She was a woman—aprettywoman, yes, but she need not be a woman who caused his heart to pound or his mouth to dry. Not today.
She had not moved from the doorway, and he remembered to stand. She took two tentative steps inside. She wore purple, two shades of it, both bright and unexpected. Not the purple of an iris or hydrangea but the tropical, acrid purple of an orchid. It suited her, he thought. The tart color cast her in a bright, hot glow.
But now she was blushing, the result of his mute stare, and the thud in his throat took up where it had left off the day before.
She’d piled her hair on top of her head in a riot of auburn curls that exposed her neck. She wore small, round pearls on her earlobes. There were freckles on her collarbone.
This is why you came, he thought, his mind otherwise blank. How stupid it had been to make up any other excuse.
“My mother is a lover of animals,” she told him, “especially dogs and horses. I have grown accustomed to the great many dogs, but I’ve never understood about the horses.”
He nodded. That voice. Low and husky. She’d talked for nearly an hour yesterday, said outrageous things, impossible things, and he’d hung on every word.
“I’ve not given much thought to dogs or horses,” he said.
He looked at the neat purple trim on the collar of her dress. He looked at her delicate, ungloved hands. He scanned the silk of her skirts to the floor and back up. She blushed again, and he felt a proprietary surge of gratification.
“I did not expect that you would be back,” she said.
“No? Why not?” Perhapssheknew why he’d come.
“I . . . I cannot say.” She made her way to him. He held his breath, anticipating the cinnamon scent from the day before.
“Will you sit?” she said.
No, he thought, but he held out a hand, inviting her to precede him. He watched her smooth her skirts and settle onto the end of a sofa. He wanted to sit beside her—immediately beside her, thigh-to-skirts beside her—but he took an adjacent chair. The dog jumped into his lap.
She waited.
Tell her good-bye, he thought, staring at the dog.
“Why will you not acquire a husband the traditional way?” he said. “Go to London for a season? Dance, flirt, enter into courtships until you find the right fellow. Or you could marry a well-heeled neighbor or cousin, for that matter. Why . . .this?”
To her credit, she did not fidget or flinch. There were no I-beg-your-pardons or I-dare-not-says. She nodded to herself.
“Yes, of course.” A nervous laugh. “How right of you to ask.” She paused, composing herself. “I cannot—or will not—acquire a husband the traditional way because . . . ” Another pause. “I have a medical condition that precludes a traditional marriage.”
He stopped breathing. “You are . . . ill?
She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Iwasill, as a girl, almost eighteen years ago. An infection. I almost died at the time, but now I am quite well. Except for . . . ” Yet another pause. “The infection left me barren.”
“Barren?” Cassin blinked. It was rude of him to repeat her, but he’d been unprepared for such a bald truth. He said, “But surely some man would be willing to—”
“Don’t,” she said softly. “Please do not offer the solution of ‘some man.’ I reconciled myself to my limitation years ago. It is a private matter, obviously, and I only speak of it with you because we are discussing this . . . arrangement. Honesty is imperative.”
We are not discussing this arrangement,Cassin thought.
“I made up my mind as a girl that I should find some other way to lead a fulfilling life, beyond motherhood and marriage. Luckily, I possessed a . . . a desire to create—or to be creative, I should say. I . . . I suppose I might as well explain this now.”
She smiled at him hopefully and stood up, opening and closing her fists at her sides. He rose with her, but she waved him back to his chair. “I love to create, as I’ve said. And I love beautiful objects, beautiful spaces, paintings, textiles, sculpture.”
She traced a slender finger up and over the contoured sofa. He followed the swoop of her hand with his eyes.
She said, “I spent hours of my girlhood sketching or curating miniatures, little . . . oh, I suppose one might call them small windows to little scenes. They were like . . . tiny displays of fabric and tassels, bits of nature—a leaf or feather or pebble. I would arrange them in the box by color or texture or shape. My aunt Mary—the one I hope to join in London—encouraged me. She saw some talent in my little creations—God knows how—and she believed my interests needed only to be cultivated and expanded to ultimately be very satisfying. Before she married her husband and was, essentially, exiled from the family”—Willow made a bitter expression—“she sent books to me about design. We pored over them on her frequent visits, studying the sketches of castles and great estates from around the world.”
Lady Willow prowled the room, speaking with her hands. Each new statement had a gesture—two fingers rubbed together to show texture, or palms open wide beside her face to show delight. She looked to the side when she was thoughtful. She fiddled with leaves of a potted fern when she revealed some fear or hope. Every minute or so, she shot him a careful glance.
Tell her, he thought. But he dare not interrupt.
