Reckless (Mockingbird Square Book 4) Read online

  RECKLESS

  Mockingbird Square #4

  Sara Bennett

  Copyright © 2018 by 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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About Reckless

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Other books in the series

  Other books in the series

  Other Books By Sara Bennett

  About Reckless

  Dominic Frampton, Earl of Monkstead, has been accused of meddling in the lives of his neighbours, giving them the happy endings he thinks they should have. But when it comes to Miss Margaret Willoughby the only person he believes can make her happy is himself.

  * * *

  But Dominic is already married, a wretched mistake he was forced into fifteen years ago.

  * * *

  Margaret is on the verge of being engaged to her bullying father’s curate, and destined to live a half life in the village where she was born. She believes she must obey, but Dominic has other ideas.

  * * *

  Is it right to ruin Margaret’s reputation to save her from her miserable future? Can love really conquer all?

  Go to my website and sign up to my Newsletter to receive a bonus story about Dominic and Margaret (but you must read Reckless first!).

  www.sara-bennett.com

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the following:

  Cover design by Kim Killion

  Content editing by Noah Chin

  Copy editing by Christine Gardner

  1

  Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair

  The lights from the town house spilled from the many windows and reflected off the puddles in the square. It wasn’t the best of nights but even Dominic Frampton, Earl of Monkstead, couldn’t control the weather.

  “Nic!”

  Only one person ever shortened his name like that. A warm hand slipped into his, and he turned to his sister. Lady Sibylla was wearing the latest in fashion, with a neckline that bordered on risqué, and her hair a mass of shining dark curls. She was bubbling with excitement, her dark eyes twinkling, and only someone who knew her very well would notice the sadness in their depths.

  “Sib,” he mocked, watching her scrunch up her face. There were lines there he didn’t remember from ten years ago, when as a young woman she’d thrown herself headlong into scandal. At twenty-seven she was still beautiful and he hoped despite the disgrace that clung to her name he could ease her path back into London society.

  “Sibylla, if you please,” she huffed, but squeezed his hand at the same time, as if to reassure him she didn’t mind his teasing. “I had forgotten you lived in your own private little fiefdom in London,” she went on. “Do your neighbours know that they’re your property?”

  She was only half joking. They were both well aware that their ancestors had been the sort of lawless raiders who took what they wanted, and with the money they made from their pursuits they had bought land. There was Monkstead Abbey in the country, and the chunk of Mayfair that later became Mockingbird Square. It was called after a mockingbird, so the story went, because the Monksteads were not aristocrats and certainly not respectable enough to mingle with the blue bloods surrounding them. So, like the American mockingbird, they had learned to fit in by imitation.

  Dominic knew that, like the rest of his family, he was a fake, but he was a very good fake.

  “I don’t own them,” he said. “I’m not that medieval.”

  “Yes you are,” she retorted. “I’ve heard about your meddling, brother. I’m surprised you didn’t meddle in my affairs.”

  He glanced at her and wondered if she was still joking. The truth was he wished he had. Sibylla had made a poor choice of husband, and to confound matters she’d defied their father by running off with the man. Eloped to the border, and then vanished for over a decade.

  Dominic had done the opposite. He had married to please their father, agreeing to a girl he hardly knew because he felt he must, and setting himself up for a lifetime of regret.

  “We haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory.” It seemed Sibylla had read his mind.

  “We come from a family of rogues and no-goods, what can you expect?”

  “At least I married for love,” she said softly, for his ears alone.

  “I’ve had my share of affairs, Sibylla.”

  “Yes, but you haven’t loved any of them.”

  “Perhaps love is over-rated.”

  She had opened her mouth to argue with him when he heard the footman at the door announcing their first guest. With relief, he made his way over to greet one of the gentlemen he’d invited expressly with his sister’s future in mind. He didn’t want to talk to Sibylla about his marriage, nor did he want to remember the past. With any luck she would forget all about their conversation by the time the night was over.

  Some hours later the earl was able to declare the evening a success. The food had been praiseworthy and the company jolly. His sister had enjoyed herself, despite the fact that everyone here must have known about her past. She was a hit, and had even sung in accompaniment to the piano. Her voice was superb—he had forgotten what an exquisite voice she had. Yes, she was notorious, but so charming that no one apart from the most rigid members of society could bring themselves to snub her. And Dominic had made certain none of those puritans had been invited.

  His gaze skimmed the room, noting the various faces. Captain Longhurst and Lady Richmond had arrived late, but there could be no denying their happiness. He watched them with satisfaction, telling himself that here was another success he had had a hand in. Another happy ending.

  His gaze slid past them and stopped. A woman in her early twenties with dark hair was standing beside his sister. Sibylla seemed to have involved her in an animated discussion, and he shuddered to think what it was they were debating. His sister did tend to delve deeply into subjects that others avoided. But perhaps this was nothing too serious, because the other woman was smiling. He let himself admire her sparkling green eyes and flushed cheeks, before his gaze slid down to where her curves were on perfect display in a cream coloured gown. It wasn’t one he had seen her wear before, and Dominic thought he knew most of Margaret Willoughby’s gowns.

  Sibylla leaned down to murmur something—she was quite a bit taller—and Margaret laughed with a surprisingly earthy note in her normally proper voice.

  Dominic felt an ache in his chest, as if someone had reached in and given his heart a squeeze.

  Margaret Willoughby was the one person in Mockingbird Square he was yet to gift a happy ending to. Not that she would want him interfering in her life. She had told him more than once what she thought of his addiction to matchmaking. Even so, he had looked about him at the possibilities in the square—there were a small number of unattached gentlemen—but after some deliberation he’d decided that none of them suited. There was something wrong with every o
ne of them, and that had puzzled him for a time. He’d been in denial, he supposed. Now, when it was too late, he could admit why it was those other men hadn’t come up to the mark.

  Dominic didn’t want anybody else to have her because he wanted her for himself.

  Margaret was a woman with decided opinions as well as being the epitome of respectability. She might have an earthy laugh and a sometimes wicked sense of humour, but she was the daughter of a vicar, and she was never going to ruin herself and bring disgrace upon her family.

  Because that was exactly what a liaison with Dominic would bring.

  He had become so deep in thought that he didn’t realise she was looking back at him, and probably had been for some time. Her smile was fading on her lips, the amused gleam cooling from her eyes as they narrowed with mistrust. But she didn’t look away. He wondered what she was thinking. That she would be glad to see the back of him? Margaret was leaving London to return to her home in Northumberland, and it was more than likely they would never meet again.

  He supposed he should be glad. They had never been friends, not on her part anyway, but instead he felt a deep regret. Margaret may not have looked favourably upon him, but she had become his secret obsession.

  Still she was watching him.

  More than anything he wanted to walk over to her. He imagined the moment. He would tilt her chin and bend his head and do what he had wanted to do since the first time he saw her. Kiss her. Slowly at first, just a taste, and then deeper, until she was limp in his arms. Would that be enough to persuade her into his bed, where he could ruin her so completely that she could not marry that wishy-washy curate her parents were insisting upon?

  He groaned softly to himself. If he was really the arrogant man she believed him to be then he would do just that. Unfortunately, he still had a whisper of conscience.

  Margaret finally turned away. Her shoulders were tense and she put a nervous hand to her hair, tucking back some stray curls.

  Idiot, he scolded himself. What if someone had noticed? And then he realised that someone had noticed.

  His sister was giving him one of her curious stares.

  “Monkstead!” A voice at his side claimed him and he turned away with relief, pretending to be all ears. The man was new to the square and Dominic still wasn’t sure he would fit in as seamlessly as he’d hoped. He was very careful who he let into his little fiefdom, as Sibylla had called it.

  The gentleman was slightly inebriated. As he looked past the earl’s shoulder, his expression changed, a slack smile hovering over his lips. “Lady Sibylla!”

  Dominic turned. His sister was indeed behind him and she had brought Margaret with her. They were arm in arm, but Margaret wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, and he suspected she had been escorted here under protest.

  “Did you know that Miss Willoughby is leaving us, Nic?” his sister asked, the sorrow in her dark eyes underlaid with mischief. “She says she is going off to Northumberland, of all places!”

  “I did know,” he responded, smiling politely at Margaret and trying not to show his annoyance at Sibylla’s interference. He refused to think of the irony in that. “When are you leaving, Miss Willoughby?”

  “In two days,” she said. Those green eyes met his only briefly, but they still caused a jolt within him. “I am looking forward to seeing my parents again, and Denwick, my home.”

  He knew better than to take her words at face value. In a moment of madness, when he’d first learned about her leaving, he had told her he would save her from her fate. He had been berating himself for it ever since. Besides the fact that she would think his comment presumptuous, how on earth was he going to save her? And did she even want to be saved?

  For a time he had played with a few solutions, but the idea of ruining her still held the most appeal. So much so that he thought about it at the most inconvenient times. Like now.

  Margaret in his bed, her green eyes dazed with passion, her mouth red from his kisses.

  He pushed the thoughts aside. He hadn’t been so obsessed with a woman for…well, ever, and he needed to get a grip on his fantasies. Seducing Margaret Willoughby was not something he was going to do.

  A long time ago, he had set himself the task of creating happy endings for those who could not seem to manage them for themselves, because there was never going to be a happy ending for him. His task had given him successes and failures, and he was just going to have to chalk Margaret up to the latter.

  “If I was going to travel it would not be to Northumberland,” Sibylla broke into his thoughts. “I prefer warmer climes.”

  Margaret forced a smile. “So do I. Perhaps one day I will be able to visit those places. I have a dream where I am in Verona, and I sit in the sun with my sketch pad.”

  “Are you an accomplished artist?” Dominic asked.

  She shook her head. “Not accomplished, no. It is just that I always think Verona sounds so romantic, and a sketch pad would give me an excuse to day dream.”

  So the practical Margaret was a romantic at heart? Dominic wasn’t sure whether that would help his cause or not. But what was the point of telling her he would take her to Verona, where they would lie in bed and drink wine and make love, and then walk together through narrow streets under the warm Italian sun, when it was never going to happen?

  “Perhaps you don’t need to stay in Northumberland. Will you visit us again?” The new resident was still there, speaking to Margaret in the meticulous voice of the intoxicated while his gaze lingered on Sibylla. “Surely your family would not begrudge you catching up with your old chums?”

  Margaret wore that look Dominic recognized all too well. As if she wanted to say something tart but was restraining herself for the sake of good manners. He wished she wouldn’t—her sharp tongue and her enmity toward him were things he particularly enjoyed. It set her apart from all the other women he was acquainted with. Her obvious dislike of him and her lack of respect were, in fact, the first things that had attracted him to her. He wondered if, had she known that, it would have tempered her urge to tell him off?

  Would she have been content to play the little mouse to keep the big bad earl from her door?

  “I doubt there will be time for that, once I am back in Denwick,” she said politely. “I will have a great many things to do. There won’t even be time to think.”

  She sounded as if she considered that a good thing.

  Her green eyes slid up to Dominic’s and away again. She bit her lip and he felt himself go hard. This was another of Margaret’s quirks that caused him to lose his equilibrium, if only she knew. It was probably better that she didn’t.

  Sibylla also looked over at her brother. There was something meaningful in her eyes before she took a firm hold on the arm of the gentleman. As she turned him away she was saying that, since he was as new to the square as she was, they needed to stick together. That left Dominic and Margaret alone, and he was fully aware that that had been his sister’s intent.

  Margaret watched them go as if she wished she could go with them, but she straightened her back and lifted her chin, and prepared to make polite conversation as required. Even with her chin up and her back straight she barely reached his shoulder. A small curvy armful.

  “Lady Richmond shared her happy news with me and your part in it,” she said.

  He feigned ignorance. “Did she?”

  She wasn’t deceived. “She said that you offered her some helpful advice.”

  Dominic remembered the advice he had given. He’d been visiting Lavinia Richmond after Captain Longhurst had left in high dudgeon, and he’d told her not to give up on happiness, even when achieving it felt too difficult.

  “I gave her a nudge,” he said, with uncharacteristic modesty.

  “I would have thought you’d be quick to claim this victory. You usually do.” Her tongue was as sharp as ever but there was a droop to her lips that made him think her heart wasn’t entirely in it.

  He paused, allowing her t
o believe he might take offence, while the truth was he was enjoying the way her dark hair caught the candlelight in strands of red and brown and gold. As usual, her hair was neat, but some of the curls, either by accident or by design, had tumbled against one shoulder, drawing attention to her creamy skin. Dominic wanted to explore. It wouldn’t take much effort for him to bend his head and breathe in her warm womanly scent.

  He had been silent for long enough. The colour in her cheeks had deepened, and she was aware of his perusal, though trying to pretend she wasn’t.

  “I am being modest, Miss Willoughby,” he said at last in a reproving voice.

  She laughed, just as he knew she would. The sound of it did that odd thing to his chest again.

  “Perhaps you can carry on my good work in Northumberland,” he went on, baiting her. “Happy endings shouldn’t be confined to Mockingbird Square. Not that you will ever be as accomplished at it as me, Miss Willoughby.”

  Her lips thinned with disapproval. “You are a meddler and I am not. I prefer to let nature take its course. Or fate, if you like. If something is meant to be, then it will be.”

  “Nature can be messy and inefficient,” he responded. “And sometimes fate needs a helping hand.”

  Her green eyes narrowed, and although it was obvious she had more to say she didn’t respond. Margaret was being unusually reticent this evening, not herself at all.

  “I will miss you.” He said it before he could stop himself. And then, when she looked startled, he tried to explain. “No one else disagrees with me quite like you do. You are always wrong, it goes without saying, but I find it … stimulating to refute your arguments.”