“Yes,” she said, kissing him. “Yes, yes,yes.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
Cassin strode down the corridor with Willow in his arms until they collided with the front door. He released her, sliding her between the door and his body, pressing her into the smooth wood without breaking the kiss.
“My coat and hat,” he mumbled between kisses and tried twice to lean sideways to collect them. Willow swayed both times, woozy from the kiss, and he laughed and lunged back to kiss her again. The third time, she pushed him away, desperate for progress, and he scooped them up and crowded behind her as she made her way out the door. Looking right and left, she locked the empty house and stole one more kiss. He growled and then took up her hand and led her down the steps.
“I came by Wilton Crescent,” he told her. “Is that the quickest way to return to your aunt’s house?”
“Yes, the quickest,” she said, and he squeezed her hand and tugged her along.
“Wait,” she laughed, “I cannot walk so fast. I take two steps to your one.”
“Try,”he breathed, his voice pained and comically impatient, and he pulled her along. A lone carriage rumbled past them on Upper Belgrave Street, and he hustled her into the shadow of a high stoop and kissed her until the carriage rolled away. They were across the street after that, around the square and to her aunt’s home in less than ten minutes.
“Willow, I’m warning you,” Cassin said, his voice low. “I haven’t the endurance for pleasantries with friends and relations. I avoid rudeness when I can, honestly I do, but tonight is not one of those avoidable occasions. I want you; I want a bed; I want alocked door. And nothing else. Can we possibly gain these things without running the gauntlet of well-wishers and explanations?”
Willow laughed and pointed to a walkway that led through a garden around the side of the house.
“We have our own entrance—there, behind the roses. Tessa and I rarely use it, but Sabine slips in and out every day. With any luck, it will be unlocked.”
Their luck held, and the unlocked door swung open to an empty corridor. All along the wall, fresh candles burned and the jumble of umbrellas and shawls beside the door had been straightened. Willow heard a door shut briskly when they spilled inside; after that, racing footsteps on the stairs. Willow smiled and took Cassin by the hand, leading him to her bedroom. He trailed behind, walking at a civil pace only long enough to breach the door and shut it behind them. When they were alone, he yanked her to him to resume their kiss.
“Where are we?” he asked, gasping for a breath.
She laughed. “Not the parlor.”
Between kisses, he said, “Your room, then?” He looked around.
Willow blinked over his shoulder, squinting into the room. A fresh fire had been laid and was jumping in the hearth. The curtains were drawn and the coverlet was pulled back on her bed. A candle glowed on a trolley of bread and cheese, setting crystal goblets of wine to twinkle. The silvery French negligee, never worn, had been draped over the arm of a chair.
Oh, Perry, she thought, her heart expanding at her thoughtfulness. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Oh, lovely,” Cassin said, “a bed.”
She laughed. He stooped to kiss the smile from her mouth and lifted her in the same deft movement. He carried her to the bed, breaking the kiss long enough to deposit her in the center.
“Boots,” he told her, stepping back. “I need five seconds to pull my boots.”
“Oh, they are lovely boots.” she said.
“Lovely, perhaps. Hurt like the very devil. But thank you. I bought them in Falmouth to impress you.”
She thought of this; she thought of all of his clothes, damp and caked with mud but clearly new. She’d not considered his attire before, not really, and she thought of him making landfall in Falmouth and then dashing about, outfitting himself with her in mind.
She looked down at her own ivory day dress. She was too old, not to mention too married, to wear white, but the fabric was a rich oat-ivory, pretty for spring but thick and expensive enough to not appear flimsy or juvenile. It wasn’t practical on rainy, muddy days or days when she maneuvered through the construction of an unfinished house, but she’d worn it today anyway, on a whim. It was unique and made her feel pretty; it set off her auburn hair. She was glad she’d worn it. And now she was glad she would wear it no more.
She asked, “Are we to . . . remove all of our clothes?”
He was balancing on one foot, and he tipped. “Yes, Willow, all.”
She considered this, slipping off her own shoes. She wondered if she should undress now, or if he would do it.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading her thoughts, “removing our clothes is something we will venture together. But I’ll save you the bother of my boots. Too much mud and the new leather has no give.”
He grimaced, pulling, and Willow watched in rapt fascination at the entirely male ritual. His hands were so large, his muscled leg so long. After his boots, he stripped off his waistcoat and tossed it on the chair. The thin white fabric of his shirt was billowy and loose. He reached for his shoulders to pull it off.
“No, let me,” she heard herself say, coming up on her knees.
