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Margaret Willoughby.
Why couldn’t he forget her? He had tried. She’d been gone for three months now and yet he still expected to see her in the square, walking that arthritic pug of hers, and firing darts at him from her bright green eyes.
The catalyst for his mad dash into the north—if one could call a ride in a well sprung coach a ‘mad dash’—was his visit to Olivia Maclean, Margaret’s cousin. Olivia was back in her townhouse for the winter. A sensible girl, she wasn’t keen on Scotland at this time of year, no matter how much her husband might try to persuade her of how romantic it was when the loch froze over.
After the usual pleasantries, Olivia had poured out her news, and most of it was to do with Margaret.
“She’ll be engaged soon.” Judging from her tone of voice, this was not a happy occasion in her eyes.
“Have you met the curate?” he’d asked.
“Louis Scott? Yes, he’s a gentle, mild mannered fellow. I’m sure he and Margaret would deal well together,” she admitted grudgingly. “Or they would if it was just the two of them. But her father will never let them live their lives in peace, you can be sure of that. He’s a selfish man and he will demand that they run themselves ragged doing everything he asks of them.”
“Your cousin seemed to think such a life was her fate,” he’d said.
“I imagine she did. That’s the fate of many women. I just happen to be one of the lucky few who married a man I love.” She smiled and he felt that tug in his heart again, not for Olivia, but for his own solitary state.
“They say love can grow after marriage, or at least that is what I have been told.” He knew he sounded bitter and wondered at his own lack of self-control. Fortunately, Olivia wasn’t listening. She was too eager to get her own point of view across to him, though why he had no idea. Perhaps she thought he could fix Margaret’s situation, or perhaps despite his best efforts to appear disinterested she’d guessed he wanted to.
“But that’s not the point, Monkstead!” she cried out in frustration. “I did not think you, of all men, to be so slow-witted.”
“What is the point then?” he asked, deciding Margaret wasn’t the only Willoughby with a sharp tongue.
“She will be living in the place she was born, almost as if she never left it, and although I am sure she will pretend to be content and …. and happy, the truth is she will be brow beaten until she’s just a shadow of herself. She will have frittered away a life that could have been so much more. Margaret was made to be loved and cossetted and … and desired, and instead she will barely exist.”
“Mrs Maclean, please, don’t distress yourself.”
Olivia’s eyes had filled with tears. “Why shouldn’t I distress myself over Margaret? No one else will. She should be loved, Monkstead. She deserves to be loved and cherished. I always thought I would save her from what she calls her fate, and now she seems determined to sacrifice herself.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be saved,” he’d responded, but the words didn’t sound as unruffled as he’d meant them to.
“Believe me, Monkstead, neither does she want the life she is currently leading. Not in her heart. I’ve never seen her happier than she was when she first came to Mockingbird Square.”
He’d walked away from that conversation in a daze. Here he was in London while Margaret was in the north and about to be married to a man she didn’t love and end her days in a place she loathed, all because she felt she had no choice in the matter. He’d said he would save her and yet he’d let her go. Some hero he’d turned out to be.
Of course, it hadn’t been that simple at the time. As soon as he’d spoken the words she’d given him that look. Green eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, head tilted back as she thought of a suitably acerbic response. He’d wanted to kiss her then, and keep kissing her until she admitted she wanted to kiss him back.
Was that arrogant of him? Margaret would certainly say so.
But in that moment his desire to save her had been genuine, and although he had tried to put her out of his mind after she’d left, Olivia had resurrected all of those feelings. What she’d said was true. Margaret was the sort of woman who would always choose duty over her own pleasure, and she needed an arrogant man to persuade her that sometimes pleasure mattered more.
And now here he was, three miles from Margaret, and still he wasn’t sure how he was going to lure her from her vicarage and into his arms. Sibylla might believe a woman would choose ruination over a respectable marriage, but she didn’t know Margaret like he did.
Could he win her over? Could he make the idea of ruination with him more palatable than respectability with the curate? And what if, when he finally arrived at her door, it turned out she was blissfully happy with her circumstances and his journey had been a fool’s errand? A sensible man would pack up and go home while he still could.
By the time he dozed off the house was quiet. He slept fitfully and it was early morning when he found himself sit
ting bolt upright, abruptly awoken by the sound of screaming.
He was struggling to unwrap himself from his quilt when his sister flung open his door. Even in the pale light trickling through his windows he could see she looked pale white, with dark circles under her eyes from her sleepless night. She’d clearly had a fright.
“What the devil is it?” he demanded, running a hand through his dark hair and wondering if he’d find icicles there.
“Great Uncle Cecil is dead! Stone cold dead in his bed!”
4
Winter 1816, Denwick, Northumberland
