Willow awaited Cassin’s arrival in her empty workshop. She organized tools, folded fabric, and washed the well-worn brushes of her paint kit. She worked in quick, jerky motions, a speed and dash borne of anxiousness and nerves. When horses’ hooves clattered on the long drive, her hands froze. She drew a deep, shaky breath, hung a mallet on a peg, and walked with forced casualness into the afternoon sun.
His horse was nearly to her when she stepped from the door to signal him. He reined in, a tall, broad-shouldered figure on a high-strung mount. He was at ease on the dancing horse, and she thought she could happily watch him spin and rear forever. But she feigned casualness and returned to her workshop, waiting for him to follow.
“Lady Willow?” he called softly, sticking his head through the open door. He’d removed his hat. His hair was wind-whipped.
She waved him inside, trying not to stare. The room fell in shadows as his height and breadth filled the doorway. The perfectly spacious workshop felt suddenly like a doll’s house. His greatcoat, so long it nearly dragged the floor, billowed around his boots. He bit the finger of his glove and tugged it off. Willow forced herself to look away.
“I thought we would convene in my workshop,” she said. “Nothing we say will be overheard or interrupted here.”
“You have a workshop.” He pivoted in a circle, taking in the small, tidy room. She watched him, her heart pounding for his reaction. It seemed imperative, somehow, that he understand how very much her work meant to her. The workshop was a testament to this—shelves of well-worn design books, a long workbench bearing open boxes of distressed tools, a heap of dismantled furniture beneath the window. It was tangible and functional. Her love of design was not a hobby or fleeting diversion. Beyond her friends, her design work was her life.
He had not balked when she’d shared her dreams these last two days, not once. She’d lain awake, speculating about his seeming openness to her work. He may have opposed other aspects of the marriage arrangement, but he appeared perfectly comfortable with her professional ambitions. It was one of the reasons she wanted him so badly. One of the many reasons. Too many reasons.
She’d been alternately stunned and elated when his letter had arrived. She’d passed the time with the odd balance of dazed anticipation and determined task mastery. There was so much work to be done. If his partners, whoever they were, really did wish to meet Sabine and Tessa, she must prepare her friends for their interviews. If, by some miracle, the interviews went well, she must prepare herself to relocate all three of them to London, pulling her friends from quiet country homes and the only lives they’d ever known. After that, she would stage manage the misrepresentations and downright lies of six people, who would marry each other posthaste, in full view of loving (in the case of Tessa) and controlling (in the case of Sabine) family members.
These were the endeavors that should have stolen her breath, but no. Instead she’d lost stretches of time with reading and rereading Cassin’s brief letter. Now she watched him read the spines of her books with quiet interest. He looked tired, she thought. No less beautiful, but drawn, with shoulders tight, a clenched jaw, and smudges beneath his eyes. His stare was flat—his entire manner was flat. Gone was the charged, sort of frustrated longing of their first two encounters. He had been so resistant to her in the vestibule, but it had been a lively resistance, tightly wound and begging to be challenged.
Not today. Today, he simply seemed defeated.
Before she could stop herself, Willow said, “Cassin, do not force yourself into this marriage agreement if you do not want it.” Hope fell slowly, like a feather, to the pit of her stomach. It could notnotbe said.
He turned to lean his hip against the workbench and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh,” he began, “sometimes that’s exactly what’s called for—forcing one’s self.”
She made a sad little laugh. “Why? To what end?”
He shrugged. “To launch the guano expedition. To save my family and my castle. To be a loyal friend to my partners. And, it should be said, to deliver you into this life you so desperately want.”
Another laugh. “But you do not even know me. I am hardly your responsibility.”
“Oh, but you will be.” He sighed. The grim determination on his tired face made her want to cry. He was resigned. He had resigned himself to her. It was worse than rejecting her.
“Willow,” he said, his voice careful, “I must ask you: Have you thought about what will happen in two years, or five years, or twenty years from now . . . if you wish to marry someone else?” He put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. “You are so very young.”
I wish to be married to you in twenty years, she thought before she could stop. Tears stung the backs of her eyes.
“So very young,” he repeated softly. “You’ve so many men yet to meet. Honorable men who may wish to make a life with you.”
And here we go again, she thought. Her throat grew tight, and she balled her hands into fists. Anger twisted with disappointment in her brain. She was suddenly so very glad that she had devoted the last ten years to staying as far away from men as possible.
She thought of Tessa and the man who had deserted her in her condition. Willow could not compare Cassin’s behavior to the behavior ofthatman, but she now had some small understanding of what it felt like to be rejected.
“You,” she said, “are thinking of yourownfuture and the marriageyoumay someday want. Which is well and good, my lord, but do not pin the reason on me.”
“No. I am thinking about your notion of ‘a wife who is not a wife at all.’ Despite what you say about independence, I will be responsible for you.”
“The dowry settlement, when you see it, will explain that my needs have been provided for without interfering with your personal expenses.”
“Even so, our finances will be intertwined. Your care, your safety—this will all become my concern. This is what happens when people marry, Willow, even if we do live apart.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s pointless to discuss the financial aspects of this arrangement until you have read the marriage contract settlement. Is it gauche to come out and tell you that I am a very rich young woman? It seems rude, but I will do it if it helps. If my £60,000 dowry does not speak for itself, you’ll soon see that I have income from both my father and my maternal grandmother. This money will provide everything I require, including a doctor if I become ill. And Mr. Fisk looks after my safety; he always has. I won’t take anything from your voyage and guano mine; I promise. In fact, I am happy to loan you the money if it comes to that.”
He made a strangled sound. “I shall try to manage on the £60,000, thank you very much. But one fact still remains. My larger concern. I’ve made no secret of it. I may be in dire straits, but I have my pride. I’ll not have my non-wife ‘wife’ carrying on with . . . sponsors behind my back. Even if I am on the other side of the world.”
She started to protest, but he held up a hand. “I am convinced that you believe this is not your path, but God willing, life is long, Willow. Who can say?”
“I can,” she said. “I can say.”
“What ismorelikely,” he said, “is that you might encounter an honorable man—someone with no particular need for children—who wishes to take you as his wife. What if you wish to marry eventually, but you’ve bound yourself to me?”
