Any Groom Will Do

by Charis Michaels

  When he wasn’t thinking about his physical presence in London and a better life, Cassin thought about his physical presence before his wife.

  His wife.

  Fantasizing about Willow was hardly a new diversion. Months of back-breaking labor in the mine had provided ample and fertile time to fixate on every conjured detail of his new countess. The irony was not lost. He had not needed her—not really, truly required her—until she was inconveniently out of reach. Now the need was single-minded and unceasing, and sometimes it took his breath away. Worry about his uncertain future faded when held up against his desire for her now, every day, forever.

  When at last the steamer made landfall in Falmouth, Cassin wasted no time purchasing a fast horse, new clothes, and boots and dashing off a note to his mother.

  22 April 1831

  Madam,

  It is my great pleasure to write you from the shores of England, only a few days’ ride from home. I am in Falmouth at the moment, having just made landfall this morning.

  I look forward to seeing you and the girls and Felix very soon, but I cannot say exactly when. My priority is to settle this business with Archibald; as such, London must be first call. I will also look in on my wife.

  Please write to me at her aunt’s home in Belgravia as soon as you are able. I will require the most current and relevant news of Archibald’s interference in order to properly shut down whatever he has done.

  I look forward to my return to Caldera very soon.

  Your son,

  Brent

  After he posted the letter, Cassin faced two days of hard riding to London, with little sleep in between. The spring sky hung low and dark, dropping intermittent rain, but he raised his collar, leaning in to the first proper chill he’d felt since he’d left England.

  Two days later, with only an hour before dusk, he found himself, wet and sweaty but exhilarated, on the doorstep of Willow’s aunt’s home in Belgrave Square.

  “The Earl of Cassin to see Lady Cassin,” he told a liveried butler, ignoring his alarmed scrutiny.

  Before the man could answer, Willow’s small, frizzy-haired maid darted to the door.

  “Oh, your lordship!” said the maid, her eyes large. “You’ve come! Oh, praise be, and just in time. Lady Cassin is set to travel to Yorkshire in the morning!”

  “Yorkshire?” Cassin repeated slowly. He scanned the empty parlor behind the butler.

  “Oh yes, the very place, if you can believe it,” said Perry. “Planning to look in on your mother and sisters and brother. Quite set on it, cannot be swayed. I am to be left behind, of course.”

  “Look in on my mother?” Cassin felt like an idiot, repeating every statement, but he’d devoted so much imagination to seeing Willow, the possibility of not seeing her was difficult to comprehend.

  “Yes, my lord,” continued Perry, “on account of your terrible uncle. And your brother taking ill. She intends to be of help to the dowager countess, even though they have never, ever met . . . ” Perry’s voice trailed off dreamily.

  Cassin blinked at her, still trying to catch up. “But at the moment she is in London? She has not yet gone?”

  Perry nodded importantly and shouldered around the butler. “Well, she’s not here in Wilton Crescent at the moment. She’s gone on an errand to one of the new homes. Paint. Three colors, all of them beige.”

  “Gone on an errand at dusk?” Cassin glanced around.

  “Oh, dusk is the most important time for paint,” lectured Perry. “The tones change when the light fades.”

  “Please tell me she’s taken Mr. Fisk or a footman. Please tell me she does not wander the streets alone at this hour.”

  “Oh, but ’tis a music room, not the street,” said Perry. “But she is alone, I’m afraid. Mr. Fisk is preparing for the journey. She’s been most insistent about leaving, but he would not consent until the weather—”

  “Where, Perry?” asked Cassin, shoving on his soggy hat and tightening his gloves.

  “Yorkshire, my lord,” Perry repeated slowly, as if the notion was complicated.

  “Not the journey; where is my wife now?”

  “Oh, right. Well, I cannot say precisely, as she does not te—”

  “It’s number four, my lord,” said a voice blocked by the door.

  Cassin craned to see. Sabine Stoker stepped into view.

  “In Chapel Street,” Sabine said. “Not far. Just around the square and to the left.”

  Cassin nodded to her. “Thank you, ladies,” he said, already turning toward the square.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The knock on the door caused Willow to jump. Her head shot up, and she stared down the corridor at the heavy front door to the Chapel Street house. She squinted. The sun rapidly slid from a soggy grey sky, and the last of the workmen had gone. It was far too late for deliveries or a call from the owners. Willow had assured Mr. Fisk that she would be perfectly safe in the deserted house, which was a short walk from Wilton Crescent. She’d been in and out of the new construction on Chapel Street at least four times today, as she was most days, endeavoring to pin down as many measurements as possible before she departed for Yorkshire. She hadn’t even bothered to lock the front door when she’d slipped inside for a final peek at the swatches of paint sampled on the music room wall.

  The knock sounded again, and Willow took two steps back.

  Silence.

  She stopped breathing to listen harder.

  Walk away, walk away, walk away, she chanted in her head, speculating wildly about who would pound on the door of an unfinished home at sunset. She was just about to shout, Is anyone there? when the knock sounded a third time, louder, so loud that timber rods propped against the wall jumped and rolled to the floor.

  “Who’s there?” she called out. Fear diluted her voice, and she cleared her throat.

  She took two more steps back. Wildly, she scanned the room for a weapon near to hand.

  “Willow?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

  Willow’s heart stopped. In an instant, she forgot about the house and the paint and every other thing she’d ever known. She stared at the closed door.

  But that sounded like . . .

  She tried to suck in breath.

  But that sounded like Cassin’s voice.

  “Willow, it’s Cassin,” said the muffled voice again. “Will you—”

  And now she launched herself. Her world shrank to the door at the end of the corridor and its heavy brass knob. She grabbed hold with both hands and jerked, throwing it wide.

  And there he was.

  Her husband leaned against the jamb of the door, his right arm above his head, his forehead on his arm. He’d been looking down, speaking to the keyhole.

  She saw the top of his head, dusty-blond hair, sun-bleached to almost white. She saw massive shoulders. Large tanned hands.

  He looked up, and her heart burst. Green eyes, tanned face, a surprised smile. It quirked up on one side, a little bit uncertain, a little bit . . . delighted?

  Willow sucked in a shaky breath and tried to speak. She fought her first impulse, her only impulse, which was to throw herself into his arms. He had come home, but she didn’t know why. He’d traveled halfway around the world. Someone was dead or in grave danger. Something horrible had happened.

  He rose from the door jamb. When he stood at full height, she had to look up to see him.

  “I’m here about the advertisement . . . ” he said calmly, his smile hitching up a notch.

  Willow laughed. “You were meant to apply by letter, sir.” Her voice felt weak and uneven, but she couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heart.

  “I was compelled to apply in person,” he said. “For efficiency’s sake.”

  She laughed again.

  Horses’ hooves clomped up the street. A bird called. In the distance, thunder boomed softly.

  Cassin cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, forgive me.” S
he laughed nervously. “Come in. Please.”

  She stepped back, and he ducked inside. She reached for the door, but he kicked it shut with his boot. He bit off his gloves and looked around.

  Willow stared, coming to terms with the living, breathing sight of him just three feet away. She could smell him. Rain, sweat, horse. Cassin. He was wet and wrinkled and mud-splattered. His hair was wild. He had not shaved. He shrugged from his greatcoat.

  “You’ve ridden here from Falmouth?” she guessed. “But the weather has been dreadful.”

  The weather has been dreadful? Willow cringed.

  He said, “I did ride. But first I took a steamship.” A smile. “In very fine weather. I received your letter. There was no answer but to come.”

  “Oh yes, the letter.” Willow forced herself to think of his family. His brother had been injured, his uncle endeavored castle intrigue. Important matters, all. She planned to leave London out of worry for these people. They should discuss them like measured adults; they were far more important than his closeness or his largeness or his . . . wet clothing, which he seemed intent on peeling off, layer by layer. He tugged at his soggy cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his waistcoat.

  “I did not write to alarm you,” she said, “but honestly, I was alarmed myself. Your mother’s letters had become so infrequent. And then your uncle behaved so strangely about your signature, only to set out for Yorkshire again.”

  Cassin grimaced and nodded, running a hand through his wild hair. He dropped his hat, greatcoat, and gloves on a workbench beside the door. Willow stared at his discarded things, piled in a heap. He began a slow prowl of the dim corridor, rubbing his fingers over his jaw.

  “How long have you been in London?” she asked.

  “I rode to town directly from Falmouth. I’ve just called to Belgrave Square, my first stop. Perry was very informative.”

  Willow chuckled serenely—Oh yes, Perry—while a mix of nerves and delight fizzed beneath the surface of her skin.

  He called to Belgrave Square.

  His first stop.

  He said, “She told me about your impending journey to Yorkshire. But Sabine told me you could be found here.”

  Willow nodded—thank you, Sabine—glanced around at the empty shell of the house. It was cold and dark and unfinished, an odd place for a reunion. But oh so private . . .

  “This house is one of several for which my aunt and uncle will design the interiors,” she said, trying to sound calm and informative. “It’s difficult to see at this time of day, but the carpentry and appointments are the finest I’ve seen. Aunt Mary has assigned me the ground-floor music room to outfit entirely on my own. It’s a small room, but the wife of the owner is an accomplished musician, and the room is very important in the house.”

  “I should expect nothing less,” he said. “And what a lucky woman she will be.” He looked up and down the corridor. “I suppose husbandly worry about your roaming empty houses at dusk has no place. You’ve come and gone as you pleased for months, haven’t you?”

  “Indeed,” she said. “I have done.” She paused, watching him. “I am cautious when on a work site at any hour. I needed to look in on three samples of paint in the fading light. A ten-minute errand before I left for the north tomorrow.”

  He stopped prowling and turned to her. “Yes. The north.”

  A pause. Willow held her breath.

  “I cannot express how grateful I am for the effort you make. More than grateful, I am humbled,” he said. “I am . . . in your debt.”

  “Well, I haven’t gone yet, have I?” She breathed again. “I hope you aren’t displeased with my plan to go. Obviously I had no way to ask you. I put it off until I felt they absolutely required an ally.”

  He shook his head. “Not displeased. The opposite of displeased. What can you tell me of my brother?” he said. “Your maid mentioned some illness?”

  “Not an illness. An accident, I’m afraid.” She told him what she knew of Felix’s altercation with the stampeding cattle.

  “Your mother’s letter about the incident rambled aimlessly,” she finished. “I could scarcely make sense of it. The tone of the thing was very frantic, and this alarmed me most of all. I could but endeavor to give some aid, even if it was only to make them feel less alone.”

  “Yes, well, calling on unknown relations in a crisis was hardly part of our arrangement, was it?”

  And there it was. “The arrangement.” Willow’s heart slid from her throat to the pit of her stomach.

  Perhaps they would not require the privacy of the empty house. Perhaps it made no difference where they reunited.

  An awkward silence settled around them, and she searched for something else they might say. She had no wish to appear meddlesome. Likely, her presence in Yorkshire would no longer be required. She could remain in London. She could see this house to completion. She would be with Tessa when the baby came. For no known reason, tears stung her eyes.

  “Can you show me the room you’ve been charged with designing?” Cassin asked.

  Willow blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The music room, this commission of yours. I should like to see it, if you are willing to show me.”

  “Of course,” she said, her voice strangely faint. She did not move, not for a long moment. She said, “It’s the last room at the end of the corridor.”

  He bowed his head and gestured for her to precede him. Willow felt herself move forward, barely seeing the doorway ahead.

  “It would be too dark to see at this hour,” she said, “but I had the east wall torn down and rebuilt with towering windows. If the clouds allow for us to see the sunset, you may get some idea.”

  “Will there be a domed mural?” he asked.

  She missed a step. A memory flashed in her mind, Cassin lying with her on the chaise at Leland Park, staring up at her floral mural.

  She cleared her throat. “No, no mural. The ceiling is coffered. I met with the owners at length about their expectations. I’ve had to be mindful of how instrumental sound will resonate in the room.”

  They reached the music room, and she stepped inside. He came to a stop beside her. “And where is this paint? I would see it before we are alone here in the dark.”

  The buzzing beneath her skin fizzled back to life. Willow pointed out the wall with three rough squares of paint. “There. They are all lovely in the full light of day, but I need the precise shade that will not appear dingy, or worse, taupe, in the fading light.”

  “Not dingy or taupe,” he repeated slowly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I shudder to predict your reaction to the walls of Caldera.”

  “Oh? And what color are they?” she said. Because I may or may not ever see them.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  She laughed. “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve never given it a moment’s thought, actually. Grey, perhaps? Ivory? Much of the castle is stone, which is definitely a greyish, brownish, blackish color. But there is plaster that is surely . . . some other shade.”

  She stared at him, reminding herself that her focus was not everyone’s focus.

  “Is it wrong,” he speculated, “to admit that each of these samples looks exactly the same to me?” He gave her a boyish look that caused her stomach to flip.

  “No, it is not wrong, simply . . . well, it’s not your purview, is it?”

  “No. And let us thank God for that. It’s fascinating to see the work you’re doing.” He settled his eyes on her, smiling, and then glanced around the room.

  Willow watched him take note of the windows and high beams, the boxed coffers of the ceiling. It felt so validating to share her work with someone besides her aunt and uncle.

  “I’ve scarcely begun,” she told him. “I have very high hopes for it, indeed. You can see the exposed timber beams there and there; those will be stained a dark chocolate brown. The smooth plaster in between will be the fawn color. The correct shade is the middle one—
there.” She pointed. “I quite like it in the dusky light, I must say. The ceiling beams will be stained the same brown, and the coffers, a lighter shade of the fawn. I’m hoping for the rare balance of dramatic but also neutral. The pianoforte and harpsichords are meant to be the showpieces.”

  “It will be breathtaking, Willow,” he said. His voice was so soft that she turned around. He had ceased looking around the room and stared now only at her. It was a half-lidded stare, soft and hot at the same time, like the last embers of a fire.

  Willow felt her own eyes grow large. She felt a burst of energy, doubts giving way to nerves and hope.

  “This room posed a challenge,” she heard herself say. She began to walk the room. “It will be used in the daytime to practice but also in the evenings, when the couple entertain. I’ve worked with my uncle to design custom-made furniture that will serve as traditional chairs and sofas but also rows of seating, as in a theatre.”

  “Willow?” Cassin called, his voice still low.

  “You’ll note the doorway at the far end of the room”—Willow pressed on, rambling now—“that leads from the dining room? ’Tis but a short walk from dinner to chamber concert.”

  “Willow?”

  “Even so,” she went on, speaking so very fast, “it was important to the owners that such spontaneous concerts not appear staged. The wife has significant talent, but she is timid about it, apparently. The husband is an ambassador. There are quite a few ambassadors, actually, taking residence in Belgravia. This wall will be devoted entirely to bookshelves,” she said, gesturing behind her. “Apparently their collection of music is extensive.”

  “Willow?” he said for the third time.

  She breezed past, intent on describing how bookshelves would line the passageway from the dining room, but he reached out and grabbed her hand.

  Willow froze.

  “Willow,” he said again, so softly she could barely hear him over the thundering of her heart.

  “Yes?”

  She couldn’t look at him. Hadn’t he looked enough for them both? Her cheeks burned under the ferocity of his stare. Their combined gazes would ignite the room.