Enraptured (Mockingbird Square Book 2) Read online

  ENRAPTURED

  Contents

  About This Series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books By Sara Bennett

  Copyright © 2018 Sara Bennett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design and Interior Format by

  The Killion Group, Inc.

  About This Series

  MOCKINGBIRD SQUARE

  Where happy endings are always possible

  Mockingbird Square is a garden square in exclusive Mayfair, owned for centuries by the Earls of Monkstead. The present earl amuses himself by interfering in the love lives of his neighbours, and attempting to bring about their happy endings.

  UNFORGETTABLE

  (MOCKINGBIRD SQUARE SERIES #1)

  Ash Linholm and Juliet Montgomery were once deeply in love, but their families tore them apart. Now, 8 years on, Ash is thinking of marrying for the sake of an heir to his estate. His bride of choice is a relative of the Earl of Monkstead, but the earl is a great believer in marrying for love, and he persuades Ash to revisit his painful past.

  * * *

  Does Juliet still love him after all that has happened? Is it possible for them to find the happiness that was once denied them?

  Chapter One

  Summer 1816, Number Nine

  Mockingbird Square, Mayfair

  Olivia was in tears again.

  Margaret Willoughby hesitated outside her cousin’s bedroom door. Should she knock and ask what the matter was? She’d done so last night and the night before, and after a brief pause—no doubt to stifle her heartbreaking sobs—Olivia had answered that she was perfectly well. Just a slight headache. Nothing to worry about!

  William the Pug sat at her side, watching with interest as Margaret tried to make up her mind. William was Olivia’s dog, but he seemed to have attached himself to Margaret since she’d arrived in London from Northumberland.

  Olivia’s husband, Rory Maclean, said that William knew a kind heart when he met one. He’d smiled when he said it, and Rory had the sort of smile that would make most women’s hearts flutter.

  As far as Margaret was aware, Rory had never looked at another woman, not since he’d married Olivia. That wasn’t why her cousin was crying. The reason was far more complex than a straying husband.

  They had been so happy up until a week ago, but then Olivia’s father had paid them a visit. Now their marriage was on the verge of disaster and Margaret didn’t know what to do about it. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could do, which was a pity. For purely selfish reasons, she had very much enjoyed living here in Mockingbird Square.

  She knocked. “Livy? Open the door. Please.”

  A sniffle and then footsteps approaching. The door cracked open on Olivia Maclean’s woebegone face.

  “Oh Livy . . .”

  “There’s nothing you can say,” her cousin spoke in a strained, husky voice. “I know you told me in the beginning I was rushing into marriage, but I was so sure . . .”

  “Oh Livy,” Margaret said again, and decided she wasn’t being very helpful. “What are you going to do?”

  “I suppose I can divorce him.”

  Her cousin’s eyes widened. “Divorce is such a disgraceful end to a marriage,” she whispered. Her father would say the same, and although Margaret did not always agree with the Reverend Willoughby, on this occasion she could only see more misery for Olivia in such an action.

  There were footsteps on the stairs at the end of the passage.

  “No, no, I won’t speak to him!” Olivia closed the door and turned the key.

  Rory was approaching from the shadows with his dark hair windblown and his hazel eyes wild. Margaret, ready to defend her cousin, saw at once there was no need. Although he looked quite desperate and not at all like the handsome man she had come to know over the past six months, Rory was suffering as much as Olivia.

  “My wife?” he said.

  “She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Margaret repeated her cousin’s words. She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t like Rory Maclean so much. He had behaved reprehensibly in his marriage to Olivia—this was all his fault—and yet . . .

  He put his hand on the door, palm against the wooden panelling, as if he could reach his wife that way. “Thank you, Margaret,” he said quietly, not looking at her.

  Margaret opened her mouth, closed it again. With a sigh she turned and went to her room, William the Pug on her heels. She didn’t light the candle but walked to the window and stared out.

  Outside, the square was illuminated by the flare of the lamps which were lit every evening by the lamp lighter. Beyond their glow the shadows were deep, and the central garden was a mere silhouette of trees. She opened her window and leaned against the sill, breathing in the air and enjoying the warm summer evening.

  If Olivia and Rory did go their separate ways then this town house would be sold. Olivia would no doubt return home to her doting parents, and Margaret would have no choice but to return to her own home in Northumberland and her father the vicar. She accepted her father had many good characteristics, but he was not an affectionate sort of man. He was chilly and distant and tended to look harshly upon anything he considered a human frailty.

  Margaret knew that in his opinion his daughter seemed to have a great many moral weaknesses.

  One of the shadows moved, and she was suddenly aware that there was someone outside, down in the street.

  Instead of withdrawing, Margaret leaned further over the sill. Curiosity, as she knew from her father’s homilies, was one of her worst frailties.

  The shadow moved closer into the lamplight, transforming into a shape. A man. She recognised the Earl of Monkstead in an evening suit with a top hat on his handsome head.

  Margaret had an aversion to the earl. When she had first arrived in Mockingbird Square, she had heard a great deal about him and he had even held a brief fascination for her. He was good looking, certainly, and many females were intrigued by him. But lately she found his interference in the affairs of his neighbours irritating in the extreme. Who did he think he was? Just because his family had owned Mockingbird Square for generations did not mean he owned the people who lived in it. His actions had all the arrogant presumption of a Medieval king, someone who had total power over his men. And women.

  Monkstead hadn’t passed beyond the lamp, he’d stopped, and was now standing quite still. Had he forgotten something? And then quite suddenly he turned his head and looked up.

  Straight at Margaret.

  She gave a gasp and stepped back. But it was too late. He’d seen her, and now he must be thinking her very strange indeed to have been secretly watching him. Or perhaps not, perhaps he was used to lonely spinsters daydreaming about him.

  The thought made her even more cross, until she was distracted by Olivia’s voice, filtered by the walls of the town house. For a moment it rose shrilly, telling her husband to “Go away!” while Rory answered her in a deeper note. Then her cousin was sobbing again, as if her heart would break.

  Margaret reached f
or William and held him close, and there they sat, waiting out the storm, just as they’d done for the last several nights.

  Chapter Two

  Six months earlier

  Scotland

  The water in the burn splashed, clear and cold, as Olivia’s pony made its way along the track that ran through the glen. She had grown weary of dawdling with the others and had ridden ahead. Olivia and her parents had been on a visit to the North of England, in the company of her father’s brother and sister in law, and their daughter Margaret, Olivia’s cousin, when they had decided to venture over the border into Scotland.

  Olivia had been less than enthusiastic about this expedition into what must once have been enemy territory. Although the last Jacobite Rebellion was over seventy years ago, until recently Scotland had still been considered a dangerous and uncivilised country. But her mother was a devotee of romance novels, in particular Sir Walter Scott. Scott’s writing had heralded in a new era of romanticism, and now instead of being somewhere to stay away from, Scotland was a desirable destination.

  On this particular day her parents had decided to remain at the inn, her mother already weary of ‘roughing it’, so Olivia went out with her uncle and aunt, and her cousin, and their guide.

  At twenty years of age, Olivia Willoughby was a classic English beauty, with hair the colour of ripe corn and eyes of summer sky blue. She knew she was pretty and that gentlemen, upon first meeting, were often struck dumb. Sometimes she was amused by it, and sometimes she found it irritating. As yet none of her admirers had captured her interest—her heart remained whole and untouched—and there seemed to be no pressing reason for her to marry. Her parents gave her everything she wished for, and so it had been ever since she was born.

  With such an upbringing, Olivia might have turned out to be selfish and self-centred, but she wasn’t. She was perhaps a little ignorant of the ways of the lower classes and the poor, but she was normally a generous girl with a kind heart. And she did her best to share her good fortune with Margaret.

  Her cousin Margaret was a dark haired girl with an intimidating green eyed stare, and came from a very different sort of family. It was only because of Olivia’s intervention that Margaret had been able to join her on this trip into Scotland—the vicar, her father, would have preferred her to stay home and attend to his parishioners. As for Margaret’s mother, the vicar’s more dominant personality had beaten her down into a shadow of the woman she once was.

  Poor Margaret, thought Olivia, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the party someway behind her. She didn’t have a very happy life. Olivia decided that if it was the last thing she did, she would rescue her cousin from such drudgery. Margaret was clever and caring, while her unexpectedly wicked tongue often caused Olivia to laugh at the most inappropriate moments. She deserved better than the hand she had been dealt.

  Deep in her own thoughts, Olivia wasn’t looking where she was going. It wasn’t until the barking dog brought her attention back to her surroundings that she realised that someone appeared to have fallen from his horse and was lying in the burn.

  Olivia didn’t think about propriety or waiting for her uncle’s guidance on the matter. She trotted ahead and then slid from her pony to the ground.

  There was a man wearing a kilt and he was lying in the water—the burn was not deep—and he was unmoving. She would have to wade into the stream to reach him, and she paused a moment, considering her skirt and boots. A glance over her shoulder showed her the others were still some way behind, and as the matter appeared urgent, she went to his aid. His face was very pale and his head was resting on one of the raised rocks that littered the area. Thankfully this rock was above the surface of the water, but the red mark on his temple seemed to suggest he had struck himself his head as he fell.

  She rested her hand upon his cheek and found his skin cold, and for one awful moment she thought he was dead. Which would have been a shame in any circumstances, but as Olivia had now discovered, this was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Dark hair and even features, and a broad shouldered, strong limbed body. And that kilt was something she had only ever read about in books—the green pattern wrapped about his slim hips, so that his strong and rather hairy legs were on display.

  Completely inappropriate for her to be looking, of course, but Olivia didn’t care about that.

  Margaret had reached her now and was standing on the bank. “Put your hand close to his mouth and see if you can feel him breathing, Livy,” her practical cousin suggested.

  Olivia rested her fingers on the man’s soft lips and felt the warm huff of his breath. His dark eyelashes fluttered, he groaned softly as if he was in pain, and her heart bumped in relief. “He’s alive! But we must get him out of this water.”

  By the time the Reverend Willoughby arrived, they were both tugging and heaving at the large and heavy man. The vicar’s face went bright red at the sight of the man’s kilt and the display of his lower limbs. It went redder when he realised his daughter and niece were standing in the water, their skirts and boots sopping wet and no doubt ruined.

  So much for the milk of human kindness, Olivia thought as her uncle spoke in a loud and censorious voice.

  “Margaret, come out of the water at once!”

  Margaret gave a little start and, with a quick glance at her cousin, obeyed. The vicar looked as if he was about to repeat the order to his niece, and then thought better of it. Instead he waded in himself and helped her to pull the man from the burn and up onto the bank.

  They made him as comfortable as possible, with a shawl from Margaret’s saddle bag under his head, while the vicar removed his own coat to place over the man, “for the sake of decency” as he put it. By now the others had arrived, and he was just about to call over their guide—a weedy fellow who was lurking in the background with Mrs Willoughby—when the dog turned up.

  It was a large brown animal, and Olivia remembered it had been barking when she first arrived, only to run off somewhere afterwards. She’d forgotten all about it, occupied as she had been by the injured man. Now it had returned with another man. This was an older grey haired man, also wearing a kilt, and he gave a cry at the sight of them gathered around the prone Scotsman.

  “Rory!” His eyes were wide and shocked. “My son!”

  Olivia moved back as he flung himself at his son’s side, feeling over his chest and shoulders, and then shaking him as he called his name.

  “Perhaps you should allow him to wake naturally,” Margaret suggested, but as usual she was ignored.

  “Is this your son, sir?” Once more the Reverend Willoughby took charge. “He seems to have taken a fall.”

  “He is my son,” the man replied, still obviously shaken, his lean face ashen. “I am Archie Maclean of Invermar Castle, and this is Rory Maclean, my son and heir.” He said it so proudly that Olivia found herself very much taken by his words. There was something awfully romantic about them, and, she admitted, about the sight of Rory Maclean lying unconscious at her feet.

  Just then Rory gave a groan and his eyes flickered open. They were hazel, Olivia noted, and they widened as he took in the vicar and then Archie Maclean. “Father?” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Hush, Rory,” his father said quickly. “There’s no need to be sorry, not when these kind people have come to your rescue.”

  Rory seemed to be trying to grasp the meaning of his father’s words. His gaze wandered again, and then fixed on Olivia.

  Later, when her heart had slowed to normal, she was quite certain that in the moment their eyes met, something passed between them. Was it possible to fall in love in an instant? She had always thought such a thing inconceivable, and yet that was what it had felt like.

  “Have I died?” Rory whispered, his voice pleasantly deep, his handsome face puzzled.

  “No, lad, you are alive,” his father reassured him.

  “And yet I think I must be in heaven,” Rory said, “because I am looking
at an angel.”

  Chapter Three

  Summer 1816, Mockingbird Square

  Mayfair

  Rory had been out, walking and thinking. This morning Olivia’s father had come calling and he didn’t want to be there to listen. Not that they would have invited him into the conversation—the door had been shut firmly against him. So he was walking. He found the exercise helped to focus his mind and calm his emotions, even if there were no hills and glens through which to tramp.

  He had been living in London for some months now and with every day that passed he missed Scotland more. He dreamed of the cool, misty rain in his face and the changing light on the loch beyond his castle window. His heart ached for the wild lands he had been born to rule.

  I must go home to Invermar.

  He knew it. He’d known it before all of this happened, but he’d been playing a game of pretend with himself. He also knew he was a liar and a scoundrel; his current awkward circumstance was entirely his fault and it was up to him to remedy it. Rory wanted his wife to look at him with love in her blue eyes, as she used to, before she grew to hate him. He was also aware that it was doubtful she would ever love him again.

  “Mr Maclean?”

  Rory looked up. He was in one of the ubiquitous Mayfair squares, on his way back to his town house. Olivia’s town house. He remembered crossing the river several times by bridge and realised he must have walked for many miles.

  “Rory?”

  The voice spoke again. It was unwelcome but for politeness sake—or perhaps he was just too weary to be rude—he bowed briefly in Monkstead’s direction. Sometimes on his walks he would see the earl at a distance, but they rarely crossed paths.

  “You seem distracted?”

  Rory took an unsteady breath, the bitter words spilling out of him. “That is because my future is as bleak as it is possible for it to be.”