“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.
The softest of sighs escaped Willow’s lips. Since their encounter, all she could think about was him, and the promise he had made in anger. Being intimate with someone was not something she had thought remotely possible, and for it to be Alasdair was more incredible than the thought of a dancing elephant. When he had taken control of her impetuous kiss, her heart had stopped, her world had narrowed, and the sweetest feeling of delight had uncurled inside of her.
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.