“Willow, forgive me,” he rasped, and she had the sudden choking fear that he was about to say good-bye.
He tugged on her hand, pulling her to him, but she resisted. She stared at the floor.
He said, “I want to hear about this room; truly I do. I want to hear about everything you’ve accomplished and experienced in London. However . . . ”
He paused and tugged at her hand again. This time she allowed it. She fell two steps in his direction.
“However,” he repeated, “if I do not kiss you in the next second, I will perish.”
Her head shot up, and she searched his face in the dim light.
“I am wet and filthy from the road,” he said softly. “I haven’t shaved or bathed. I apologize, but in my urgency to see y—”
Willow launched herself at him.
***
Later, Cassin thought.
Later he would berate himself for kissing her when he should be discussing Caldera, and his uncle, and learning about bloody Felix’s bloody cock-up with cattle.
Later.
First, he would commit fully to this kiss, however indulgent. She was in his arms, finally in his arms, and he had wanted her so bloody long. Willow. Against him, kissing him back.
Now he would do it properly, he would bloody devour her, which was the thing he’d wanted to do since she’d swung open the door.
“Willow,” he breathed, leaving her mouth to bury his face in her hair. He inhaled her familiar cinnamon scent. “My God, how I have missed you.”
“I thought I would die from missing you,” she whispered back, kissing his jaw, his ear, his neck. She pawed at his loose, soggy cravat, searching for more bare skin.
He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her up, filling his hands with yards and yards of her dress. When his hands reached the firm curve of her hip, he flattened his palm, feeling the perfect shape of her through the fabric. He sought her mouth again, and she met him halfway, kissing her as he’d taught her to kiss. Time reversed. It felt as if he’d never left. She was just as intoxicating, sweeter now, perhaps, because he wanted her. But it had always been sweet; she had always transported him.
She made a whimpering noise, stepping on his boots to get closer to him, and he put a palm beneath her bottom, collecting her to him. Without warning, she gave a jump, leaping up to straddle him. He caught her beneath the hips with a grunt.
“My God, you are killing me,” he said between kisses. She wrapped her arms around his neck as if they weren’t close enough. Cassin staggered, weakened by desire, laughing between kisses.
Down, he thought. Must lie us down.
He opened one eye and searched the room. Horizontal surface? No, they were in an empty music room. Chair? No, the whole bloody house was empty.
He spun, still kissing her, and saw a heap of fabric near the half-tiled hearth.
It will do.
With uneven, meandering steps, he carried her to the mound of cloth, kissing her all the while. Slowly, he lowered them, straining with pickax-hardened muscle, and still he fell the last foot.
“Oof,” he said, and she laughed, and he turned to sit flat with her astride his lap. He leaned back on the hearth, and she crashed against him with a fresh rain of kisses.
He had known more comfortable positions in his life, but he could not remember when. He could scarcely remember his bloody name. Desire swamped him; his hands could not explore her body fast enough; his mouth could not kiss her deeply enough. She sat on him, sat on the most urgently seeking part of him, and still it was not enough.
When they’d kissed until he could barely breathe, when he was seconds away from rolling her down on the floor and taking her, Cassin leaned his head back on the wall and gasped for breath, closing his eyes. He felt her rise up on her knees to follow his mouth, and he laughed, turning his head.
“Have mercy on me, Willow—please, I beg you.” He kissed her forcefully and then dropped his head again. “I am ravenous for you, trust me, but I can only take so much.” Another kiss. “You will kill me with pleasure.”
“You are pleased?” she asked, falling against his chest, breathing hard.
“I am beyond pleased. What is more than pleased?”
“Your heart is racing.”
“So many parts of my body overachieve in this moment, darling, it would be impossible to take store.” He bucked up just a little, allowing her to feel his desire. The two of them moaned at the pressure. He felt her go limp against him. He kissed the top of her head.
“But,” he said, forcing out the words, “we cannot continue without a discussion first. And a bed. Preferably. Also, a fire. But first, we must talk.”
Her head shot up.
“Spare me the reproving looks, Countess; you adore discussions, and I know it. I’ve never met a woman who loves to discuss more than you do.”
“I don’t want to talk about the arrangement,” she said into his chest.
“Nor I. I would be quite gratified, in fact, never to talk about it again.”
She raised her head and studied his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I am an arse, Willow. An arse and blackguard and every overused sentiment you can imagine, and this is why. Something . . . happened to me when I went away from you. Good lord, I was eons away, it seemed—”
“You contracted malaria,” she guessed. She scooted closer to him, setting off a cascade of sensations that blurred his vision.
He cleared his throat. “Possibly. But no, I contracted the life-altering realization that I wanted you.”
He paused. Coward that he was, he watched from the corner of his eye. Reactions played across her face. Delight, then thoughtfulness, then narrow-eyed skepticism.
“Believe it or not,” she said, “I have not doubted that you wanted me.”
He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Well said.” She was so close, so beautiful. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for lucidity. “Perhaps wanting you has never been the issue. I am guilty of kissing you, twice, only a day after we first met, aren’t I? I have always desired you. More, certainly, than ever I’ve desired any woman.”
She raised one beautifully auburn eyebrow, and he could not resist dropping a kiss on her nose. She sat perfectly still. He followed that kiss with a nuzzle, his nose to hers, and a kiss on the lips.
She accepted the kiss but did not kiss him back. She waited.
Cassin rolled his shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is, perhaps it took my going away for me to realize how much I wanted you in every way, every day. Not simply in my bed, but in my life. I want you as my wife, Willow. If . . . if you will have me.”
His racing heart actually stopped when he gritted out the words. He held his breath. He’d made the admission with a playful mix of self-deprecation and smugness, but he was terrified inside. She could refuse him. She had every right to refuse him.
“But nothing about your situation has changed, Cassin,” she said. “In fact, the threat from your uncle has grown since you’ve been away. Your letters claim the mining is going well, but is your future not still uncertain? Forgive me if I am afraid to trust your newfound regard.”
Cassin took a deep breath, considering this, considering her honesty and innocence. “I am not surprised, honestly. And that is why . . . ” He ran his hands up her thighs and over the dip of her waist, relishing the feel of the perfect line of her leg and curve of her hip, and then he pulled back one side of his waistcoat to reveal a pocket.
While she watched, he unfastened the pocket and pulled out the tiny velvet pouch that had made soggy journey to London against his heart. “And that is why, I should like to try to bribe you. Bribe you to believe me.”
His fingers shook as he held up the pouch between them, and he said, “Take it, my lady. It’s a gift.”
She eyed him and slowly reached out her hand. Without pulling the string, she massaged the velvet to discern what it might contain. The ring would be easy to predict, and when she knew, she went very sti
ll. She stared up at him.
“You are correct about my uncle and my future,” he said softly. “He is a problem, and I cannot say if the guano will save Caldera. But—and I am ashamed to admit this—it took a journey around the world and months of hard labor in a bloody mine to make me realize that none of that mattered if you are not in my life. God forgive me. It feels selfish of me to insert you into the madness of my current uncertainty, but for once in my life I cannot resist. Being away from you has penetrated my notion of right and wrong.”
“Had you thought it was wrong to marry me?”
“Never. I have thought it was hasty, and improbable, and dangerous for both of our hearts and our futures, but I never thought it was wrong. When I went away, however, I came to realize how exactly, perfectly, essentially right it was. And is. How authentic my feelings for you are. How authentic our marriage could be, if you will have me.” He rushed to finish. “That is why I have no wish to speak of ‘the arrangement’ ever again. I sought you out in Belgravia only to find you embarking on a trip to rescue Caldera. This only proves how right I am.
“You don’t seem to regard our union as simply ‘an arrangement,’ God love you,” he said, “and my only regret—my very great regret—is that it has taken me so long to realize it. But in my defense, I was prepared to admit it after the first week at sea, sailing to the Barbadoes. Inconveniently, you were not available in the middle of the Atlantic.”
He’d said enough, he decided, and nodded to the velvet pouch. “A proper wife should have a proper wedding ring. You’ve gone without every flourish or romantic gesture owed to a properly courted heiress, and I should like to rectify the matter over time. Beginning now. And do not think I’ve done it with money from your dowry, if you please. Joseph managed to sell our first shipment of guano in advance, before he even departed England. I can afford to spoil you a little now, if you will allow me.”
Willow stared at him, her large blue-green eyes filled with a heart-wrenching mix of disbelief and hope. Cassin resisted the urge to throw himself, prostrate, at her feet to beg her to consider him. But he had picked up a thing or two about women over the course of his thirty-six years, and he cocked an eyebrow instead. “Off you go,” he said. “Open it.”
While he held his breath, Willow tugged the drawstrings and turned the pouch upside down over her palm. The ring fell out, a simple gold band with a colossally large emerald surrounded by diamonds and orange garnets.
She let out a little gasp, staring down at the ring in the fading light.
“I bought it in a shop in Bridgetown, Barbadoes, if you can believe it.” His voice was thick and unsteady. He cleared his throat. “The spoils of some pirate’s daring high-seas raid, no doubt. I come bearing more romantic drivel, I’m afraid, if you will allow me.” He cleared his throat again. When next he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “The emerald reminded me of your eyes, and the orange garnets of your hair. I wanted it for you from the moment I saw it. I bought it months ago, in anticipation of seeing you again.”
“It’s magical,” she whispered reverently, and then she scrambled off him, nearer to the waning sunlight from the windows. Cassin reached after her, loath to let her out of his lap. The linen of her gown slipped through his fingers, and he sighed. He bent a knee and pulled up a leg, watching her study the ring. She slipped it on her finger and held out her hand.
“I am very discerning, Cassin, as you may remember,” she said. “Beauty is my vocation, and I cannot tolerate the look of anything expected or boring or garish.” She smiled at him, and his heart felt as if it might burst. “And this may well be the most beautiful setting I’ve ever seen. I adore it. And not simply because it came from you. It’s truly remarkable. Well done, Cassin.”
She picked her way back to his lap, and he held his arms out to her.
She leaned in to kiss him, and he hesitated, turning his face away. It was almost painful to resist her, and she made an adorable protesting cry.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I feel compelled to unburden the two of us of one more thing,” he said, “er, before we go on.”
“Speak for yourself, Cassin. I’ve no burdens between us.”
“Ah, yes. So goes the existence of the pure of heart.”
“I’ve waited an age to be less pure. What is it?”
He laughed. “I simply wanted to say that you were correct to deny me your body until I came to this realization, as tortured a journey as it has been. I know now that I would’ve come to my senses either way, but you were wise to protect yourself from what must have appeared to be a very fickle, indecisive man.”
Willow made a face, and he forged on. “That said, I want to assure you that I’m not saying a lot of pretty words this night so that I can dance merrily into your bed—er, onto this painter’s cloth.” He grimaced at their nest on the floor. “You have my word that I have no intention of resuming the detachment of our former ‘arrangement’ tomorrow.”
“Hmmm,” Willow said, gazing at her ring. “I appreciate the clarity, but I know that you would not betray me.” She looked up and tossed her head, shaking errant curls from her shoulders. Her bun had dissolved into a glorious halo of auburn.
Cassin smiled, relief flooding through him, and he took up a handful of the soft curls, squeezing them gently in his fist.
Willow tugged away and flipped the wild, heavy weight of her hair onto the opposite shoulder. “You have declared yourself sufficiently, I would say. And now we shall go to bed.”
Cassin’s lust surged, and he squeezed his eyes shut and then open. “One more thing . . . ”
“You’re joking.” She grabbed him by the lapels and brought her mouth to his.
“No,” he laughed around kisses. He reached behind her until he caught up her ankles. Pushing up, he raked his fingers along her stockinged legs beneath the hem of her gown.
“You complained before,” he said, speaking around another kiss, “about always being the last to know, and I wanted to make sure that”—another kiss—“this late declaration of mine did not leave you to feel—”
“If you do not cease talking,” she said, “and take me to bed, I shall be the last virginal wife in the history of time. I will be forced to ravish you myself, in the same way I was forced to propose to you.”
He laughed. “You mean, in your father’s library, accompanied by Perry and Mr. Fisk and your mother’s hounds?”
“No.” She laughed, kissing him again. “Without the slightest idea of what I’m doing. Although less paperwork.”
And now he growled and swept her up, vaulting to his feet with her in his arms.
“Agreed. But not here. I’m sorry. You made your own proposal, endured a forgettable wedding, and received a ring five months late. I will make love to you properly if it’s the last thing I do. In a bed. With a warm fire. Behind a locked door. Please tell me you have your own room in Belgrave Square.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing him. “Yes, yes, yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cassin strode down the corridor with Willow in his arms until they collided with the front door. He released her, sliding her between the door and his body, pressing her into the smooth wood without breaking the kiss.
“My coat and hat,” he mumbled between kisses and tried twice to lean sideways to collect them. Willow swayed both times, woozy from the kiss, and he laughed and lunged back to kiss her again. The third time, she pushed him away, desperate for progress, and he scooped them up and crowded behind her as she made her way out the door. Looking right and left, she locked the empty house and stole one more kiss. He growled and then took up her hand and led her down the steps.
“I came by Wilton Crescent,” he told her. “Is that the quickest way to return to your aunt’s house?”
“Yes, the quickest,” she said, and he squeezed her hand and tugged her along.
“Wait,” she laughed, “I cannot walk so fast. I take two steps to your one.”
“Try,” he breathed, his voice pained and comically impatient, and he pulled her along. A lone carriage rumbled past them on Upper Belgrave Street, and he hustled her into the shadow of a high stoop and kissed her until the carriage rolled away. They were across the street after that, around the square and to her aunt’s home in less than ten minutes.
“Willow, I’m warning you,” Cassin said, his voice low. “I haven’t the endurance for pleasantries with friends and relations. I avoid rudeness when I can, honestly I do, but tonight is not one of those avoidable occasions. I want you; I want a bed; I want a locked door. And nothing else. Can we possibly gain these things without running the gauntlet of well-wishers and explanations?”
Willow laughed and pointed to a walkway that led through a garden around the side of the house.
“We have our own entrance—there, behind the roses. Tessa and I rarely use it, but Sabine slips in and out every day. With any luck, it will be unlocked.”
Their luck held, and the unlocked door swung open to an empty corridor. All along the wall, fresh candles burned and the jumble of umbrellas and shawls beside the door had been straightened. Willow heard a door shut briskly when they spilled inside; after that, racing footsteps on the stairs. Willow smiled and took Cassin by the hand, leading him to her bedroom. He trailed behind, walking at a civil pace only long enough to breach the door and shut it behind them. When they were alone, he yanked her to him to resume their kiss.
“Where are we?” he asked, gasping for a breath.
She laughed. “Not the parlor.”
Between kisses, he said, “Your room, then?” He looked around.
Willow blinked over his shoulder, squinting into the room. A fresh fire had been laid and was jumping in the hearth. The curtains were drawn and the coverlet was pulled back on her bed. A candle glowed on a trolley of bread and cheese, setting crystal goblets of wine to twinkle. The silvery French negligee, never worn, had been draped over the arm of a chair.
Oh, Perry, she thought, her heart expanding at her thoughtfulness. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Oh, lovely,” Cassin said, “a bed.”
Any Groom Will Do Page 18
