by Stacy Reid
With all the love she had felt for Alasdair, he had only ever kissed her once. It had been the eve of her seventeenth birthday celebration, and she had been about to leave for London for the season with her mother and aunt. When he’d heard, he had taken her to walk by the lake where they’d spent the day, huddled in the cold, talking of impossible dreams.
You make me happy, Willow. I make you happy. Do not leave. Marry me. His words had been simple, without artful flattery and phrases, but a knowing had shifted inside of her, a kindred feeling, and a surge of love so intense fear had shaken her. Since their meeting the summer before, every moment with him had been blissful, and she had bitterly regretted the need to part from him, to plunge into the marriage mart. He was the one she had desired, but she had known her father would never accept his offer.
Then not even a week later, her father informed her he accepted the Duke of Salop’s offer for her hand in marriage.
She still remembered the rage on her father’s face when she had threatened to run away with Alasdair. Her father had slapped her, and the cold violence and rage behind his actions had petrified Willow. He had apologized immediately and enfolded her in a hug, then had made the chilling promise that Alasdair would regret loving her, for her father would ruin him if she ran away and married beneath her station. She had believed her father. Nothing of the rage he had shown before had been present, only an icy purpose.
It was her mother who had fully persuaded Willow a third son would not be able to offer her the comforts of life that she had been privileged to experience, and if she continued to be adamant in wanting to marry Alasdair, her father would ruin him. Alasdair’s family had already been on the brink of financial disaster with his father’s gambling, and her mother had pointed out it would not take much for her father, a powerful and respected duke to drive the final nail in the coffin of the Westcliffe family. The loss of comfort her mother had spoken of, the loss of jewelries, clothes, and the best carriages had not affected Willow much. But the fear her father would crush every ambition of Alasdair’s had been daunting. The maelstrom of emotions the memory evoked rattled her, and she pushed the past from her mind.
“Would you agree, child, that the Marquess of Westcliffe is a suitable match?”
Willow wanted to scream. Why was her grandmother asking her this? Of course he would be more than suitable, but what would that be to her? She now had the inferior circumstances. She was flawed. She was dowerless. And from all he had said the night before, he only wanted to bury his cock in her, to exorcise her from his dreams. Heat climbed her cheeks.
At the tender age of fifteen, she had caught her brother Quinton naked with his limbs entwined with her governess. They had undulated together in the most sensual of rhythms. The shock of it had stayed with Willow for years, but she had a good idea of what Alasdair referred to when he said he wanted to be buried in her. The curl of heat that surged through her at the thought of them naked, sweating together, her begging and clawing his back as he promised had her mouth drying.
“Willow?”
The pique in her grandmother’s tone was evident. With a sigh Willow directed her thoughts to their conversation. “I am without dowry…without sight, and I rejected him years ago when I had all of this, Grandmother. He will not be persuaded now to accept me.”
Her parents believed they were protecting her by rendering her penniless, but they placed her in the untenable situation of being unsuitable for any gentleman. She was already an encumbrance without her sight, but to have no money? To come to any marriage only as a burden?
She had argued with her father. Her brothers had pleaded with him to reconsider, but the duke had been firm. She would remain without a dowry. Of course, all of this occurred because of that blasted poppycock James Bailey, the Earl of Trenton. He had pursued her so ardently, despite her blindness, and she had felt some hope that a gentleman would see her as more than an unwanted wife. But it had all been about her wealth. Lord Trenton had easily departed after her father explained he would only provide a thousand pound for her dowry. Trenton had failed her father’s test, and Willow had been shattered. She had liked and respected Lord Trenton, and believed she could have been comfortably situated. But the fearful reality she had been hiding from, had crashed into her with brutal precision.
“You do not give much credit to your beauty, my dear. I observed when Lord Westcliffe came to your rescue last night. I made the decision not to intervene from the way he looked at you,” her grandmother said at Willow’s silence.
Her throat felt tight and aching, but she pushed the words passed her lips. “I think it convenient for you to pretend, Grandmother, that I had not rejected him and hurt him abominably. Why should he now be amenable toward me, because I am now recognizing he has a title? Either way, I am no longer interested in the institution of marriage.”
Never would she be a burden to a man who would certainly grow to resent her, even if her dowry had been considerable.
“You are being foolish, my dear. You need your own family. You cannot spend the rest of your life secreted at Hadley House. While my daughter expects to smother and hover over you for the remainder of her life, I expect you to live, to remain stalwart in the strength you have displayed since you were a babe. Do you not desire more?”
Yes, she wanted pleasure, passion. To feel Alasdair on top of her, inside her, kissing her, and drowning her with sensation she was sure to never feel again even if she married elsewhere. Her heart clamored when she admitted her scandalous thoughts to herself. She had tasted such delights at last night’s ball, and she wanted more.
She raised her fingers to her lips. The flavor of him still lingered. A wistful sigh escaped her lips. She desired to feel that slow slide into bliss again, to feel the rise of passion as it consumed her. And she wanted to experience it with Alasdair. But even if some miracle were to occur where he would indeed desire her to be his wife, she would never saddle him with a blind marchioness. “Grandmother…”
“Yes?”
She hesitated, fighting the blush.
“What is it, Willow?” Gentle understanding was rife in her tone.
“What does he look like?”
There was a pulse of painful silence before the dowager countess spoke, “Lord Westcliffe?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“He is still very handsome. He appears a bit different from what you would remember. The flush of youth is gone, and he looks harder…a bit colder. I think the effects of the war. His efforts have been much lauded, and many nights that is all your father and Quinton discuss.”
Pride curled through Willow. “Thank you. Do you know what happened to his brothers?”
“Do you not think that is a question for the marquess? It would give you something to converse about.”
“Grandmother, please.” Willow did not hide the exasperation in her tone.
There was a knock on the door, and her grandmother’s impervious voice bid entrance.
Dawson, their butler came in. “There is a caller for Lady Willow,” he murmured.
Her heart leaped. Without Dawson saying it, she knew it was Alasdair.
“Lord Westcliffe, my lady.”
“Indeed?” her grandmother said archly, but Willow could hear the deep satisfaction in her voice. “Please show him into the parlor and order refreshments.”
Willow turned from the open widows, walking ten paces toward the chaise in the left corner. She sat questions bubbling inside, waiting for Alasdair to enter.
Was he interested in courting her? After the way she had treated him? He had no idea of the foolish and devastating lengths she had endured to reach him, to recant her words and profess her adoration for him. So why would he be showing her any attention now?
Repayment.
The thought had her breath halting. What if he wanted atonement for the way she had dismisse
d his love? She would never forget the flash of agony on his face when she had told him, she was to marry another and he should forget her. His expression had reflected all the hopeless torment she had felt inside, from bowing to her family’s persuasion. It mattered not to her that in her reckless bid to make amends, she had been hurt on such a debilitating level. He did not know of her efforts, and she would never tell him.
Last night proved she had enjoyed his lust, his passion, and while she might even suffer his anger…she did not want his pity.
And what she would admit was that she needed his desire. Needed to feel alive after the years of unending loneliness. And while she would never consent to be anyone’s wife…she would take a leap, for a taste of desire.
Chapter Five
Alasdair invited her to picnic by the lake and then to swim.
Something so ordinary should never have caused the panic that had bled from her mother’s voice when Willow informed her of his request, and Willow had not even told her of the swimming part. He had said it teasingly, with a sensual promise of more in his tone.
That more had intrigued her, and she wanted to be alone with him for the day.
The duchess had been deaf to Willow’s firm stance that she was twenty three and it was perfectly safe to picnic with a childhood friend. Her mother had spluttered at the impropriety of walking with Alasdair without a chaperone. Willow was grateful her father and brothers were in London, for she would not have been able to defeat their strong objections, to being with him by herself. She was no longer the girl of sixteen who had been allowed too much freedom with Alasdair.
It was Grandmother who had gently encouraged Willow’s mother to let her be. But her mother had only relented after Willow agreed to take Olivia as a chaperone. And yet her mother was still not satisfied.
Willow loved her mother, but her overprotectiveness was tiring.
“Willow—”
“Please Mother.” She smiled to remove the sting of her words. “Allow me this without an argument. The weather is perfect, and I have not been to the lake in almost a year. Father stifles me, and though Quinton and Grayson try to be different, they are rather much the same.”
“You will ensure Oliva is with you at all times,” her mother said.
Willow smiled noncommittally. She had no intention of taking Olivia with her, not when the promise of passion had been so evident in Alasdair’s tone. Willow would allow ample opportunities for him to steal a kiss again if he so desired.
A heavy sigh slipped from her mother, then there was a rustle of sound, and the smell of peaches and lemons wafted closer. Her mother’s fragrance had always been comforting, unique. Willow turned toward her mother, reaching out her hands.
The lightest of kisses brushed her cheek and she could smell the faint tang of sherry on her mother’s breath.
“You have been drinking.”
“Do not concern yourself, it was only one glass. Go and have a pleasant time. Though I may need another glass to fortify my nerves when your father discovers I allowed this. I am sure he would have wanted to speak with Lord Westcliffe before he allowed any courtship.”
Willow did not point out it was barely noon, much too early for her mother to be imbibing, and she certainty did not mention this was not a courtship. “Thank you, Mother.” She returned her mother’s embrace.
Willow walked from the drawing room without assistance to her chambers up the winding stairs. With the aid of her lady’s maid, Anne, Willow dressed in a simple walking gown. It had not taken much to convince Olivia to grant Willow privacy with the marquess. Her friend and companion understood the raging need she possessed to be unchained from her mother’s stifling overprotectiveness and fear. Though Olivia had asked her to be careful, for her companion was fully aware of Willow’s history with Alasdair.
“I am leaving my hair down in a plait.”
“Yes, my lady,” Anne murmured.
A few minutes later Willow descended the stairs fully composed, hoping none of the tearing emotions she’d felt were evident. She ran her hand along the railing, counting her steps. Halfway down, she paused. Alasdair was near. The scent of him flooded her senses. “Have you come to escort me down the stairs?”
“Impressive indeed,” he said, and then a breath later he was beside her.
“Mayhap not as impressive as your scent is distinct, my lord. I will admit you move with the grace of a predator. I did not feel you come closer.”
There was a subtle intake of breath.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She reached out and he guided her hand to his arm.
“We shall,” she said on a light laugh. “I urge our departure before Mother comes to her senses and makes a ruckus of me leaving with you.”
“Your curricle awaits, my lady.”
It seemed as if he dipped his head closer, because warmth coasted near her cheeks. Scotch, chocolate, and if she was not mistaken, bilberries, an interesting combination. A slow ache curled through her. If she did not guard her emotions, she might once again receive a cruel blow from the fickle hands of fate.
Thirty minutes later, Willow listened to the lapping of the lake, the smooth rush of the water, and leaned forward from where she sat on the grass, gliding her fingertips over the lake’s surface. It felt divine. They had been at the lake for almost ten minutes, and she had yet to submerge herself fully into the water. She missed swimming, she missed so many things. It would indeed be glorious to feel the water caressing against her skin again, if only she were brave enough to ask Alasdair for assistance.
The smell of rain and something all too elusive wrapped itself around her. Her skin tingled with awareness, and her body came alive at Alasdair’s nearness.
“How may I aid in your enjoyment of the day?” he asked softly.
She stiffened. From the ripples in the water, the soft splash, she could feel him wading closer.
“I am content to sit here and soak my feet.”
She fancied she felt his puzzlement, but how could she explain she did not want to be burdensome?
“Are you? You were a quick study when I taught you to swim. I remember us meeting here almost every day for weeks. I cannot credit you would not wish to take advantage of the marvelous weather. Is it that you have been to the lake so often?”
The sun was bright and even in her realm of almost darkness she could see the splice of light edging the void. She berated herself for her hesitancy. “No, I walked by a few times with Quinton, but I have not swum since my accident.”
“Then why will you not accept my aid?”
“Why are we here?” she asked instead of answering him.
It was a difficult thing to force their outing into perspective. She had missed him so. But she could not allow herself to believe it meant anything of substance, despite their kiss, despite her wanting him. She couldn’t afford to expose herself to such hurt again. Lord Trenton, the toad, had started out admiring her, courting her before he had offered for her hand.
I am mightily exhausted of always needing to be here for you. It wears on a man, Willow.
When he had snapped those words with evident frustration, she had been shattered, believing she had been doing so well at self-sufficiency. Then she’d realized she was only self-sufficient at Hadley House. There she knew every nook and cranny, every gravel path and garden, and the length and depth of the lake. She had sprained an ankle and had received several bruises in her determination to learn the property.
Hadley House was her prison…and also her freedom.
She’d recollected how much he had to assist her once they were away from Hadley House. First, he had been caring. Solicitous, gentle even, then it had slowly turned to brusqueness and anger. Lord Trenton had convinced himself to continue because he needed her money.
She must never read anything into Alasdair inviting her out
. They had been friends, and she must be careful to not love him so desperately again. She would not be able to bear his distaste, which was an eventuality.
Do not forget he left…and never once looked back. The dark part of her she had struggled to defeat reared its head. She swallowed the bitterness and dwelt in the moment itself. She had rejected him. It mattered not that she regretted that decision. He was not to blame for anything she suffered.
Willow closed her eyes against the painful memories. “Will you not answer my question? Why did you call on me today?”
“I am here because I desire to reacquaint myself with you. I have no nefarious reasons.”
So he had abandoned his plans of seduction? Disappointment stabbed through her. “I see,” she said quietly.
“Do you think I would hurt you?”
She frowned at his unexpected question. “I—”
He chuckled. “You are very transparent with your emotions. I can see your wariness. But I promise you, I will not hurt you.”
Sincerity rang in his voice.
“And your vow to exorcise me from your dreams?”
She heard him drifting closer.
“I assure you that is not my intention today. The shock of seeing you for the first time in years last night prompted my unchivalrous actions. You are safe with me, I promise, Willow.”
“How disappointing,” she said softy. She had hoped to indulge in passion again today.
“You are disappointed I am not ravishing you?”
His voice was carefully neutral.
She shrugged indelicately. “I will confess I have been thinking about you as a lover.”
A soft curse slipped from him and a blush heated her cheeks. But she would not retract the words. Life was too fleeting for her to hesitate with her desires. She wanted more, and he was the man she had craved for years. Who better to experience passion with?