She lodged her shoulder against the chaise longue and began to scoot it across the floor. He came beside her to help, and together they slid the heavy piece toward the center of the room.
“My earldom is in Yorkshire,” he said suddenly.
She stopped pushing and looked at him.
He stared down at the chaise. “My father has been dead for five years, and I am responsible for a mother and three sisters, a brother and his wife, and more than fifty tenant families. There is also a castle, Caldera. Sixteenth century.”
“Oh,” she said.
He shrugged. “You asked how I came to be so desperate.” He nodded to the chaise, and she pointed to its designated spot in the center of the room.
When he pushed again, she asked, “If your home is in Yorkshire, then why are you in Surrey? Besides not to marry me?”
He chuckled. “To seek my fortune; what else?”
“Because, you . . . lost it?”
Another chuckle. “Close, unfortunately. My family and the estate are quite out of resources—because of me. And by resources, of course I mean money. I left home to earn it back—and then some, I hope.”
“Out of money because you . . . spent it?”
He shook his head. “No, I closed the coal mines that formerly supported the estate.”
“Oh,” she said. Why had he told her this? Even worse, what did it matter? She was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to ask him why.
After a moment, he volunteered, “The Caldera coal mines have served as a steady source of income for the estate and tenants for generations. They also kept my family in the castle, crumbling though it may be. But a series of accidents in recent years caused me to reconsider the value of the mines, compared to the safety of the miners. I found the mines sorely lacking; more tenants were dying every year. And so I ordered them sealed. I could see no other solution.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she said.
“We have all been sorry, but what choice did I have? Ten miners died in the collapse of one mine last year, and twenty-five miners and eight little boys drowned in another, flooded by the tide. The shafts were not stable; the ocean not predictable. I could not, in good conscience, continue to operate an endeavor that left so many families without fathers and sons.” He looked up. “If I’m being honest, even without the accidents, I had always been leery of the dark, dangerous business of mining.”
“Good for you,” Willow said, “if you felt it was as unsafe as all that.” She was captivated by the story, in spite of herself. She had fought so very hard to control her own future; she could not imagine managing the future of an estate full of tenants. And he seemed so thoughtful about it, so agonized. She felt a small prick in the area of her heart.
“Yes, well, good for me, bad for Caldera. Without the coal, we find ourselves largely without a reliable way to sustain the estate. The tenants have tried their hands at farming. I have drained the family coffers to help them, but Yorkshire is not like Surrey.” He gestured to the verdant green outside the window. “It is cold and rocky and wet. Our sheep have been blighted with a virus that we cannot find our way around. Farming is not impossible, but at the moment it is not enough. I left home ten months ago to seek out my partners, who are old friends from school. I knew their shipping venture in London was earning some measure of success. They’ve asked me for years to join their partnership. I thought if we could work together, we might advance their moderate earnings into a legitimate windfall and that I might make enough money to sustain Caldera until we got the farming sorted out.”
He glanced at her and shrugged. “And then we won the island and learned the potential of the bat sh—of the guano. I wrote to my family and implored them not to lose heart, that I’d discovered some means to sustain us. It would only take another year or two—”
“And they opposed you,” guessed Willow.
He laughed. “You’re of a negative point of view.”
She shrugged. “My family has not, as a rule, been a great source of encouragement for my professional fulfillment.”
More laughter. “For better or worse, my mother and sisters, my brother—they all consider me to be learned and wise and many other things that I am not. They expect me to know what is best. In reality”—he blew out a frustrated puff of air—“I am riddled with uncertainty. Their faith in me is unwavering.” Another breath. “And misplaced.”
Willow wanted to reassure him; the words were on the tip of her tongue, but she reminded herself that his feelings were not her responsibility. She cleared her throat and went to the newly covered chair and began to bump it across the tiles. “I cannot relate, I’m afraid. My family relies on me for nothing. But my friends? Now, they are a different story.”
“My family believes in me,” he said. “But our tenants are frustrated and impatient and critical. Mining is all they have ever known. They are dubious of farming. I understand, really I do, but I cannot make them see that mining, although profitable, is simply not safe. Meanwhile, I’ve a successful uncle—my father’s brother—who sweeps in on occasion to suggest to the tenants that I am not of sound mind, that no sane landlord would seal perfectly productive mines. He would steal Caldera out from under me, given half the chance; reopen all the mines; take up as earl. If I cannot ease the general feeling of desperation soon, he may convince them, and I’ll have mutiny on my hands.”
“But you are earl,” she insisted.
“Yes, but I am not a tyrant. What if they charge the castle with pitchforks and torches? What then? It was never my goal to bend them to my will.”
Willow chuckled and shook her head.
“Perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that,” he said, “but can you see my dilemma? I may be forced to choose between what I feel is best and what the tenant families truly want. If I cannot peacefully enforce the mine closures, I may well lose Caldera to my uncle. He would like nothing more. I’m convinced the mines are not safe, but I am the only one, I’m afraid.”
I believe the mines are unsafe. The thought emerged fully formed in Willow’s brain, but she said nothing. They were veering dangerously close to having a real conversation. He had revealed his own struggles, just as she had. Most impossibly of all, he was still here.
She had abandoned the chair to listen, but now she resumed pushing. One of the legs caught on an uneven tile, and she put her shoulder to it and shoved. He came beside her and lifted it.
“Where?” he asked.
She pointed adjacent to the chaise. It was a heavy chair, with fat mahogany legs and a sculptural frame. He set it down as if it weighed nothing. She adjusted the angle.
“Why put the chairs in the center of the room?” he asked.
“It matters less where the seating is placed and more how it is situated. Chairs should face each other to cultivate conversation. But, since you asked, the reason I’ve put them here is . . . ”
She took a step back and pointed upward, directly above their heads. Cassin followed her gaze, leaning back to look at the ceiling.
And there it was, the centerpiece of the room. A domed ceiling, painted with an ornate mural in pinks, purples, and greens. Vines and tendrils of lush vegetation encroached on a sky of cerulean blue. Sumptuous blooms made up the lively border.
The earl blinked, took two steps back, and looked at it from a different spot. “It’s beautiful,” he said, straining his neck. “But how did it—”
“I commissioned it,” Willow said proudly. “It was stained oak before, which was fine enough, I suppose, but unremarkable. I am of the belief that every room, no matter how small, should have one sort of dazzling element. I’d seen a domed mural ceiling in a design quarterly years ago, and I’ve always longed to recreate it. The sketch in the quarterly was of the night sky, but I intend this room for daytime use, so I conceived of the garden theme. After plastering over the old wood, I hired an artist to bring the mural to life.”
She watched his face as he studied it. “Here,” she said
, patting the back of the chaise, “sit here and lean your head back. From this position, you can really appreciate it.”
He did not hesitate, and her heart seized at his enthusiasm.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” he said.
He reclined on the chaise, lying down completely, and she cast a furtive glance at his broad chest and long legs, now sprawled conveniently for her to see. She had the unhelpful thought that he was not quite like anything she’d ever seen.
“Is that an . . . insect?” he asked.
She sat down on the edge of the chaise to gaze up. “Oh, but can you see it? The moth? I asked the artist to include several. They are not easy to spot.”
“Where are the others?”
She leaned back and pointed. “There. Do you see the hydrangea? Look left from there.”
And just like that, she reclined on the chaise beside him. They lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. She could feel the warmth of his body from her temple to her ankle. If she scooted over, even just a little, she would bump up against him. Her skirts had fallen across his boot. The puffed sleeve of her dress brushed the shoulder of his coat.
By some miracle, she managed to point out features of the mural in a calm, even tone. Her hand did not tremble. Her brain formed cohesive statements about flowers and foliage and light. All the while, her heart pounded in her ears, and her stomach thrummed with an unspecified energy.
She paused for a beat, trying to remember what she’d just said, and she heard him suck in a breath to speak. Her heart stopped.
“Lady Willow,” he began, “can I convince you to pull your advertisements from London?”
Can he what? She went very still.
“Seek out some other means of leaving Surrey and joining your aunt. Please. It is not my business, I know, but I cannot, in good conscience, not suggest it. Your endeavor is foolhardy at best and unsafe at worst.”
There was no demand in his tone, no judgment. It was an entreaty.
Willow spoke to the mural above them. “If I did it only for myself,” she said, “then perhaps. But my friends are my priority now. I cannot discuss their situations, as I’ve said, but they cannot go without me because our home will be with my aunt. I must find them husbands. I must find husbands for us all. So, the answer is no.” She dropped her head to the side and looked at him. “I cannot stop searching for some man.” Although God save me from another man like you. “Somewhere there is a candidate willing to trade his name for my dowry.”
She blinked at the closeness of his ear and cheek. She saw the small lines at the corner of his eye, the thickness of his lashes.
She wondered how old he might be. Older than she, but not too very old. Five and thirty, perhaps? Like everything else about him, his age seemed exactly perfectly right. Not old enough to be infirm, but not so young that he was rash or reckless.
After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I understand that you are a titled nobleman. People rely on you. My hope is to find a suitable man who is not quite so esteemed, someone with fewer responsibilities. Of course you must reject any arrangement that does not result in an appropriate countess. Someone who can settle herself in your Yorkshire castle and bear a passel of children—a male heir, first and foremost, if possible. You are not a good candidate for my arrangement, but someone with no castle or title will be.”
There, she thought, I’ve exonerated him. It was short-sighted and selfish of me to hold his denial so close to heart.
Lord Cassin made a huffing noise. “Actually, the burden is not on me to provide an heir, not really. I’ve long thought my brother and his wife shall do nicely at that.”
Willow’s heart stopped for half a beat. “You . . . you don’t care about getting an heir?”
He shrugged.
Just to be sure, she repeated, “Your brother will do nicely at th—” Her throat grew so tight, so quickly, she felt like a marionette whose puppeteer had pulled a string. She laid a hand over her mouth.
So the limits of her body made no difference at all.
He was at peace with not becoming a father, and yet . . .
He did not want her still.
CHAPTER NINE
It occurred to Cassin that he’d offended her again, and he struggled to make his brain focus on how or why or what.
His brain, such that it was, refused to cooperate. He’d ceased cerebral function in the same moment she had kicked her long legs, so beguilingly hidden in her lightening-purple skirts, onto the chaise and scooted her perfect bottom into the crook of the seat. All function save one had ground to a halt in that moment, while she had casually pointed out the features of the dome mural. Meanwhile, he was rapidly, willingly, losing his mind.
And now he was meant to discern offense? He already worked so bloody hard to keep his hands, his legs, his bloody shoulder, which bumped hers if he rolled just so, to himself.
He swallowed hard and tried to determine where he’d gone wrong. It was something about the statement with his brother. Had he been wrong to suggest that Felix and his new wife would, mostly likely, bear the heir apparent who would inherit Caldera? It was a true statement, if nothing else, which was consistent with all the other highly personal biographical information he’d felt compelled, for some reason, to tell her this day.
But truth was not always sensitive or kind, and now she was silent and detached. She’d placed her hand across her mouth—he had become acutely attuned to the location of her hands and her mouth—but what did it mean? Disbelief? Regret? But Felix and his new wife were not her relations. He had refused her offer of marriage, so it had nothing to do with her.
And yet . . .
And yet, he’d remained in her home, telling her the story of his life. Long, pitiful stories about dead miners while he lay beside her on a soft, wide piece of furniture that could have been designed for no other purpose than to ravish beautiful women.
He felt her shift beside him, and the urge to grasp her wrist and hold her in place was almost unbearable. Instead, he tried vainly to further explain. “As for a countess,” he explained, “I’ve long said I might never marry, to be honest.”
Silence. She shifted again. Cassin gritted his teeth, waiting a beat. The toe of his right boot fell to the side and nestled in the hem of her skirts.
After a moment, he said, “The thought of adding even one more person to provide for, even if she is my wife, is enough to turn me off marriage for the foreseeable future. If ever.”
“And this is the reason you rejected my arrangement?” she asked softly.
“Well,” he said, “it is one of several reasons.”
“Of course the marriage I proposed,” she said, “provided for you, not the other way around.” Her voice was a little thick.
My God, was she crying?
He looked over. She stared at the mural on the ceiling. Her eyes were dry. Her profile was unmoving. This was a valid point. He wondered why her endless valid points continued to surprise him. She’d proven nothing if not cleverness, yet somehow he was never prepared.
He thought a moment and said, “So I’m meant to suffer the indignity of poverty and, if I marry you, have all my troubles magically solved because of a wedding?”
“Countless men,” she said, “change their fortunes by taking rich brides.”
“I did not leave Yorkshire to marry my way out of mean times. I intend to earn the money.”
“And yet you deny your first viable investment.” She sat up.
“Collecting your dowry is not an investment.” He followed her up.
“It is £60,000 and complete freedom.” She swung her legs to the floor.
“It is £60,000 and a wife,” he said, “who, apparently, I would never see.”
“You’ve just said that you don’t want a wife.”
“Yes, and you wish to become one tomorrow.”
“No, I wish to marry tomorrow. Not be a wife.”
He made a sound of frustration. “
How, exactly, does that happen? That arrangement?”
She opened her mouth to say something but hesitated. “I . . . beg your pardon?” she asked.
“I’m curious,” he said, rolling to his feet, “how a married woman goes about her life as if she is ‘not a wife.’ ”
“I’ll . . . I’ll do as I please,” she told him defensively. “I’ll answer to no one. I’ll be a bother and a burden to no one.”
“Right, right, such isolation. That’s not what I mean, and I think you know it.”
Answer, he thought suddenly. Explain it; explain yourself. It was, perhaps, the morning’s first moment of true clarity. To hell with his pride about the source of the money; to hell with his duties as earl. What he really wanted to know was this.
“You believe I know what?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
He studied her face, full of pride and challenge, eyes flashing, auburn curls trembling as she shook her head in frustrated little shakes.
“You’re an heiress, yes?” he asked slowly. “With a substantial dowry and an inheritance to boot?”
“Yes?”
“And if you were to marry an earl, for example”—he raised his brow—“you would be a countess.”
“My mother is a countess, and I’m hardly impressed. I am not a title hunter, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, it’s not. I mean that your place in society would then provide you with countless opportunities to socialize. In London. You would be invited to parties and dinners. Balls and theatre. The opera.”
“Actually, I haven’t—”
He spoke over her. “I’ve three sisters who talk of little else than London’s social whirl. Believe me, you will. You’re a beautiful woman, young and rich. There will be no end to the invitations. So, what then? Do you intend to arrive to these events entirely alone? The husband that you’ve banished to the far ends of the earth will not be there, obviously.”
He watched her consider this.
“Allow me to answer for you. You very well may take up with a consort, of course. A companion. A . . . ‘special friend.’ ” He watched her as he added, “A lover.”
Any Groom Will Do Page 8
