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The vicar had almost finished the service. Mrs Willoughby shivered, and Margaret held firmly to her arm. She would take her mother back to the vicarage and then she would attend the gathering at the White Boar out of respect for Sir Cecil, but she was determined to say nothing more to Dominic than was necessary. Her speech, which she’d been practicing ever since she decided she must warn the earl off and send him back to London, would have to wait a little longer.
He was staring at her. She blinked, realizing that she had caught his eyes even while she was telling herself she would have nothing to do with him. She should have looked away, but the weariness in his handsome face made her wonder what had kept him awake at night. Dealing with his great uncle’s effects? Or because of her?
“Monkstead! That went well,” the vicar declared in a pleased voice, and came to stand between them. With a sigh of relief, Margaret turned to take her mother back inside.
By the time she returned the churchyard was empty and the crowd had gone home or moved to the inn. Quickening her steps, Margaret entered the building with its creaky sign of a rather fearsome white boar. Inside, the inn was cosy, and mixed with the odour of wood smoke was an aroma of hops and mulled wine.
“Miss Willoughby.” She was greeted by Mrs Black. “The earl’s party are in the private parlour.” The woman leaned closer, her eyes bright. “What a handsome man he is. Most of the girls in the village are already in love with him, and their mothers too. Is it true that you are well acquainted with him?”
“Yes, I—I do know him.” She smiled, feeling both uncomfortable and something else she did not wish to investigate. “In here, you said?” She gestured toward the door at the end of the narrow corridor.
“His valet said his master is as rich as a king and has all his clothes made in Bond Street. No wonder he looks so smart.” She sighed. “I wish I could go to London like you did.”
“I’m sure you are better off here in Denwick,” Margaret replied.
“You can say that, Miss Willoughby, because you’ve already been,” she retorted. “Do you think you’ll go back there one day soon?” The sparkle in her
eye was uncomfortably inquisitive. “Perhaps you might stay at the earl’s estate?”
“I doubt it.” Margaret smiled and brushed past her. “Excuse me.”
The woman’s curiosity had unsettled her. The idea that the females in the village, young and old, had their eyes fixed on the handsome earl, imagining themselves in love with him, made her quite cross. He wasn’t theirs. Although he wasn’t hers either, she reminded herself. She had no rights to him and no reason to feel jealous.
The door opened to her knock and Mr Black stepped back to allow her entry. He was beaming, no doubt because of all the extra custom coming his way at what was usually a quiet time of year.
The room was panelled in dark wood, and in the centre a long table was spread with pastries and pies and other small treats, all of which smelt delicious. A jug of ale was ready for those who required it and pots of tea and coffee for the rest. It was noisy in here, as if the guests were so glad to be out of the cold that they’d forgotten this was meant to be a sombre occasion.
Margaret saw Lady Strangeways with other women from the vicar’s circle of helpers, as well as the vicar himself and several other men. Some of the strangers looked more prosperous than others, and she supposed they were either friends or business acquaintances of Sir Cecil.
“Miss Willoughby! Margaret!” Suddenly she was enveloped in a warm, fragrant hug. It was Sibylla, exuberant as ever.
“Lady Sibylla,” Margaret smiled with genuine affection. “I hope you are well? I heard you were ill with a cold.”
Sibylla pulled a face. “I was, but I am much better, thank you. I know you called, but I did not wish to share my affliction with you.” She looked about the room, searching the faces. “I cannot see my brother. I think he had some business to discuss, and my great uncle’s solicitor could not stay very long. I assume they have found themselves a private corner somewhere.”
“He is selling the house then?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? He’s going to hand it over to a benevolent society, to be used as a refuge for the poor of the parish. With a suitable amount placed in trust to help run it, of course.”
Margaret knew she had to be staring; she felt a little dizzy. It seemed a very generous thing to do and for some reason she had not expected it of him. Although she wasn’t sure why not. She knew so little about this part of his life, and being told that the earl had a desire for philanthropy was rather thrilling. She had often thought that, if she had the funds, she could do so much more for those in need. Dominic had the funds and he was doing more. Why was her knowledge of his compassion so very appealing?
“No, I didn’t know,” she said softly. “Is he always so generous?”
“Oh yes. Don’t let his silence on the matter fool you, he’s absurdly generous. Just look at what he has done for me.” She looked up. “Nic, there you are! I was just telling Margaret about your plans for Great Uncle Cecil’s house.”
“Were you indeed?” That familiar voice was right behind her and Margaret turned before she could stop herself. No time to hide what she was feeling or put the mask back onto her face—when she looked up at him he saw everything.
His eyes darkened and a smile tilted his mouth. “Miss Willoughby,” he said, his voice with a slightly husky edge. “Do you approve?”
“I don’t think it matters whether I approve,” she began hurriedly, looking away. “I think the people of Denwick will approve and thank you very much.”
“Excuse me, I need to speak to someone,” Sibylla squeezed her arm and vanished into the crush. Margaret had a feeling she had left them alone on purpose, although they weren’t truly alone. It just felt like it.
He leaned closer. “I wish you would look at me like that again, Margaret.”
She pretended to be inspecting the refreshments table. “Like what?”
“As if I am capable of wonderful things.”
