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Ansley nodded an occasional distracted greeting as he rode Cinnabar to his ten o’clock appointment at the employment registry. He had been off his stride all morning, beginning with oversleeping.
Oversleeping!
Ansley Twistleton, Earl of Scarborough,did not oversleep. He rose at precisely half-past six o’clock every morning, no matter if he hadn’t retired at his usual time.
As expected, the anomaly had thrown his regimen entirely off-kilter.
He’d been late for his bath. Late for breakfast. Late to read the morning newssheets. And tardy for his Wednesday morning fencing bout with Manchester, Marquis of Sterling. And now, it very much looked like he’d be tardy to his appointment to post a position for a housekeeper.
And it was all her fault. Miss Willow Harwood, with her red-gold hair and mysterious green eyes. The most unconventional, mysterious, fascinating woman he’d ever had the good fortune of meeting, had robbed him of his sleep.
Oh, not because of her foolhardy actions last night. Truth be known, he’d found much to admire about her courage and her willingness to face a threat at risk to herself. And his restlessness wasn’t because, as a gentleman, he’d been honor-bound to see her safely to her lodging house.
No, his agitation was because, after he’d finally retired to his immensely comfortable oversized bed last night, instead of falling promptly asleep as was his habit, he’d lain there wide-awake staring at the pleated sapphire-blue canopy.
For hours.
And not once did his eye twitch, nor did anxiety gradually fill him until he could scarcely breathe.
With his bruised fingers linked behind his head, Ansley kept recalling her luxurious reddish-blonde hair. Spry curls feathered around an impish oval face beneath a simply atrocious green bonnet. Her lively eyes—a shade somewhere between sage and new spring grass—were most alarming in their allure.
Never before had he seen such expressive eyes. They fairly spoke her thoughts.
When she’d turned that wide-eyed, trusting gaze upon him outside Mrs. Smitherman’s establishment, his heart had performed the most peculiar flip behind his breastbone. And, to his sheer astonishment, he’d longed to make her look at him that unquestioning way again. And again. He was fast becoming a besotted fool, and he didn’t like it one damned bit.
Not attractive in the polished fashion of the haut ton’s Diamonds of the First Water, Willow possessed a different kind of loveliness. One he couldn’t quite put a description to, but which, nevertheless, beguiled him.
From her impudent, tipped-up nose, to her smooth, round cheeks, the left one dimpling winsomely, she was a trifle pixyish. And her mouth—God help him forget those tempting, plump, rosy pillows—was perhaps a little too wide. But as the Cupid’s bow arced readily into a blinding smile, she was…
Hell. Damn. And deuce it all. He couldn’t say exactly what she was. What he did know, by thunder, was Willow Harwood certainly shouldn’t have been disturbing his sleep.
And most assuredly, she shouldn’t have sent him in search of a new umbrella following his fencing bout, which he’d directed be delivered to her lodging house. Still, the least he could do was replace the accessory. After all, if she hadn’t deterred the bacon-brained bear by thwacking his blockhead, the outcome of last night might’ve been the veriest different.
There was an unmistakable freshness about Miss Willow Harwood. A straightforward guilelessness that piqued his interest. Even her voice was unusual, and it wasn’t due to her American drawl either. She possessed a lilting, musical quality when she spoke. As if she always held mirth at bay.
He’d never particularly cared for American’s nasally accents, but wouldn’t mind in the least listening to her speak at length.
She’d all but burst into laughter at Mrs. Smitherman’s woefully obvious and inept attempts to entice him with her flat-as-a-crepe chest. And by God, he’d been hard-pressed not to chuckle at the contagious hilarity twinkling in Willow’s verdant eyes, reaffirming his initial assessment of her pixyishness.
Pixyishness.
Was that even a word?
Willow.
A delightful, enchanting, and thought-tangling pixy. Nymph. Sprite. Fairy. That’s how he thought of her. Very dangerous stuff, that. Exceedingly foreign ponderings for a man not given to nonsensical musings.
Though unique in a sea of Marys, Sarahs, Janes, Elizabeths, and Emmas, her name suited her. Much like the tree from which her name was derived, she was slender and willowy, though not overly tall. In truth, now that he considered it, her eyes might well be the shade of a willow’s leaves.
Scowling at the undeserving cobbled street, he snapped his brows together, firming his mouth into a stern ribbon.
Was he waxing poetic? Impossible. Is it?
He, who scoffed at all things quixotic? A man who didn’t possess a romantic bone in his body? Not only had Ansley no interest in flowery speeches or sycophant gestures, quite simply, the capacity proved beyond him. Until now. Now, he longed to be able to woo a woman properly. Not any woman.
Miss bright-eyed Willow Harwood.
Damn his eyes. He’d actually considered altering his schedule to call at Taylor’s Lodging and Board simply to acquire after her health and deliver the umbrella himself. When was the last time he changed—willingly changed—his schedule?
