by Stacy Reid
“He did not take advantage of me, Quinton. It was I who was bold and inappropriate.”
“Be quiet Willow, I will speak with Quinton.”
She ignored Alasdair’s command. “I will not have my brothers and father force you to do what they believe is honorable. If he had remained in London, there would be no ruckus.”
“Devil take it, Willow, this is serious business,” Quinton snapped.
A blanket was draped over her, and she clutched it close.
“It is only dire if you make it out to be. I ask you to keep our confidence, Quinton. I would not want father to know what you witnessed.”
Virulent curses slipped from his lips. “I will take you home.”
“Quinton—” Alasdair began.
“No, Westcliffe, I know your position, and I am aware of what you are seeking. She is my goddamn sister, and you knew you were not up to scratch.”
She stiffened. The rage in her brother’s tone had apprehension skittering up her spine. What did he know about Alasdair?
“Do you believe you could ride on my horse?” Quinton asked her.
Her head swam. “No,” she managed to push the words past her lips. He knew she had never been able to seat herself on a horse since her accident. “Take the curricle,” Alasdair offered quietly. “I will walk back.”
She felt the tension that snapped between the men and regretted it. They had been the closest of friends as long as she could remember. She would need to speak with Quinton, so he understood this was her decision, and she had not been coerced. For a sense of doom had been twisting inside of her since his appearance. He would try to force her to do the right thing, the honorable thing. But he and her family would never understand that is exactly what she would be doing when she rejected the offer of marriage that was sure to come.
Chapter 7
“What the hell were you thinking?” Quinton snarled hours later as he strode into Alasdair’s library.
He had known what was coming and had been deep in thoughts. The emotions Willow roused in him were similar to those he had formerly felt, except now he saw her through the viewpoint of a man. There was a time Alasdair had been convinced, once he experienced pleasure in Willow’s arms, the desperate hunger he had felt for her over the years would ease. He grimaced. It had increased tenfold. She haunted his most wicked and sensual dreams. He wanted her. And not only for pleasure. He wanted her as his marchioness.
He had swiftly composed letters to his solicitor, his barrister, his investment partners, and the stewards of his estates. He wanted to understand his financial standing and how long he would remain solvent if he married her.
The doubts crowded his mind. Could he still pursue Willow and achieve happiness for his sisters? They needed him, and their disappointment he would not bear. He wanted to smash the glass of brandy into the wall above the fireplace.
“Well?” his friend demanded.
Alasdair asked, “Is Willow well?”
Quinton sighed. “As well as can be. Our grandmother realized something was amiss, and I stupidly confided in her. The alacrity in which she told our father you had compromised Willow startled me.”
Alasdair braced himself. “How did Willow react to that?”
Quinton came to stand beside him, still stiff with anger. “She has told our father she will not be forced into misery.”
Alasdair jerked, and from the sharp glance of his friend, he surmised he had not masked his reaction. The pain of her words sliced deep. But what had he expected? She had been right when she accused him of leaving and not looking back. Though it had not been intentional. His father’s death, his mother’s grief, and Marcus’ illness had all happened within months of each other. It had been a lot to deal with. The despair of those times still had the power to affect Alasdair even after all these years. But when he finally emerged from the shadow of it all, he had not looked behind him, assuming that she had married her duke.
What a damn fool he had been.
“It is not you Willow objects to my friend,” Quinton admitted. “It is the situation. She fears to be a burden. Though it is embarrassing to admit, I saw her face as she smiled at you. I realize nothing has changed for her, even after six years. She holds the same regard for you, and it is that regard that will make her deny you. Even as father roared, she only sought to protect you from his anger.”
“I can manage the duke’s wrath.”
Quinton sighed. “I told her as much. Why would you place yourself in such a situation?”
Alasdair ignored the question. “She told me she fell from her horse.”
His friend was silent for the longest time.
“What happened, Quinton? Please tell me.”
“She rode after you.”
Alasdair stiffened, a deep sense of foreboding filling his chest. “What do you mean?”
“I overheard her rejection of your offer.”
My father has forbidden our union. You are only a third son, and he believes I deserve more. You say you are leaving for Europe. Go. I won’t change my opinion.
While the memory still stung, the words no longer choked him with loss as they once did.
“She cried for days in her room after you left. Our parents were proud of her. Hell, everyone thought she was being sensible, but she was miserable. I visited her and asked her if she loved you. I regret to this day I interfered. For when she said yes, I told her the truth, that in a few hours, you would leave London and it could be years before you returned. She rushed to our father, confessed her love and expressed only wanting to be with you, and that she needed to visit you. Her request for the carriage and chaperone was denied. She went to the stables, mounted her horse and rode for Westerham Park.”
“Hell!”
He glanced at Quinton and the savage fury and pain on his face told the rest of the story.
“Grayson is more tormented than I am. He has never been the same, and the wild debauchery he indulges in now is to soothe his guilt. He was the one that rode after her…to stop her. She urged her horse faster when she realized he was on her trail. She was thrown. I was following behind him, and I do not think I will ever forget his cry of fear when he realized what had happened. We raced to her side, and she was unconscious, bleeding from the head. The next two weeks were the most terrified I had ever been in my life, not even what we experienced in the war compared.”
There was an empty, hollow ache in Alasdair’s chest. It was his fault she was blind. The guilt crashed into him like a wave, suffocating and drowning him. All these years while he had raged at her, believing her fickle, she had raced after him and had been hurt. He logically tried to wade through the pain. It had been years ago, and to allow the grip of guilt to warp his mind now would be foolhardy. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
Quinton sighed. “Maybe. But what would you have done? Run to her side and offered to be with her out of guilt?”
“No…I loved her, I wouldn’t have needed chains of guilt. I would have cared for her, been there when the doubts ravaged her, and when she felt alone in her world…I would have supported her.”
Quinton smiled grimly. “I think it best you were absent, the first few years were very torturing for her. It has only been this past couple year I have seen my sister gain some peace.”
Alasdair probably shouldn’t torment himself further, but he needed to know. “Did she call for me?”
His friend ran his fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair and grimaced. “Yes… for days.”
Alasdair flinched.
“It was stories of you that kept her sane and allowed her to fight for life.”
“Why did you never tell me?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why? We are friends, Quinton. You knew how I felt about Willow.”
He would never have been in any doubt. Alasdair had professed years ago with a simple declaration of ‘I love your sister, and I’m going to marry her. I will endeavor to provide for her so that she will never want for an
ything. I swear to you.’
It had been Alasdair’s way of declaring his intention to the one person whose opinion truly mattered to him.
“She was blinded Al…blinded and broken.”
The depth of fury that rocketed through Alasdair’s heart shocked him. “This is your opinion of me? You think me so shallow I would stay away from the woman I love more than life because of blindness? That I would have stayed away because she could not see?” he snarled.
A pained look swirled in the depth of Quinton’s eyes. “I realized quite late the depth of your affections. You were both so young. Willow was sixteen when you met her, and you were twenty. After her rejection, you left England for several months. I thought that meant the affections you felt for her were fleeting. It was only in the Peninsula I truly understood the love you held for her, and that you left, because you wouldn’t have been able to endure seeing her in Society on another man’s arm.”
War. The memories crowded Alasdair’s mind. The stench of blood, the feel of despair, the burn of the agonizing pain as the bullet had lodged itself in his stomach. A wound he should have died from. But Quinton had anchored him to life by simply telling him of Willow.
Hell. “And now? What is your opinion now?”
His friend sighed. “Though I know the love between you, it is hard for me not to smash your teeth in. You were leaning over my sister.”
Quinton shot him a furious glare and Alasdair was startled to feel the tip of his ears burning. His loss of control had been witnessed. Never had he intended their embrace to traverse such a path. Quinton had only seen them after Alasdair had brought her to pleasure, inhaling the sweet scent of her desire. He was damned lucky he had not followed his wild inclination to splay her legs and kiss her deeply in her most intimate spot.
He would have surely been facing her father at dawn.
“Honor demands you marry my sister,” Quinton said into the quiet of the library.
Alasdair’s gut clenched. “I am not sure if I should feel happiness or despair,” he murmured.
His friend threw him a curious glance. “Despair?”
Then understanding dawned into his green eyes so much like Willow’s. “Even buried in Suffolk you have heard the rumors? You know that Willow is dowry less?”
Alasdair nodded in confirmation.
“You need an heiress. Your estates are in debt by thousands. The winnings you make from gambling is not enough.”
Quinton walked over to the mantle and poured whisky into two glasses. “Why in God’s name did you pursue my sister, if you knew she had no money upon marriage? I have spoken to father several times, and I assure you, he will not unbend on his stance.”
Alasdair took a swallow of his drink, appreciating the fire that trailed down his throat. “I was not pursuing her. I merely invited her for an outing. I was desperate to fill the need in me to know how she has fared. I never intended to lose control,” he said ruefully.
“Your intention was to trifle with my sister, and then marry someone else?” Quinton asked, a dangerous undercurrent in his tone.
“No…I had no intention of even touching her.”
A muscle ticked along Quinton’s jaw. “So what the hell happened?”
Alasdair knew he would sound like a fool, but he still admitted it. “She laughed.” And the sound had sneaked into the cold dark place where he had been dwelling and thawed him.
Quinton went silent.
Alasdair figured he didn’t have to say anymore.
“You love her.”
He winced at the quiet assertion. Was he so transparent? “I never stopped.”
Compassion radiated from Quinton’s gaze. “You are in an impossible situation, my friend. To wed my sister would surely be your family’s ruin. But my grandmother will not allow any other outcome. She has already convinced my father Willow is beyond compromised by your licentious behavior. And despite knowing the debt you are in, I myself desire you to do the honorable thing.”
Alasdair smiled without mirth. Honor be damned. He was willing to marry Willow, and not because they had been seen in such a scandalous position. But because he had never stopped loving her. “I will not marry Willow because of honor, but because I never stopped caring for her and from her words by the lake, I can see she would willingly deny herself happiness and a family because of fear. She had always been so vibrant, so full of life. Today I only saw a shadow of her vibrancy. It guts me to think of her alone for the rest of her life when she is loved. For years, I promised myself to never love another. And that was because Willow never left me, Quinton. I would be a fool if I gave her up a second time.”
And what of your family? Your sisters who are relying on you to wed an heiress? His conscience taunted.
“And what of the money your estates need?”
Alasdair thrust his hands into his pockets and turned from the windows. “I will find a way out of my financial mess.”
Or relinquish Willow.
A thing he could not bear to contemplate.
What a damn quandary. But he would do all in his power to make all the women in his life happy. He would wed Willow, convince her of his love and rid her eyes of their lingering sadness. He would also take the position with the Foreign Office, invest in lands and spices, and do his best to ensure his sisters, his mother, and estates were more than adequately cared for.
No other outcome was even possible for him to contemplate. For he would not turn his back on Willow again.
Stuart Arlington, the Duke of Milton, regarded Alasdair with a closed expression. He had called at Hadley House before even taking his morning ride. He’d waited in the library for almost an hour. Amusement shifted through Alasdair at the duke’s disrespect. Perhaps he still saw Alasdair as unworthy of his daughter, for surely the man knew why he visited. When His Grace arrived, he had coolly taken in Alasdair reading one of his books by the fire, before offering him a drink, which Alasdair declined.
“Is my daughter without virtue?” His Grace snapped without preamble. He walked to his oak desk and sat. Though he reposed casually in the high wing back chair, Alasdair noted the tension in his shoulders.
Alasdair closed the copy of The Excursion he had been skimming. “I cannot remember Lady Willow not being virtuous,” Alasdair responded blandly, resting the leather volume on the shelf.
Surprise flickered in the depth of the duke’s eyes before he composed his face into a neutral mask. Did the man expect him to speak about the past? Alasdair had spent the night thinking of Willow, and for the first time in years, he had acknowledged how young she had been when she rejected him. How uncertain and fearful she must have felt. He’d admitted he should have fought for her more. He had experienced many ‘should haves’ for the long night, recognizing she wouldn’t be blind today if not for her family’s meddling and his insouciance.
Enough with what should have happened. He would direct his will and thoughts to now, to the future.
“I suppose you are here to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
The duke’s expression was serious, and the way he assessed Alasdair was almost discomfiting. Amusement curled through him, for he was not at all intimidated. He had nothing to prove to the man, and he only needed to be honest. “I am.”
“Willow is no longer top shelf goods, and I will not provide a dowry for her. If the rumors are true, you need an heiress.”
Anger knifed through Alasdair. Top shelf goods? “Willow is not a commodity to be referred to as ‘goods.’ I will not condone you disparaging her,” he said icily.
Grudging respect flared in the duke’s eyes, but the man remained seated and silent. Alasdair could not believe there had been a time he’d wanted to earn the duke’s respect.
He stepped closer to his desk. “I am not requesting Willow’s hand because I need her dowry, I love her, and I will do all in my power to convince her of my regard. I only sought to inform you of my intentions so you would not feel fear or uncertainty for her
future. I never stopped loving her, and her blindness will not stop that. I do not see weakness. Only her resilience. I have known men in the war to kill themselves because of lost limbs and sight. Willow has adapted, she has lived, and she is still the same beautiful and passionate girl I knew.”
The duke’s eyes filled with speculation and something akin to hope.
Alasdair turned and walked toward the door before he said something further to create a deeper chasm between them.
“Westcliffe,” Milton grumbled.
Alasdair faltered and spun around.
“You cannot give her the lifestyle she needs. You can hardly provide for your estates. How will you keep my daughter in the comfort she needs and deserves?”
He contemplated the duke, burying the anger at his words. Did he really believe this? Alasdair prowled to the duke’s desk, cold purpose in his steps. He looked down on the man. “The life Willow deserves is one of freedom,” he growled. “To be loved and trusted. Not to be caged by her family, who considers her an embarrassment.”
The duke surged to his feet, rage lighting his eyes. “My daughter is not an embarrassment for us. You go too far, Westcliffe.”
“Do I?” he snapped. “Has Willow left Hadley House in years? Has she been taken to the waters in Bath? The theater or opera in London? To Hyde Park for carriage rides? You clipped her wings when you should have done everything in your power, to ensure life for her goes on. You may not approve of me, but I promise I will cherish Willow.”
A curious smile creased the duke’s lips. “I do approve of you, Westcliffe.”
Alasdair frowned.
“I know you to be an honorable man. Lord Liverpool and many others have spoken of your heroism in the war and how you fought for the lives of your men. I only needed to be sure you felt affection for my daughter, and you had not deliberately compromised her, thinking she possessed a dowry. I grant you permission to wed my daughter if she will have you.”