally. “Well, I’m sure there will be plenty of his neighbours wishing to give him a proper farewell. Perhaps I can persuade Sir Peter Grey to come. He is an important fellow, though unfortunately his house is in the adjoining parish. And Lady Strangeways is most gracious and she will want to—”
A tap on the door interrupted him. When Margaret went to open it, the scullery maid was there, fidgeting and shooting frightened glances in the vicar’s direction. She crept closer to Margaret and whispered urgently in her ear.
Margaret turned to pass on the message. “Father, the dean is here. He’s waiting in the sitting room.”
Mr Willoughby waved a dismissive hand. “He can wait five minutes. Tell him I have the Earl of Monkstead here with me wishing to make arrangements for his great uncle’s burial.”
“Father, it is the dean, and he has come all this way to see you. You know he won’t be pleased if you delay.”
His face darkened, but Monkstead spoke up before the vicar could reply. “My sister, Lady Sibylla, is waiting for me at the inn, so I will take my leave. It’s clear that you are a busy man with many calls upon your time. I would not keep you from your work. Now, if your daughter would be kind enough to walk with me to the door …?”
The vicar seemed pacified by the flattery. “Of course,” he said. “Margaret, if you please, see our guest out and then bring refreshments for the dean.”
“Yes, Father.”
The earl followed her to the door and she realised then that of course it was his coat that had been hanging on the rack. Monkstead took it from her, hastily shrugging into it, refusing her offer of help. He seemed deep in his own thoughts now that they were alone, the camaraderie she had felt between them gone. She waited as he did up the buttons, biting her lip, not sure what to say.
“I am sorry about your great uncle,” she spoke at last. “I didn’t even realise Sir Cecil was your great uncle. I’m surprised you didn’t mention it when I was in London.”
“We weren’t close,” he answered abruptly, as if he didn’t want to discuss the m
atter further.
And yet Margaret still thought it odd he had never mentioned the relationship, despite him knowing she and Sir Cecil lived so close. She wasn’t sure what to make of his omission. Or perhaps she was reading too much into it and he genuinely hadn’t believed it was important. She had been his neighbour in Mockingbird Square, and although she had believed they had some sort of rapport, it occurred to her now that her view of their relationship might not be his. The earl might have amused himself by baiting her, but he had probably forgotten her as soon as he walked away, just as he would any person so far beneath his consequence.
He’d paused on the last button. “What is it?”
She blinked up at him.
