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“You’re chewing on your lip,” he explained, with the faintest of smiles. “You do that when you’re worrying about something.”
“Do I?” She was surprised he’d noticed. “I was just wondering if you were staying in Sir Cecil’s house.”
He began to pull on his gloves. “My sister is staying at the inn—she seems to have caught a cold. I will probably remove myself there to sleep, but I will be in Sir Cecil’s house during the day, until matters are settled.” He grimaced. “Have you ever visited him? The place is derelict and there is no warmth to be had in any of it. No wonder Sibylla took ill.”
Margaret bit her lip and then remembered what he’d said and, feeling flustered, put a hand to her mouth. “Not up to your exacting standards then, my lord?”
He didn’t smile, as she’d hoped he might. “Not up to anyone’s standards. According to his servants, who are beyond old, he did very much as he pleased, and if he could do it without spending any of his considerable fortune he was all the more pleased.”
“A miser then?”
“Very much so. There’s a will somewhere. Your father was asking whether there was mention in it of a donation to his church.”
“My father isn’t the most tactful of men, but I can’t blame him for hoping. The church has several leaks in the roof, and some of the stonework is crumbling. Denwick may be a small village, but the parish is large, and requires visits on a horse that is very old and very slow.” She smiled up at him. “It doesn’t help to improve his temper that we have so many problems and no money to fix them.”
Again he didn’t return her smile. “I’m sure a donation can be arranged, if only to improve the vicar’s bad temper.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean…” she began, horrified that he might think she was begging.
But, as if the subject was closed, he’d turned to find his hat and place it on his head. Arrogant, she thought, and dismissive. He hadn’t changed one bit, and she was relieved to discover she still found him just as irritating.
“It will be necessary for me to spend time in my uncle’s house over the next few days at least, possibly longer. We brought a number of servants with us, but I will need more, on a temporary basis, to help with sorting out the mess. Some of the rooms look as if they haven’t been cleaned in decades, simply shut up and forgotten. I doubt any of the family will want to live in it. I certainly won’t, but the structure seems sound enough. Can you assist me with that, Miss Willoughby?”
“With the structure of the house?” she asked him, bemused.
“With some temporary servants. Well, anyone will do really, but they need to be strong and willing to work hard. As I said, the place is an appalling mess.”
“Of course,” she said, adopting his brisk and business-like manner. “Should I send them directly to the house, or do you intend to interview them first?”
“Good God, no,” he said with feeling. “I have no time for that. Whoever you think suitable is good enough for me.”
“Oh.” His trust in her was another little shock, although why she wasn’t sure. Perhaps her father’s lack of confidence in her was beginning to erode her self-confidence.
“Margaret?”
Startled, she met his piercing look.
He reached out and, shockingly, brushed his thumb over her lower lip. His touch was light, but she felt it keenly. “You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Now he smiled. “Don’t be sorry.” His voice had dropped and there was something husky in it. Something that set butterflies free in her stomach. “I like it. I like thinking about putting my mouth on you there. I think…” He hesitated, as though reconsidering whether he should go on, and then doing so anyway. “I think about sucking your lip into my mouth.”
She knew she was staring. There was really nothing she could say in response. There was an ache inside her, a burning sort of ache. He was still looking at her mouth and when she imagined him sucking her lip … no, there was really nothing she could say.
He seemed to know it, because he suddenly became all brisk again, as if the moment had never been. “Goodbye, Miss Willoughby. I look forward to our next meeting.” Then he bowed and, opening the door himself, strode out into the inclement weather without looking back.
Automatically, Margaret closed the door behind him. She was still attempting to gather her wildly scattered thoughts and turn them into something more coherent. Instead she kept seeing his face and the way he looked at her, and what he had said. It was only a short step to begin picturing his mouth on hers, his arms around her …
What he’d said couldn’t be true. Could it? Was he flirting with her?
Dominic Frampton, the Earl of Monkstead, was here in Denwick. The man she had always told herself she disliked and yet could never forget, the man she must learn to forget if she was to make a future with Louis. Had he really decided to start a flirtation with her?
Immediately her common sense swept in and knocked the thought down. No, that couldn’t be so. He had come here to see his great uncle and now he was staying to bury his great uncle. She was just a distraction for him, that was all, and she needed to be on her guard. She might be a useful way for Monkstead to pass the time, but he would forget her as soon as he left Denwick for London.
5
Lady Sibylla was seated by the fire in the private parlour they had taken in the inn, which was called the White Boar. The flames crackled as she held her hands to them and groaned aloud. “I thought I would never be warm again,” she announced dramatically when her brother entered the room.
