Earl of Scarborough, page 10
“Not the response of a disinterested man,” his mother observed dryly, a smile very much resembling a cat in the cream pot spreading across her face.
Why, she was not only enjoying this, but apparently, his mother was delighted at this problematic turn of events. Was she so very desperate to see him married, then?
Willow brought her tormented gaze to his, and the shame and regret he saw glittering there, kicked him in the ribs.
“My lord, I cannot stay.” Her knuckles shone white, but her voice—that voice he adored—was low and tempered. “I know my place, and I’ve overstepped the bounds of propriety. Surely you understand how impossible the situation is. Things cannot remain as they are now.”
It was what she wasn’t saying that piqued his curiosity. That gave him hope.
This wasn’t the brave, intrepid Willow he knew. The one who’d clobbered a man twice her size with an umbrella. The woman who’d held her head up to Mrs. Smitherman’s foul insinuation. The courageous woman who’d ventured to London alone to seek employment and who stoically proclaimed she intended to sail to America alone as well.
“But Mrs. Bloomfield has just gone.” He shook his head, unable to contemplate how they would manage without a housekeeper. No, how he could carry on without Willow.
As deplorable of him as it was, he used the argument most likely to persuade her. “There’s a house full of people arriving in a matter of days. And a ball. And—” His damned tic began twitching with a ferocity that hadn’t assailed him in weeks. He firmed his jaw and his resolve. “You cannot leave, Miss Harwood. It is not convenient.”
At that, anger flashed in her eyes, but she said nothing. Her gaze, however, eviscerated him with accusation and betrayal. Those beautiful speaking eyes. Every thought and nuance right there for him to read.
His mother’s continued company was no doubt responsible for her uncharacteristic silence. For Willow, being Willow had never hesitated to speak her mind before.
“I’m certain you can understand how troublesome it would be to retain a new housekeeper with such short notice,” he forged onward, feeling increasingly like an unmitigated ass and a fool. “Let alone continue with the preparations for the holiday gathering.”
You could cancel the house party.
His mother snorted again, the sound impatient and irritated. Did she just call him a damned fool beneath her breath?
Sparing her an inquisitive glance, he examined her dear features.
Eyebrows arched sardonically, she stared back, uncompromising and determined. Damn, she was a force to be reckoned with.
Three of his dogs set to romping about the chamber while the other two proceeded to groom themselves with great enthusiasm.
Willow observed their antics, with a tolerant upward sweep of her lips. She liked his dogs, and they liked her. One could tell a great deal about a person depending on how they treated animals and how creatures responded to them.
Willow was all that was pure and gentle and sweet.
He’d come to expect her presence in his home. He couldn’t imagine her not being here. Couldn’t conceive his life without her.
His mother’s features softened, and she touched Willow’s elbow. “Miss Harwood, unlike many people of my class, I do not judge a person based on their station or birth. That does not mean, however, that I can turn a blind eye to blatant impropriety.”
“I understand, Mrs. Twistleton.” Willow’s carefully schooled expression remained impassive, but her rigid shoulders and white-knuckled hands clasped before her, bespoke her chagrin. “I cannot excuse my behavior and won’t attempt to do so.”
He could, by damn. No one, not even his mother, would make what transpired between him and Willow shameful or disgraceful. It had been marvelous—almost spiritual.
As she turned her attention to him, Mother’s expression hardened significantly, her censure palpable. “I did my best to raise you as a gentleman, Ansley. Your father died when you were young, and though I may have failed you in some regard, I do not believe that I have in this. You know what must be done.”
Naturally, he damn well knew. And the fact that his mother didn’t believe him the sort to toss the female servants’ gowns over their heads and have his way with them impressed him further.
The rest of Polite Society mightn’t blink an eye at such behavior, but the Twistletons weren’t like them.
Her gaze remained unyielding yet also brimmed with love. Standing on her toes, she brushed his cheek with a light kiss. As always, she smelled of rose water and lilacs.
She shifted so that her mouth was but an inch from his ear and whispered, “You would never have done something so rash if this dear girl had not touched your heart, son. We both know it. You must do right by her. You will be the better for it. I have no doubt.”
Neither did he.
She lowered her heels and took a couple of steps backward. Then she surprised him by breaking into a wide, pleased smile once more. “Willow—I hope you will permit me to call you Willow, my dear—I can with the greatest sincerity say, I’m immensely pleased by this turn of events.”
Willow cast him an uncertain look, confusion in her gaze, and no small amount of worry as well. She obviously didn’t know what to make of his mother’s munificence. The faint furrowing of her usually smooth brow said what she didn’t dare ask.
What in the world is your mother about?
Mother expected him to propose to Willow. It was clear in what she’d said and the not so discreet look she leveled him. In fact, she appeared to want him too. How fascinating. Irregular, in the extreme, but nonetheless, fascinating.
And, by God, the notion didn’t displease at all. In fact, Ansley felt like kicking his heels together. Willow, his wife. His countess. His love. Yes. Yes.
What could be more perfect?
Willow must say yes. Surely she must. He must convince her to.
To hell with convention and rules. To hell with propriety and strictures. To hell with gossip and rumors, snide comments, upturned noses, and probable cut directs.
Even if his Mother didn’t breathe a word of what she’d witnessed, and she would not, Willow’s reputation lay in tatters. Only matrimony would bring her respectability.
But salvaging a servant’s reputation wasn’t expected or required. Often, she was turned out when something of this nature occurred. Many a man in his position had done far worse—impregnated an employee and then abandoned her. Or made her his mistress. That was acceptable, according to the haut ton. Not, by damn, according to him.
Ansley wasn’t a typical peer, however. His honor required him to protect her. He wanted to protect her.
Something he’d been doing since the night they met.
At the door, her hand on the handle, his mother hesitated. “You know full well I do not gossip. But you were careless and left the door open. You were seen by the butler, which is why I came in. He appeared so distressed. I wasn’t certain what to expect.”
“Oh, no,” Willow breathed, her chagrin tangible. Her mouth thinned into a severe line as she slid Ansley a fretful gaze. “Reeves…he fancies me.”
“The hell, he does.” How could he have missed that tidbit? Come to think of it, Reeves had been moping about with a woebegone face of late. “You…you don’t return his regard?”
How can I bear it if she does?
His heart ceased to beat, his lungs breathe, and the blood in his veins stilled in anticipation of her response. A look so incredulous swept her face, at once he realized he’d committed a huge gaffe.
“I wouldn’t have been kissing you if I did, you codpate,” she retorted, starchy as freshly-ironed cravats. Eyes narrowed until only her irises were visible, she stabbed him a peeved glance before presenting her profile.
Her gaze alight with jollity, his mother laughed, though he failed to see anything humorous about any of this. She seemed to be enjoying a joke at his expense. “I suggest you do what’s necessary, Scarborough,” she said. “And then what occurred can simply be explained as a slightly inappropriate, premature celebration of your betrothal.”
Scarborough?
Well, now. She was, indeed, serious. Mother never addressed him by his title. She’d done so to deliberately remind him of his position and the responsibilities that came with it.
With another telling look and a kindly smile for Willow, she snapped her fingers. “Come. George. Elizabeth. Anne. Charles. James.”
What, again, had possessed him to name the dogs after monarchs? Ah, yes, a macabre personal joke. He rather liked the idea of royals being ordered about.
After turning their soulful-brown eyes upon Ansley, and he pointed toward his patiently waiting mother, the dogs filed out. Mother swept from the room, much like a schooner in full sail, closing the door behind her with a soft, but final-sounding, click.
At once, Willow slapped her hands to her cheeks and turned away, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, Ansley. Forgive me. I should never have interrupted you. I brought this disgrace upon us. I shall, of course, pack and depart at once.”
He cupped her shoulders, rotating her until she faced him, bringing uncertain cinder-lashed eyes to meet his. “You will do no such thing.” He lifted her hand, tracing his thumb over the knuckles and then raising it to his mouth to kiss her fingertips. “Willow Harwood, will you marry me?”
So many emotions flitted across her face in rapid succession he could scarce keep track of them: Wonderment. Skepticism. Doubt. Confusion. Disbelief. And lastly, sadness and remorse.
“No.” She shook her head, and that ridiculous lace cap fluttered as if mocking him. “I shall never have it said that I trapped you into marriage. You will come to hate me and regret your decision. A spectacular kiss does not make a good foundation for nuptials between a couple as mismatched as us.”
She thought the kiss spectacular, did she? Male pride edged the corners of his mouth upward and quickened his pulse.
He agreed whole-heartedly with her assessment regarding the kiss but vehemently disagreed with the rest of her assertion. Physical attraction was a bloody good foundation to start with. Many couples entering into arranged marriages and marriages of convenience couldn’t claim as much
He gave her slender shoulders a slight shake. “Willow, you must. Something like this cannot be kept quiet. Reeves is not a gossip, but if he’s offended because you don’t return his affections—word could leak out.” Most assuredly would. “You’ll not be able to find a position anywhere.”
Not in England, in any event.
She shook her head again, her resolve to refuse him frustrating as hell. “My answer is still no. Marriage should be between two people who love each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together. Not an arrangement that has been forced upon them because of a foolish impulse.” She sucked in a ragged breath then swallowed. “Do you require a letter of resignation, or is my verbal notice sufficient?”
“By God, I shall not accept your resignation. My long-time housekeeper has left. I have guests arriving for the first gathering I have hosted in less than three weeks’ time.” He closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar pounding and the tightening in his chest to begin.
“Ansley…”
Before prudence and pride muzzled him, he rushed on. “I cannot do this without you. Since you came into my life, I feel like a measure of normality has come over me. I’ve been able to relax. I’m not so regimented in my routines.” Opening his eyes, he searched her turbulent, stormy sea-green gaze. “Please, love. I need you.”
To his own ears, he sounded like a petulant child denied the sweet he wanted in the confection shop. He all but begged her, and he didn’t care that he seemed desperate. He was. For he required time to work this out. To not only persuade her to stay but to wed him.
Willow licked her lower lip, still slightly plump from his kisses. Hands clutched, she tilted her head. Several strands of silky red-gold hair had slipped loose of the confining knot at the back of her head and caressed her shoulders.
Ansley had disheveled her coiffure when he’d kissed her. He wouldn’t pretend regret. If they hadn’t been interrupted, he’d have done much more. Would do much, much more after they were wed. He wasn’t ready to quit the field just yet.
“You should probably fix your hair.” He gestured toward the strands. “There are a few tendrils…”
“Lord, what your mother and Reeves must’ve thought of me.” Rare color stained her ivory cheeks. With practiced efficiency, she repinned the errant locks. When she’d finished, she crossed her arms, forcing her tempting breasts upward. Chin raised in a challenge, she said, “I shall concede to stay through Christmastide. If you agree to pay for my passage to America.”
Oh, she was bold. And brave and daring. And brilliantly cunning.
Did she suspect how much he needed her?
Without a jot of hesitation, he would acquiesce. Would consent to almost anything to keep Willow with him one more day. One more hour. One more minute.
“Agreed.” He gave a sharp nod. “But, you must also allow me to woo you during that time.”
Her mouth tipped into a fragile smile. “Ansley, I do not have the makings of a countess. You know that. I am a half-American commoner who’s barely qualified to manage your household. I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, have what it takes to be a peeress. People would laugh and mock you behind your back.”
The haut ton could scoff to his face, and it wouldn’t make a mite of difference.
Then, without a backward glance, she also glided from the room, taking his battered heart with her.
Forever and always.
There must be a way to change his sweet Willow’s mind. And, by God, he’d find it.
That night, long after his mother had retired, the servants had sought their beds, and the manor had settled into the silence of a house at rest, Ansley sat in a wingback chair before the library’s fire, much as he had that night at the Wicked Earls’ Club.
He noted with a surprising lack of distress, the clock had chimed the half-hour past eleven. Last week, he’d placed the rubbing stone in a bureau drawer in his chamber, for he didn’t need it any longer. He was finally free. And it felt glorious. Unimaginable. Exhilarating. Liberating.
Because of Willow.
A mind overflowing with thoughts of her left little room to obsess about trivialities. Things that had once dominated his life had faded into near obscurity. Because she occupied whatever void that had once made his routines and regimens so critical to his existence.
He still struggled from time to time—likely would for the remainder of his life—but his compulsions no longer controlled him.
He was, to his utter astonishment, functioning well without them. Perhaps this reprieve was temporary. Ansley had no way of knowing, but he’d take the unexpected gift and savor it for as long as it lasted.
Never a man for idle conversation about the intricacies and the workings of a woman’s mind, at this moment, he’d sorely love to ask a few of those wicked earls or his chums at Bon Chance what the hell he should do.
How to persuade Willow to accept his proposal?
He’d spent so much time dodging the parson’s mousetrap, and now he was the one pursuing the holy state of matrimony with an incomparable, vivacious woman. The good Lord surely had a devilish sense of humor.
It wasn’t just her lush body he craved either. Though Ansley hadn’t deceived himself into believing his offer of marriage was purely to salvage her reputation. Yes, it was partially, but he wanted her.
Wanted to touch Willow’s perfectly rounded curves, to explore her satiny flesh. Yet, as much as he longed to sample her feminine charms, he also delighted in her quick wit, her logical suggestions, and ever-ready mirth.
She made him happy. Content. Brought him much-needed peace.
Was she what he’d been searching for without realizing it?
He slouched in a chair, having discarded his waistcoat, cravat, and coat. One knee slung over the arm, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, he glowered morosely at the fire.
Willow cannot leave.
The mantra played over and over and over in his head.
Willow cannot leave. Willow cannot leave. I need her. I can’t breathe without Willow.
A log fell, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney, and it came to him in that showery maelstrom.
He loved her.
Yes. Yes! A thousand times, yes. I love her.
Head thrown back, he laughed out loud. He loved the unpredictable minx. And by God, she could, too, be a countess. She could be the best bloody countess that England had ever known. The Countess of Scarborough. His beloved wife. And he couldn’t wait to tell her.
Now.
Willow blew out a frustrated sigh. Flopping onto her back, she flung an arm over her eyes. For two hours, she’d attempted to sleep, but the morning’s events replayed in her mind over and over and over again.
She couldn’t regret the blissful experience. It had been beyond wonderful.
However, she could regret her carelessness, the angst it had caused Reeves, and the discomfort Mrs. Twistleton had known when she’d come upon them. But mostly, she regretted the awkward position her impulsiveness had put Ansley in.
Earlier, she had wanted to flee Fawntonbrooke Hall. Still did, truth to tell.
But he’d been right. She did have a responsibility to him, to this household, and to the other servants.
She didn’t know what boldness had possessed her to demand he pay for a passage to America in exchange for her remaining a few more weeks. She’d never been mercenary or one to take advantage. Distress and desperation must’ve been to blame for her tossing convention to the wind and practically bribing him. Stooping so low made her feel like a grasping opportunist.
She uncovered her eyes to stare at the plaster ceiling instead. Mrs. Twistleton’s kindness had been wholly unexpected, as had her practically ordering her son to propose. A small smile quirked Willow’s mouth as she shoved herself into a sitting position. He’d been as startled by his mother’s insistence as Willow had been, she’d be bound.
