“What life would that be, Willow?” he asked harshly. “Without you? No life at all—that’s what. A life I cannot even fathom. I love you, Willow. And my love for you is greater than my love of this castle or my fear about my uncle and his bloody reptilian sons.”
She blinked up at him, trying to see him clearly through the tears in her eyes. Quickly, before she lost heart, she allowed herself to swipe out a hand and grab the front of his shirt and to hang on, holding him there.
“We’ll sort something out,” he said. “My God, I’ve married a woman I didn’t even know for £60,000 and then spent five months pulverizing bird droppings—all in an effort to bloody,sort something out. Does this not prove my willingness to be creative and resourceful?”
“But . . . ” Willow began, the hope in her chest now burning like a bonfire, tears streaming down her face and into her ears, “but there is no way aroundnotbeing a father, Brent. It’s so very final. Such a sacrifice.”
“And what of your sacrifice? I’ve not even had the time or, honestly, the bloody nerve to ask you how you feel about this moldering castle. But there is little help for whether you like it or not. You’ve married me, and Calderawillbe your home, at least some part of every year. Perhaps we can spend some time in London, but your dream of living there? Of designing the new homes in Belgravia? That dream, precisely as you saw it, will not be—not if you are married to me.”
He dropped to his knees, laying his body across her, dipping his face just an inch from hers. “And youaremarried to me, Willow Caulder, Countess of Cassin. Irrevocably, you are married to me. Can you sacrifice your dream of living in London?” he whispered.
“It’s not the same,” she whispered. “My not designing the interiors of homes is not the same as your never becoming a father. No nobleman in England would consider it to be the same. No nobleman in England would knowingly remain wed to a woman who cannot procreate.”
Cassin growled with frustration. “You speak of this circumstance with your body as if it isyourfault, Willow, and it’s not. Barrenness is not a . . . a character flaw for which you must apologize. It simplyis. Like your beautiful red hair. Or your clever blue-green eyes. I don’t care what other noblemen might or might not do. I refuse to hold this circumstance against you—as if it’s some deficit we should all feel mournful about. I’m not mournful about it. All I feel is love. For you. Great love. Love that cannot be annulled or divorced away. No matter what you think.” He dipped his head and nudged her nose with his, once, twice.
Willow closed her eyes. “I love you, Brent. I love you enough to let you go.”
He growled again and swept his arms beneath her, gathering her up. “Stopsaying that. Please, good lord, have mercy on me. I’ve dealt with enough agony and wretched news today.” He buried his face in her hair. “Of all the times to come at me with this, Willow, bloody hell. I’ve only survived till this moment because I knew I would eventually get to climb up to this room to you.”
Willow released his shirt and wrapped both of her arms around his neck, clinging to him.
“You said every correct thing,” she said, kissing the side of face again and again. “You said everything exactly, perfectly correct. Everything about you has always been exactly, perfectly correct.”
He laughed at this, laughed through his kisses, and then he rolled over, taking his wife with him, and buried himself in her love and her comfort and her body until he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep and hold her tight.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning, after Cassin rose and dressed and rode to a meeting of assembled tenants, Willow made her way down the stairs to determine how she could best be of help to Lady Cassin and her sisters-in-law.
The hope instilled by Cassin’s very fierce declaration of love still felt very new and tenuous, but it was his very fierceness, somehow, that allowed her to trust what he said. It was not a debate he wished to drag out or return to on occasion, and thank God. Despite everything that she could not do, he had been so emphatic.
Alright, she’d thought when she’d awakened.Let me determine the best way to contribute what I can.
She had just finished breakfast when Ruth appeared in the vast, drafty dining room of the family wing. Although pale and red-eyed, the young woman appeared both composed and diligent. After dispatching maids with breakfast trays for Lady Cassin and the girls, she offered to finish Willow’s tour of the castle and grounds.
“You cannot feel up to squiring me around the castle,” Willow told her. “Won’t you tell me some way I may help you so that you may rest?”
“Honestly,” sighed Ruth, “I relish the idea of having something diverting to do.”
And so they toured. Yesterday they’d canvased the family wing. Despite Willow’s mind being miles from beauty and color and design, she had been troubled by what she had seen. The floors were clean and the windows washed, but soot from the fireplaces tarnished every surface, the furniture was forgettable, except when alarmingly damaged by overuse, and the carpets were faded and flat. Despite the many windows, an eye-squinting dimness seemed to hover over the great hall—primarily, Willow knew, because the colors (or rather the lack of any discernible color beyond “drab”) swallowed the sunlight.
Although the family wing was large, the various spaces had not been thoughtfully arranged, and the result was an odd mix of emptiness in some spots and crowded overpopulation in others. Beyond the frowning ancestry portraiture, there was very little art. The tapestries on the walls were dusty, moth-eaten, and ages out of fashion. The fixtures for candles and torches appeared to be the tarnished originals from five hundred years ago.
Today, however, she saw the castle with fresh eyes. Yesterday she believed she was literally on her way out; today, conceivably, as countess, she was the mistress of all of it. Not only could she concentrate on it, but she was excited for the tour Ruth would give. She longed for parchment and a pen to scribble down notes. She would die for a measuring tape. Oh, and if she’d only had her sketchbook.
Sensitivity would, of course, require her to manage the dowager countess’s sense of ownership and pride in the castle. Lady Cassin seemed to enjoy her gardens more than the interiors, but surely she had some preference. Still, everything in good time. Twelve hours ago, Willow thought she’d never see Caldera again. Today she could resist piling up every available textile and lighting a fire.
“But does the staff not have ladders or scaffolding to dust the ramparts and the ceiling beams?” Willow asked Ruth as they made their way to the open, uninhabited section of the castle.
“I cannot say,” said Ruth. “Certainly I’ve seen ladders in and around the daily upkeep of the castle. I can tell you that Lady Cassin spends the majority of her time in her garden and nowhere else. The housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, is left to her own devices when it comes to the residences, I believe. It would never be my place to criticize. This castle is very grand, to say the least, compared to my very humble beginnings.”
Willow smiled at the younger woman’s honesty. “How did you become acquainted with Felix? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Ruth smiled wistfully. “No, I don’t mind. I was hired by Felix to transcribe his illegible note-taking and manage other secretarial work related to his research. He was just home from Oxford and was beginning his study of Caldera’s Roman ruins. This was six years ago, I suppose.”
“Six years ago?” marveled Willow. “But you must have been—”
“Fifteen years old,” Ruth chuckled. “Quite young, I know. But the village of Harrogate is largely absent of able-minded, literate applicants who might transcribe academic notes in English and Greek.”
