Reckless (Mockingbird Square 4)

Telling herself she was pleased with her final decision, Margaret lay awake for the rest of the night, staring into the darkness.

6

True to her word, Margaret had sent a dozen strong and reliable local residents to help with Great Uncle Cecil’s house. While they did the heavy lifting, under instruction from the footmen he had brought with him, Dominic had set his valet to work. The man was sorting through Cecil’s wardrobe, searching for anything that could be handed over to the church to distribute among the needy. Not that the valet enjoyed it. This was beyond what he considered his province and his face was so twisted with disgust it was as if there was a permanent bad smell under his nose.

“My lord, I cannot find anything that the moths haven’t feasted on,” the valet declared, holding up with his fingertips what had once been an embroidered waistcoat, the buttons now missing or dangling by threads.

“Put anything you feel beyond salvaging in a pile to be burned.”

“Then that will be just about everything,” the man replied. “And what of the bedding? It is a disgrace, my lord.”

“I agree with you there, but it may still be useful. Leave it for now.”

Perhaps, Dominic thought, the parish poor weren’t as fussy as his valet. He decided he would ask Margaret, and that lightened his heart. Although her lack of response to his declaration had been a little worrying. Sibylla had said that Margaret had come to the inn to visit her, but his sister had still been abed, recovering from her cold, and so they hadn’t spoken.

Just as well. He didn’t want Sibylla trying to interfere. Right now he needed Margaret to decide whether she wanted to remain here in Denwick and be miserable, or throw in her lot with him. He very much hoped for the latter.

But what if the thought of his kisses disgusted her?

The question was unwelcome. Just for a moment he found he was doubting himself, a feeling he wasn’t used to, but then he remembered how pleased she’d been to see him. Besides, he’d never kissed a woman yet who hadn’t enjoyed it. Did that make him conceited? Margaret would have a great deal to say on the subject, he was sure.

Leaving his valet, Dominic made his way upstairs to the attic. The door under the eaves was stuck, and he had to force it open with his shoulder. Hastily he jumped back to avoid a whoosh of dust, and still managed to sneeze. When he thought it was safe, he ducked under the lintel and entered as far as was possible.

Years of mice and rats being allowed free reign among the furnishings stored up here meant there would be little worth rescuing. He remembered coming up here as a child, full of the sick thrill of his uncle’s gory stories of Scots pouring over the border and massacring everyone in sight. The border was no longer visible—there were stacks of half rotten draperies blocking his view.

He knew the house was going to come to him, although he was yet to receive the finer details from his uncle’s solicitor. He could sell it or lease it, but he wondered if either was practical. Perhaps the parish would have use for it?

He was inclined to do what the Scots might have done all those centuries ago—set fire to the place and dance a jig as it burned to the ground. He and Sib could warm themselves by the flames and drink a toast to Great Uncle Cecil. Would the old reprobate have preferred to be turned to ashes rather than be buried in the chilly churchyard at Denwick?

The thought made him smile, just as the voice he’d been longing to hear called up to him from downstairs.

Dominic took a deep calming breath. He’d be lying if he told himself it was because he was looking forward to another intellectual tussle and not because those green eyes and smiling mouth heated his blood. For the past two nights he’d been tossing and turning, imagining kissing her until she begged for more. Unless that wretched curate had already kissed her.

Dominic felt himself go hot with fury. He didn’t want anyone to touch Margaret except himself—she belonged to him and him alone and if he had to call the curate out then …

He groaned at his own stupidity. He needed to keep a cool head. Yes, he was obsessed with this woman, and yes he intended to save her from the abysmal situation she had gotten herself into, but Margaret wasn’t someone who could be forced to his will. She’d had enough of that sort of nonsense from her father.

If he was going to convince her of the pleasures of a future with him, then he needed to persuade her with deeds.

“My lord?” she called again, and he had an irrational desire to hear his first name on her lips. “Are you there?”

He ducked his head beneath the lintel and was about to step out onto the landing when he remembered he’d warmed up enough to remove his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. The exertion of moving boxes and helping create order out of chaos had at least been beneficial in keeping him from freezing to death.

Dominic knew that a gentleman would roll down his sleeves and tug on his jacket, but as he often reminded himself, he was no gentleman. He half expected Margaret to take one look at him and tell him as much, and it was with that thought in mind that he finally moved to the railing and peered down at the marble floor of the entrance hall below.

Margaret was looking up, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her green eyes shining. She was wearing a practical brown woollen cloak with the hood thrown back, her dark hair a cloud about her lovely face.

It must have been the drop, or perhaps his lack of sleep, but Dominic felt his head spinning. That was the trouble with taking off the shackles of good behaviour. Now that he’d admitted to himself how much he wanted this woman, he wouldn’t be satisfied with less.

“There you are,” she said with a note of censure. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“I was in the attic. I could just as easily have been in hell.”

“That’s most dramatic.” She paused. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He knew at once what she wanted to talk about by the determined note in her voice. She had been thinking about his words and she was going to warn him off. She was going to tell him again about fate and her determination to throw herself headfirst into the wretchedness her father had planned for her and that under no circumstances must he stop her.

He said nothing and she huffed in impatience, or more likely from feeling upset and awkward. Two men walked behind her carrying with what looked like a bureau. “Are you selling everything?” she asked, watching them go. Then, before he could answer, added, “This is foolish, yelling at each other. I will come up.”