Her voice was a little thick, her nose red from her cold, and now and again she gave a shiver. Dominic had had the doctor to see her. The man seemed competent enough dealing with common illnesses, and had declared her fit and strong, needing only warmth and rest to recover.
“You’re warmer than Great Uncle Cecil,” he retorted.
She rolled her eyes at him. “That wouldn’t be difficult. It’s rather uncomfortable thinking about him laid out in the cellar.” She shuddered. The cellar of the White Boar was where bodies were kept before burial, being the coldest place available in the village.
“Where have you been?” Sibylla asked.
“To the vicarage, as you well know.”
“Did you see your Margaret?” she teased, barely holding back a smile.
He flung himself down into the chair opposite and stretched out his boots onto the hearth. The room was probably too warm, but after the freezing air outside he didn’t complain.
“Yes, I did see Miss Willoughby and her appalling father. As for her being mine I think you misjudge the matter, Sib. If her father hadn’t been there she would have given me a good telling off for interfering in other peoples’ lives. Just like old times,” he muttered, frowning into the flames.
Sibylla appeared deep in thought. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so taken with her, Nic. She stands up to you and doesn’t let your consequence stop her from telling you how she feels. You don’t have many women like that in your life.”
“I have you,” he retorted. “And who says I am taken with her? We were paying a Christmas visit to Great Uncle Cecil and it is a complete coincidence that Margaret Willoughby lives nearby.”
She snorted a laugh. “Dominic, my dear brother, this is me you’re talking to.”
He closed his eyes. Sibylla was right. He’d been playing a game with himself and Margaret, but after the words he had spoken to her just now, she must know how he felt. He’d declared himself to her. He’d told her exactly what he wanted to do to her and she could be in no doubt about his desire. Even if she didn’t understand how deep his need went.
The next step was hers. If she rejected him utterly then it would be over, but he hoped that she wouldn’t. Her expression when she’d first seen him in her father’s study, the happiness and joy in her eyes, as if she’d been longing for him to appear. He refused to believe he could have been mistaken. The way she had looked at him had told him everything he needed to know. Margaret was over the moon at the sight of him.
Yes, he’d seen how she felt on seeing him, but at the same time he’d been shaken to realise how frail and wane she was. Not quite a withered husk, as her cousin Olivia had foretold, but well on the way. He hadn’t liked seeing his Margaret like that. But when he’d told her about the marriages he’d presided over in Mockingbird Square, the sparkle had returned to her eyes. Until her father quenched it.
“I asked Margaret to organize some help to clean out Great Uncle Cecil’s house, while I’m busy sorting out his affairs. You don’t want to stay here roughing it any longer than you have to, I imagine? Once you’re well enough we can leave.” He gave her a narrow look.
She wrinkled her nose. “You may not realise this, Nic, but I have spent time in far more precarious places than this. Hiding in attics while the bailiffs were after us, running off after dark to avoid paying bills. Exciting times.”
“Surely you don’t miss them?” he demanded. Then, meaning her disreputable husband, “You don’t miss him?”
His sister shrugged, a very bad habit their mother would have deplored. A pity neither of them had ever listened to her. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I do miss him. Not the bailiffs and the running off, but I miss being able to turn to him and share our combined memories, good and bad. He was a part of me, Nic, a part of my life. And now he’s gone.”
“You’ll find someone else,” he said with certainty, though it was not a nice thing to say. But then his sister didn’t exp
ect him to be polite. She expected him to be honest.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Please don’t tell me you have someone in mind, because you know it would never work. You may think you are good at arranging marriages and happy endings, but on this matter I agree with Margaret. Speaking of Margaret—”
He frowned. “Margaret is my business, Sib.” He ignored her soft laughter, letting the heat from the fire soak into his body, trying to forget about what horrors, known and unknown, awaited him in Sir Cecil’s house.
“What are you going to do with the house?” she asked. “You can hardly leave it standing empty, can you?”
“No, it needs to be put to some use, I suppose. I will turn my mind to it.”
The silence went on for so long that he thought her asleep until she spoke again, her voice soft and dreamy.
“Margaret’s father was appalling, was he? I did hear from the inn keeper, Mr Black, that he wasn’t well liked.”
“Yes, he was appalling,” Dominic said bluntly. “I would go so far as to say he was the most appalling man I have ever met.”
He had met men like Margaret’s father before. Vain, selfish men who believed they were more important than they really were. They seemed to thrive on lording over others, especially those in their power. Dominic couldn’t believe Margaret would allow herself to be bullied, but he could also see how over a length of time one would become used to being treated like a doormat.
His dash into the north had always been with the intention of rescuing Margaret, but on the way he had begun to wonder if perhaps things wouldn’t be as bad as he believed. That Margaret would be content, happy, and instead of his ridiculous plan to play the hero, he would end up turning around and going home again.
Now he knew that matters were that bad, and Margaret truly would shrivel up and die if she remained under her father’s thumb. He had to do something. It would be so much easier if he were free to do as he pleased. The vicar would jump at the chance of an earl as his son in law. He could whisk Margaret away and give her everything she deserved. But he wasn’t free. To save her he would have to ruin her—her reputation and her good name.