by Stacy Reid
Alasdair inclined his head. “Thank you.” He turned to walk away, but Milton’s next words froze him.
“If Willow accepts you I will provide her dowry.”
Alasdair glanced back at the duke, taking his measure. “No.”
Milton stiffened in surprise. “Do not be hasty, Westcliffe.”
His hands on the doorknob, he spoke, “While it would be a relief, I will not have Willow believing I am marrying her for what she brings to my pocket. I already face the insurmountable odds of convincing her she will never be a burden to me. I have made several investments my banker and solicitors predict will be successful. If they are right, in a few months’ time, Willow’s dowry will be negligible.”
“And if your predictions are wrong?” The duke snapped.
“I am the Marquess of Westcliffe. I have enough merchants and investors clamoring to work with me, for me to believe we’ll survive even if my prophesy is incorrect. And if by some miracle it isn’t…that is a risk I am willing to take,” Alasdair said quietly, then walked through the door.
The only challenge he now faced was to convince Willow of his love.
Chapter 8
The sounds from the music room were hauntingly beautiful. Fingers rippled over the keyboard of the pianoforte with unsurpassed skill. He opened the door quietly, and from the way Willow’s spine stiffened, Alasdair knew she realized he had entered the room.
After his meeting with the duke, he had sought her presence. Her grandmother had bidden him to wait in the drawing room, but he was pulled against his will toward the rousing sounds. Somehow, he had known it was Willow who played. She had been a good pianist when he knew her, but now she was brilliant.
The song ended. She gently closed the lid of the pianoforte and came to her feet gracefully. She looked ravishing with her hair piled high on her head, the loose tendril hiding the slight scar at her left temple. Willow was dressed in a high- waisted, bright yellow gown, her naked toes peeking from beneath the hem of her dress and petticoats. He smiled at that bit of unladylike appearance.
“You came.”
He stepped further into the room. “Did you doubt I would?”
“No, I feared you would.”
She walked toward him. “Let us retire to the drawing room. I am sure grandmother has ordered refreshments as she is no doubt in raptures over these dreadful developments.”
He shifted to the side and watched with a feeling of admiration as she opened the door, walked precisely several paces down the foyer, and then turned right. There was no hesitation when her hand turned the knob, and he strolled behind her into the parlor.
She kept her back turned to him, and he could see the fine trembling in her frame. “Willow, I—”
She spun to face him. Her face was placid, her eyes wide. “Did you pursue me for my fortune?” she demanded, jutting her small chin high.
“Willow, I—”
She held up her hand and looked directly at him, her eyes as piercing as arrows. “It is a simple question, my lord. It can be answered with a yes or no.”
His gut knotted. “No.”
She closed her eyes and relief chased her features. He wanted to gather her in his arms and whisper reassurance. But what would he say? That he was never pursuing her? That he had been lost in her beauty, her wit, her resilience, and because of his lack of control, they had been caught in a compromising position?
“Are you impoverished?”
He would only give her truth. “Yes.”
She backed away, the color draining from her face. Moving without any mishap, she walked to the sofa and sank into its depth. He was impressed when she reached for the tea trolley, her movements smooth and without hesitation, and poured them tea. Her finger remained gently curled over the tip of the cup as if to feel for the heat of the water as it rose. She prepared tea and cake as elegantly as any lady in her waiting room.
“Please join me for some refreshment,” she said coolly and waved her hand to the sofa in front of her.
His admiration swelled. None of her earlier apprehension showed on her face. In fact, she looked like a woman on a mission.
He sat beside her and accepted her offering.
She slathered jam across a bun, placed the knife on the table, and then bit delicately into the treat. All so seamlessly. It made him realize how much she must have had to learn to do on her own.
She cocked her head to the side. “You are staring.”
He arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“Hmmm,” she murmured around another bite. “I can feel it. Your eyes have been spending an inordinate amount of time on my lips.”
He chuckled, and she smiled. He enjoyed her teasing.
The laugh died out of her eyes. “While I would prefer to indulge in light conversation, I believe we have more serious matters to discuss.” She curled her hands around her cup and shifted, staring at him. It was uncanny, her ability to look directly at the person without seeing them. “My father believes you have compromised me and demands we must wed.”
“Yes.” He wondered if now was the time to admit he had already met with the duke.
She nodded, then took a delicate sip of her tea. “I have tried to reassure him that nothing happened between us, only a chaste embrace, but it seems Quinton and grandmother have advised him otherwise.” The becoming blush climbing her face caused a tender ache to unfurl within him.
Quinton should have waited for Alasdair to approach the duke. Damn his interfering friend. Alasdair could only imagine how she must have been embarrassed.
She cleared her throat delicately. “I think we must band together and refuse their edict. I am three and twenty and not a child. I already possess inferior circumstances, and I doubt rumors of our…our…kisses will ruin me.”
“No,” he said quietly. Alasdair observed the wild jerk of her pulse at the base of her neck. He wanted to lean in and trace its delicate flutter with the tip of his tongue and breathe in her scent.
She stiffened, a frown marring her features. “No? I beg you not to be intimidated by my father and be pressured into—”
Alasdair’s low chuckle of amusement had her narrowing her eyes.
“No man can force me to move against my own heart and inclination,” he drawled. “I made my offer to your father not because he or Quinton pressured me, but because I wanted to.”
Her gasp echoed in the room.
“You want to marry me?” Disbelief was rife in her voice.
“Yes.”
She lowered her cup to the center table and shifted even closer to him. “I am not sure you understand, Alasdair. I am without a dowry.”
He wanted to gut her father for the embarrassment that coated her voice.
“You bring other treasures to me, Lady Willow, other than money or lands, treasures that are far more valuable.”
Shaking her head in obvious confusion, she stood, then sat back down as if in a daze. She tilted her head toward him. “I know you are impoverished. My grandmother is never wrong about such matters. And the rumor is that you were interested in the ladies displayed on the marriage mart. Since grandmother told me of your financial straits, I realized you must be seeking an heiress to replenish your coffers and to help your family.” She leaned forward and searched for his hands.
He met her halfway and pleasure coursed through him at their softness.
Her fingers tightened on his. “My father has promised to never provide a dowry for me to any man who is not wealthy in his own right. It is his way of protecting me from fortune hunting rakes. He will not bend his stance.”
“I am aware of this.”
Piercing green eyes ran over him as if she could see, and a curious smile slanted her lips. “Yet you wish to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“But why? I offer you nothing.”
The anger that surged through him was raw and wicked. He tugged her toward him, doing nothing to check his roughness. She tumbled into his chest with a soft
oomph.
“Has it never occurred to you that I love you?”
Utter shock filled her eyes, then hope, then fear. “If you love me, I will never marry you.” The conviction in her voice was palpable.
“Is that so,” he murmured low and hard, his lips mere scant inches from her mouth.
Her cheeks darkened with anger. “Yes. I will not have your love wither to resentment, and I will not endure the heartache of loving someone, who will grow to hate me. I am willing to have an affair with you. Something so fleeting and beautiful that would burn away before we could form chains of hatred or love. I would marry you for any reason, but love. I would marry you for companionship, I would marry you so you could regain wealth and fortune if I had a dowry. I might even have married you if you had simply pitied me, but never because I love you or you love me,” she sobbed. “And you need to make your estates solvent, how can I take that from you?”
“I am not the type of man to rely on finding an heiress alone to fill my coffers, Willow. I have been making investments, and they have been bearing fruits. I also informed your father of my intentions, and he offered your dowry,” he said flatly.
Surprised chased her features then relief. “He did?”
“Yes.”
A look of wonder dawned on her face. “Father would only do that if he believed you to care for me.”
Alasdair drew her even closer. “I love you, Willow. I never stopped. You are strong and beautiful. More capable than anyone I know to be without sight. You still dream, and I want to help you fulfil them all.”
She tried to pull from him, but he held her firm.
“Please do not tell me such sentiments,” she cried.
Frustration curled through him. “Will you marry me?”
Her chest heaved. “No.”
“Is your only objection because I love you?”
She lowered her gaze, gathering her composure before opening her beautiful eyes to him. “Yes. I will not endure your love turning to disdain,” she whispered hoarsely.
He cupped her cheeks and dipped his head so his lips brushed against hers, infusing coldness in his tone. “Then I will never speak of love again for you understand nothing. But you will marry me, and we will exchange our wants and needs in our bed. I will take you riding, swimming, to country dances and lavish balls, and I will be your anchor when you falter…always.” He pressed a hard kiss to her lips, stroking his tongue over her teeth, and with a forceful push sank into the depth of her sweetness.
He kissed her for unending seconds, devouring her hot honeyed taste, uncaring someone could enter the parlor at any moment. She responded with such eagerness, his cock surged to life with painful immediacy, and the emotions roiling in him begged for an outlet in the depth of her body. He pulled from her, breathing raggedly. “If you only want lust between us, you will be ready for me, either on your back or on your knees. However I crave, whenever I want to take you.”
Her face colored at his crudeness, but he continued, “And you will give me an heir and your fidelity, your joy, and laughter, but not your love. Is such a proposition suitable for you, Lady Willow?”
She closed her eyes, reining in the wash of emotions that had chased her lovely features too quick for him to decipher. When she opened her eyes, the green orbs were composed. “Yes, such terms are acceptable to me.”
He was torn between throttling her and kissing her senseless. But he was the bigger fool. Because he had long realized he would take her in any condition he could get.
“Then you best to prepare for a wedding, my lady.”
Alasdair sealed his words with a kiss.
Chapter 9
It had been two weeks since Alasdair had proposed. And in that time, Willow’s disquiet had only grown, but so had her joy. Everything she had ever desired was hers for the claiming, if she would only embrace all he promised. She had met with his mother, and while she had seemed stiff and formal, she had made some effort to bend the last few days. His sisters had been wonderful. They made every effort to converse and put her at ease when she dined at Westerham Park on the previous evening.
Willow’s family was overjoyed, and her grandmother could not understand why she was not suffused with happiness. Alasdair, despite his cold words, was kind, charming, and attentive.
The door to the drawing room opened, and from the weight of the footsteps, she surmised it was the butler.
“My lady,” Dawson murmured. “A note has arrived from Westerham Park.”
Disappointment lodged in her gut. “What does it say?”
There was a rustle of sound, and then he spoke, “It says the marquess sends his apologies and asks to reschedule your ride out. He has been called away to London on an urgent matter.”
“Thank you, Dawson.”
She waited until the door closed quietly before wilting against the sofa. Instead of being disappointed, she could look at this as a reprieve. Alasdair had coaxed her into agreeing to attempt to mount a horse. They had made plans, and she had waited with such excitement to know he would share this with her.
She had dressed in her finest riding habit and had even donned the matching hat, perching it at a jaunty angle on her head. It was a pity he had been called away. She smiled knowing he would do his best to make it up.
The thought froze her, and her pulse jumped in her throat.
Willow stood and measured her steps to the window, pressing her palm against the surface, imagining she could see the grass and the rolling lawns of the estate. This had been the third time he had been called away. The third time he had cancelled one of their meetings in a matter of two weeks. He had always apologized and made up for it with long conversations, or a walk, or even the picnic they indulged in over the weekend.
She could envision what their future would be like. He was a marquess with untold responsibilities. He would be away a lot, and at times when she needed him, he would be absent. And he would feel guilt, apologize, and do his utmost best to make amends. And the cycle would continue until he grew to resent her.
A deep ache burgeoned inside her, and she closed her eyes against it. She loved him desperately. But how could she go ahead with the small intimate wedding they had planned tomorrow in the chapel at Hadley House? Alasdair had procured a special license, probably in the fear she would change her mind.
A heavy weight settled over her heart as fear slithered through her. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, but she could not decide which would ravage him more. Marrying him or not marrying him. She pushed the doubts from her mind. Not today. This morning should have been about relearning her beautiful horse, Daisy. Willow pressed her face against the glass, feeling the heat of the sun. How she wished she was brave enough to traverse the path to the stables alone. Grayson had not come home, and Quinton had left for Dorset early this morning. Her father was secreted in his office with the estate manager, and her mother would only bombard Willow with dire predictions of the risks of riding.
Without giving fear the time to take hold of her, she walked from the parlor measuring all of her steps until she exited the house. She gloried in the sun’s warmth, the nip of the breeze as it glided over her skin. She turned left, then strolled toward the copse of trees, feeling the barks and memorizing where they had stood in relation to the stables. Willow walked for a few minutes, the roar of her heart a thunder in her ears, bracing herself to hear the panicked shrill of her name from her mother’s lips or the cry of alarm from one of the servants. When no cry sounded, she pushed her misgivings aside and pressed on, only pausing to inhale deeply, trusting her senses to direct her. She stumbled several times, trying to remember the layout to the stables, but it was not long before she came upon it. The sounds of the soft neighs, the smell of hay, sweat, and leather greeted her. Pleasure and fear coursed through her. The need burned in her, a relentless ache to act without fear, to do something for herself without seeking help.
“My lady!?” A voice rife with alarm spoke. The head
groom.
She shifted toward his voice. “Hello, Thompson. Is Daisy readied?”
The order to prepare her horse had been sent down earlier when it had been believed Alasdair would escort her.
After a beat of silence, he responded, “Yes, Lady Willow.”
“Good,” she said brusquely. “Take my hand and lead me to her.”
He complied, no doubt shocked by her presence and orders.
“Here you go, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Please remove the side saddle, and re-saddle her. I will be riding astride.”
“Yes, my lady.”
A few minutes later Thompson directed her to Daisy. All anxiety faded once she heard the snicker of welcome from her beloved horse. A lump formed in her throat and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh, Daisy,” Willow crooned, reaching up to hug her neck. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you? Even after all these years.”
A surge of intense love for her animal filled Willow. She had missed her so much. How could she have stayed away for so long? Daisy nuzzled her, and Willow laughed, suddenly feeling free.
She carefully glided around her horse, feeling for the mounting block.
“Let me help you, my lady,” Thompson said softly.
Willow smiled, grateful he had not departed. With his assistance, she was now comfortably seated on top of her horse. Oh.
Anxiety curled through her, and she stilled. As if sensing her fear, Daisy shifted, a bit too suddenly for Willow. Her heart rate accelerated, and she gripped the reins tightly.
You are strong and beautiful.
The ghost of Alasdair’s passionate assurance whispered through her. Willow swallowed. He saw her in such a different light. He thought her so capable, so bold and stalwart. Why did she not believe the same? The painful realization that she was limiting herself, in the same manner her over-protective family did, caused her to release a harsh breath. Willow had been the one to refuse to ride, though Quinton had offered to assist her with riding several times. She was the one who firmly believed Alasdair would see her as a burden. She hardly asked anyone to aid her at Hadley House, and the tasks the servants did for her, would have been the same if she hadn’t been without sight.
