She wondered how old he might be. Older than she, but not too very old. Five and thirty, perhaps? Like everything else about him, his age seemed exactly perfectly right. Not old enough to be infirm, but not so young that he was rash or reckless.
After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I understand that you are a titled nobleman. People rely on you. My hope is to find a suitable man who is not quite so esteemed, someone with fewer responsibilities. Of course you must reject any arrangement that does not result in an appropriate countess. Someone who can settle herself in your Yorkshire castle and bear a passel of children—a male heir, first and foremost, if possible. You are not a good candidate for my arrangement, but someone with no castle or title will be.”
There,she thought,I’ve exonerated him.It was short-sighted and selfish of me to hold his denial so close to heart.
Lord Cassin made a huffing noise. “Actually, the burden is not on me to provide an heir, not really. I’ve long thought my brother and his wife shall do nicely at that.”
Willow’s heart stopped for half a beat. “You . . . you don’t care about getting an heir?”
He shrugged.
Just to be sure, she repeated, “Yourbrotherwill do nicely at th—” Her throat grew so tight, so quickly, she felt like a marionette whose puppeteer had pulled a string. She laid a hand over her mouth.
So the limits of her body made no difference at all.
He was at peace with not becoming a father, and yet . . .
He did not want her still.
CHAPTERNINE
It occurred to Cassin that he’d offended her again, and he struggled to make his brain focus on how or why or what.
His brain, such that it was, refused to cooperate. He’d ceased cerebral function in the same moment she had kicked her long legs, so beguilingly hidden in her lightening-purple skirts, onto the chaise and scooted her perfect bottom into the crook of the seat. All function save one had ground to a halt in that moment, while she had casually pointed out the features of the dome mural. Meanwhile, he was rapidly, willingly, losing his mind.
And now he was meant to discern offense? He already worked so bloody hard to keep his hands, his legs, his bloody shoulder, which bumped hers if he rolledjust so,to himself.
He swallowed hard and tried to determine where he’d gone wrong. It was something about the statement with his brother. Had he been wrong to suggest that Felix and his new wife would, mostly likely, bear the heir apparent who would inherit Caldera? It was a true statement, if nothing else, which was consistent with all the other highly personal biographical information he’d felt compelled, for some reason, to tell her this day.
But truth was not always sensitive or kind, and now she was silent and detached. She’d placed her hand across her mouth—he had become acutely attuned to the location of her hands and her mouth—but what did it mean? Disbelief? Regret? But Felix and his new wife were notherrelations. He had refused her offer of marriage, so it had nothing to do with her.
And yet . . .
And yet, he’d remained in her home, telling her the story of his life. Long, pitiful stories about dead miners while he lay beside her on a soft, wide piece of furniture that could have been designed for no other purpose than to ravish beautiful women.
He felt her shift beside him, and the urge to grasp her wrist and hold her in place was almost unbearable. Instead, he tried vainly to further explain. “As for a countess,” he explained, “I’ve long said I might never marry, to be honest.”
Silence. She shifted again. Cassin gritted his teeth, waiting a beat. The toe of his right boot fell to the side and nestled in the hem of her skirts.
After a moment, he said, “The thought of adding even one more person to provide for, even if she is my wife, is enough to turn me off marriage for the foreseeable future. If ever.”
“And this is the reason you rejected my arrangement?” she asked softly.
“Well,” he said, “it is one of several reasons.”
“Of course the marriage I proposed,” she said, “providedfor you, not the other way around.” Her voice was a little thick.
My God, was shecrying?
He looked over. She stared at the mural on the ceiling. Her eyes were dry. Her profile was unmoving. This was a valid point. He wondered why her endless valid points continued to surprise him. She’d proven nothing if not cleverness, yet somehow he was never prepared.
He thought a moment and said, “So I’m meant to suffer the indignity of povertyand,if I marry you, have all my troubles magically solved because of a wedding?”
“Countless men,” she said, “change their fortunes by taking rich brides.”
“I did not leave Yorkshire tomarrymy way out of mean times. I intend to earn the money.”
“And yet you deny your first viable investment.” She sat up.
