“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 now recognize 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 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 drawing room 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 w
ay 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 dismissed 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 5
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.