by Stacy Reid
“Blind?” his voice was neutral, all emotions buried.
She could feel the heat of his gaze as it roamed over her features, no doubt looking deep into her eyes. Did he notice the scarring at her temple? “Yes.”
There was a swift intake of breath and then dreadful silence.
“I suspect you wish to take your leave, my lord. I only ask that you escort me safely to my grandmother. I will not hold you accountable for wanting to end our tryst.”
“Our tryst?”
Her cheeks burned. That was how she had indeed been romanticizing their encounter. Foolish.
He slipped his fingers over hers, linking their hands together. “Willow, I—”
She pulled from him and straightened her spine. “No, Lord Westcliffe.” She thought he flinched at her formality, but she pressed on. “I think we both needed tonight to happen. I am glad we spoke. While your offer to exorcise me from your dreams was indeed tempting, I fear I must decline. I propose you will have to find another method. I can feel the need in you to know what happened, but this is private for me, and it is not something I will share. Please do not press me, but I would appreciate you escorting me to the library, my lord.”
She waited, her heart a drum in her chest.
“It will be my pleasure to escort you, Lady Willow,” he said, lifting her hand to his arm.
His response hurt her when it shouldn’t have. What had she expected? For him to deny her charge, to fight to have an affair? Very silly of her to be sure. After all, years ago when he had professed to adore her, he had walked away without looking back. Why would he fight now, when her circumstances were so inferior?
Foolish, foolish girl.
Chapter 3
Alasdair stood by the windows in the parlor, deep in thought. He had taken a morning tour of his main estate, Westerham Park, just on the outskirts of London, very near to Hadley House. The repairs were daunting, the park wall alone ran for almost five miles, and in many places, the stone needed to be rebuilt. Many tenant houses and cottages were in desperate need of fixing. Yet his mind invariably shifted to Willow.
Now he understood the shock in her voice when she had recognized him. The relief and triumph he had felt when he led her away from the ballroom was unwarranted. She had not been following and placing her trust with him, but with a faceless stranger. Willow was a woman he had banished from his thoughts years ago. All of his resolve should not have toppled from a mere glance. He’d rushed to her rescue without giving another gentleman a chance to intervene. The years had fallen away as memories of her laughter, and her joy in the simple pleasures in life had curled through Alasdair.
Now instead of feeling the justifiable anger of the callous way she had disregarded their love, all he felt was the unfulfilled ache of desiring her and sorrow. The surge of cold rage and the need to use her body had vanished. Why? A soft breath expelled from him, and he closed his eyes.
It was because of her blindness. The shock of her words had been a brutal punch to his system, and all thoughts of hurting her had vanished. The pain and vulnerability on her face had been deep; he would be an arse to even want to add to her suffering. Moonlight had spilled over her features, a shimmery glow, and her beautiful green eyes had stared at him sightlessly, her expression a fierce mix of resignation and pride. The pain of her loss still scythed through him. He had seen men ravaged with agony and grief over the loss of eyes and limbs in the war. He could imagine how she must have railed and cried. And he had not known. How long had she been without sight?
Upon his return home from last night’s ball, it had been the first time he had slept without nightmares of war, or of his dying brothers. Instead, he had dreamed of her. Of how lonely and proud she had looked when she had confessed her blindness.
“I am very sorry for your loss, Willow,” he had said as he discreetly returned her to the main house.
Inadequate words and silence had lingered between them. He had also dreamed of her kisses, of what it would be like to sink himself into her wet heat and hear words of love once again spilling from her mouth. It had been a mistake to touch her. Even now, the memory of her soft skin, so supple and smooth, sent a rush of need through his body.
The entire time he had walked toward the main house, he had berated himself for being foolish. He had let his anger cloud his judgement and the control he exercised over his emotions and actions. From a simple taste of her, everything in him had clamored to draw her deeper into the hidden alcove and take her. The knowledge she would be willing, had only served to make the lust burning through his body for her flare hotter.
He should move on from Willow and direct his thoughts to wooing an heiress, but it was damned difficult to do. He needed to know what happened to her. Why had Quinton not said anything to him? Alasdair had seen her brother just last week in Bath.
The drawing room door opened, and a cloud of perfumed lavender travelled inside. There was a rustle of movements as his mother settled herself. “I am thinking of taking a position with the Foreign Office,” he said without turning around, contented to watch his sisters running through the maze in the garden without an ounce of decorum. A position in the Foreign Office was an offer Lord Liverpool had made Alasdair several months ago before he had inherited the title. He believed the offer would still be valid as the Prime Minister had admired his war efforts.
The only sound his mother made was a swift indrawn breath of, undoubtedly, outrage. He shifted, and with a glance at her face, Alasdair deduced it might very well be disgust. He smiled, though it was without humor. “Mother…”
She gripped the quill and pushed aside the parchment she had been composing her morning correspondence on. “You will not shame this family. A marquess does not work. You will not work. To even think to take such a position is to ruin your sisters when they depend on you… you will make them common,” she spluttered.
Common? He swallowed the shout of laughter. She was absurd. “Filling a position at the Foreign Office will not make us common. We are on the brink of financial ruin, madam. I think that is the only ruin we should be worrying about.”
After the death of his father several years ago, his eldest brother Marcus had assumed the mantle of leadership. He had been groomed for it, and he had made a good marquess. He had been loved and admired by many in Parliament, and in society. He had not been the marquess for long before influenza had claimed his life. Then Alasdair’s next brother Charles, the spare, had inherited. While Alasdair had been fighting on the Peninsula, Charles had been living a dissipated lifestyle, one filled with wild debauchery, which had depleted their already modest financial situation. He had been unlucky enough to kill himself in a racing carriage accident right in Mayfair. Too warped in his own pleasures to adequately care for their estate, including their mother and their younger sisters, some would say it was a blessing he had been taken early.
Then it all had fallen to Alasdair—the mistake. He had refused to consider what his two younger sisters were to his parents if, as the third child, he had been the mistake. He only knew he had to provide for them, settle them suitably in life, ensure their happiness, and protect their future. And he would do this at any cost. Annabelle was the eldest at eighteen, and Elizabeth was sixteen. He would have to put off Annabelle’s coming out for at least another year, and she was already late. His mother would have the vapors if she knew he had leased the house at Cavendish Square.
“You will need to prepare yourself to get acquainted with the intricacies of Parliament. You are now Lord Westcliffe. Find yourself a wealthy bride and assume the mantle you were born for. Procure an heir and secure the title. You are the last of the Westcliffe line. As far as we know, there is no cousin to inherit. Do what is expected of you, Alasdair.”
He raised a brow. The mantle he was born for? The question of succession was a thing that plagued his mother. He would admit that understanding he was the last of his line was disquieting, but he was still not moved to do all in his power to secu
re an heir. To provide for his siblings and his mother was to him of greater concern.
“My dear friend the Countess of Masheley mentioned to me very discreetly that you were seen leaving the gardens last night with a young lady.”
He was careful to keep his expression schooled. From the curious look his mother gave him and the calculating gleam in her eyes, she could only refer to Lady Willow.
“I met many young ladies last night,” he responded noncommittally.
Her head bobbed. “Yes, but only one you went into the gardens with.”
At his silence, she huffed an impatient sigh. “Lady Willow comes from an extremely prominent and wealthy family. Her father is a duke, and her grandmother is a formidable Dowager Countess. Lady Willow has an ample dowry and political connections to help you take your place in this new fabric of society. Her circumstances should also make her eager for your attentions.”
“Her circumstances?” he snapped, irritated with his mother. Lady Willow’s lack of sight did not define her.
His mother shrugged indelicately. “Lady Willow is blind, and by all accounts, her parents have been hiding her away at Hadley House. From what I gleaned, she has not even had a season. They will be grateful for you to wed her.”
No season and no wedding. The last time he saw her, she was supposed to leave for London with her mother to purchase her wedding trousseau for her marriage to the Duke of Salop. Could it have been that long? Was that why she was unwed?
“Have you discovered how she came to be blind?” Asking the question revealed too much of Alasdair’s interest, but his gut burned to know.
“No. But that is irrelevant. It only matters her parents will be happy for your attentions and should have no objection to your suit. Lady Willow herself will be grateful. After the nuptials, she could stay in the country, so she is not an embarrassment.”
Hot anger curled through him. “An embarrassment?” he bit out coldly.
His mother at least had the grace to blush. “I did not mean to be so callous. I sympathize with her plight.”
It would be appallingly easy to decide to woo a lady for her money if it would help restore his family. If it would help to provide for his sisters when they would desire a season and a dowry. But could he marry a woman like Lady Willow for such a purpose? Never. She dreamed. He saw it… felt it, he had even tasted it. She yearned for love and passion, to be swept away in the enchanted realm of lust and love. Though he had burned to be inside her last night, it would be a sin to marry her unless he could offer her that.
Alasdair no longer believed in love and the dreams they had once shared, and he wouldn’t succumb to such emotions again. He wanted a simple marriage with none of the emotions and none of the expectations beyond an heir and simple affection. That he would willingly give his wife. Affection, respect, loyalty. But never would he open himself to the hunger, the desperation of loving and needing someone, as he had done with Willow. And if what he heard last night was true, she was no longer an heiress, making her doubly unsuitable.
His lack of fortune was damning. He was responsible for the livelihood of hundreds of people. He had to do all in his power to remain solvent. But Alasdair had hope. He had sold much of the antique silverware, and the unique set of Meissen the family had been so proud of, to invest in a shipping venture. It would bring spices and silks. To improve their fortunes, he had also been gambling, a vice he had sworn to stay away from, after it had destroyed his father, and started the financial ruin they were on. But Alasdair had been winning, and he was careful. He had won twenty acres of prime London property in a game of hazard a few nights ago. He had thought to divest himself of it for quick gains but hesitated. He would pursue every avenue to develop it for profit, regardless of such ventures being viewed as beneath a marquess. Despite what his mother believed, he would not leave only one option open to salvage his family.
“I see you are not aware of the rumors surrounding Lady Willow’s name.”
Predictably, his mother straightened in her chair and tried to affect a disinterested mien. “I do not think you can give credit to any rumor you overhear, Alasdair. From all accounts, she has been living at Hadley House for the past six years and has not sojourned to London. No doubt any gossip would be from the jealous harpies who saw the marked attention you showed her.”
Six years, was that how long she had been without sight? The weak feeling which travelled through him was abhorrent. He affected a casual smile for the benefit of his mother. “I spoke with Lord Bancroft last night. As you know, he is a close acquaintance of the family. Our conversation invariably turned to the beautiful Lady Willow.”
Alasdair watched the wheels turning in his mother’s head, and he swallowed the chuckle as a flush rose in her cheeks.
“Salacious gossip?” she queried, pouring herself a cup of tea from the trolley.
Salacious? He strolled over to sit beside her on the chaise lounge.
“No. Bancroft referred to the fact Lady Willow is without a dowry, and all of London is aware of it.”
Her face whitened. “What utter balderdash! The Duke of Milton is wealthy and certainly not hard up for money. I would have heard of this.”
She searched his expression frantically before closing her eyes. It took a few moments before she composed herself, then she opened her lids. “I can see from your face the rumors are true. If she is really dowerless, Alasdair, please strike a connection with her from your thoughts.”
How easy the tides were turned.
“I never indicated such a desire on my part.” Though now he was undoubtedly interested. But not to marry Willow or even to take the pleasures he had desperately wanted to pursue last night. He had a burning desire to understand the flash of pain that had clouded her gaze, to know how she had been hurt and why. While he would never marry her, they could possibly become friends.
“You could have been forced to marry her if it had been thought you compromised her!” his mother said in a strangled voice. “Why did you take a turn with Lady Willow in the gardens?”
“I do not believe I have to explain myself to you, madam.”
His mother flushed, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You were always the difficult one, and I can see you are shaping up to be so now.”
“Ah…Is it now the time to remind me what a disappointment I am to you and the family?”
She blanched. “Don’t you ever utter such nonsense, Alasdair. You were always different from your brothers. You did not cling to me as they did, but never have I ever regretted you. Never. You are an honorable man, and I am proud you are my son.”
Her voice rang with sincerity, and the feelings of warmth pouring through his chest surprised him.
“I know you felt some regard for her once, but do not pursue a woman who cannot help this family,” his mother urged. “Her lack of sight is bad enough, but to be without a dowry cannot be overlooked.”
A few years ago, Lady Willow was to marry the Duke of Salop. She herself had said as much. Nothing about her had changed except her sight and possibly fortune, yet as a duke’s daughter, she was no longer good enough for him, in his mother’s eyes, and if he was not mistaken, in Society’s eyes. Alasdair waited for satisfaction to fill him. Yet he did not feel such emotions. Instead, he felt disgusted at their shallowness. A woman was so much more than her money. He hoped his sisters would find men who would cherish them, whether he was able to provide them with dowries or not.
“Alasdair,” his mother said sharply at his silence. “Surely you remember your past with Lady Willow.”
How could he forget?
He had wanted her from the moment he had laid eyes on her seven years ago. Though Westerham Park bordered Hadley House, Lady Willow had spent most of her time at her father’s seat in Hertfordshire. It had only been as her family prepared her for the season, the Miltons had moved closer to London. Though Quinton had spent years regaling Alasdair of Willow’s exploits, he had never met her until she had snuck away fr
om her lessons to spy on her brothers at the lake and had slipped down the loose embankment from her hiding place to fall into the water.
Alasdair had dragged her out, to her utter mortification. He had forgotten how to breathe, how to blink or move when she had emerged from the water sputtering. She had been sixteen at the time, young and lovely, a spitfire, especially when she tilted her head and jutted her chin in that stubborn way of hers. Willow had been the loveliest of girls, warm, kind, high spirited, and so genuinely caring, it had not taken him long to fall in love with her.
Several days he had ridden away from Westerham Park to meet her by the lake. Simply basking in the knowledge of something sweet building between them. They had skipped stones across the lake and regaled each other with childhood anecdotes. He had taught her how to swim, against Quinton’s wishes, how to ride without a mounting block and side saddle, and she had taught him how to play chess, how to appreciate the poets, how to use his fingers to trill as the nightingales do.
After spending months with her, breathing in her laughter and love for life, she had taught him love. Then heartbreak and pain. Yet it had been memories of her which had kept him sane during the horrors of war and made him fight hard to be able to return.
And he now knew, he would not be able to stay away from her. Once again, he was a damn fool, but for some reason, he was more than happy with being a fool today.
Chapter 4
“The rumors say the Marquess of Westcliffe is seeking a wife,” the Dowager Countess, Willow’s grandmother, said from her position on the chaise. After their brief morning walk in the garden and the estate grounds, a light spatter of rain had forced them to the drawing room where they continued their conversation. To Willow’s chagrin, her grandmother had mentioned her mishap the night before with amusement.
“What do you think of him, child?”
She grimaced. Had her grandmother forgotten Willow knew him? That everything she now suffered was because of the love she held for Alasdair? A rush of anger burned through her, and she fought to suppress it. No, her grandmother remembered. Alasdair was no longer a mere third son, and she would have noted his attentions last night. As far as her family was concerned, he was now suitable.
