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Sibylla pulled a face at him. “I’ve always been interested. When I was living in Italy I saw a great many old buildings. Lived in them too.”
Louis picked up on the theme. “I have always wanted to see the world. I envy you, Lady Sibylla.”
“You would not envy me if you knew how dreadful the accommodations were where we were staying, Mr Scott. Beauty does not always equate with comfort.” Her laugh was light, as if such difficulties were all simply a part of living. Margaret wondered if Louis knew Sibylla had scandal attached to her name, and whether it would bother him if he did. Somehow she didn’t think it would. He had an understanding soul.
The curate turned to Dominic. “Have you travelled too, my lord?”
Dominic blinked, as if he had been dragged out of his own deep thoughts, and then cleared his throat. “Not as much as my sister. Now that the war with Napoleon is over I hope to. That is, if I can find the right companion.”
“And how will you do that?” Louis asked. “Find the right companion, I mean, my lord?”
“Oh, I believe I have already found that person.”
Did he mean her? She remembered that night in Mockingbird Square when she said goodbye to him, there had been talk of travelling. Could he be remembering that now, or was there some other person he was thinking of? She didn’t know what was worse, wanting to travel the world with him and knowing she couldn’
t, or imagining him doing so with another woman.
They had reached the vicarage door. Margaret forced herself to turn to face him, and asked in a tight little voice, “How do you know this person wishes to travel with you? What if they say no?”
Before he could answer Sibylla interrupted, shooting another glance between Margaret and her brother. “There is one thing you should know about Dominic,” she said. “He always gets his way.”
“Not always, surely,” Margaret retorted, though she knew she sounded impolite.
He smiled down at her. “Would you like to wager on that, Miss Willoughby?”
Margaret turned away, shaken, her emotions in turmoil. How could he say such things to her when he knew she had no answers?
Inside the vicarage it was warm, and the smells of roasting meat permeated the air, but she barely noticed. Louis was busy helping Sibylla remove her fur lined cloak, and before Margaret could do more than untie the cords at the throat of her own plain woollen one, she felt Dominic’s hands on her shoulders.
“Can you imagine seeing the world with me beside you?” he asked, his voice too low to be heard by anyone but herself. “Exploring places we have only ever dreamed of or read about in books?”
“We would argue,” she said, breathless, wanting to escape him, but he wouldn’t let her. His hands remained firm on her shoulders.
“Of course we would argue. That’s part of the fun of being with you, Margaret. You don’t try to please me by agreeing with me. And I would be an exacting companion, I admit it. I would expect you to pay me a great deal of attention.”
“Would you?” she managed to say past the lump in her throat.
“Oh yes. And I would concern myself very much with your comfort and well-being, down to the smallest detail. You would never be safer than in my hands.”
If she leaned back just a little she would be resting against his chest. He was so close to her already, she could feel his warmth through her clothing, or perhaps she was imagining it. If he bent his head slightly he would be able to kiss her cheek, and if she tilted her head, he would trail his lips down her neck as he had in the little room at the inn.
Somewhere in the background she could hear Louis and Sibylla, but it was as if she and Dominic existed in their own cocoon.
“Miss Willoughby?”
Margaret jumped, and just like that she was back in her home, back in real life.
The cook was standing in the kitchen doorway, peering at her rather desperately, hands twisting in her white apron. The woman’s gaze went to Dominic and she looked even more desperate. Clearly some dire situation was unfolding in the kitchen.
“If you would excuse me?” she said in a voice that hardly shook at all. “I am needed.”
Sibylla had seen what was happening. “Oh dear! Has the soup curdled? Do you need help, Margaret? I assure you I am an expert when it comes to rescuing culinary disasters.”
Louis stared at Sibylla as if he was trying to picture her stirring soup. “You are very versatile, Lady Sibylla,” he said. “Surely not many earls’ sisters can cook?”
“Oh dear me, I once cooked for a room full of card sharps, in order to save my husband from being sent to prison. They claimed he was cheating.”
Louis didn’t seem to know what to think about that. He murmured, “Your husband?” as if those were the two words that had struck him hardest.
