Page 15

Willow blinked those soft green eyes up at Ansley, looking rather endearingly owlish. “Housekeeper?” she whispered, three befuddled lines creasing her brow. “I…”

Perhaps it was, indeed, time for him to consult with a physician. He’d finally gone stark-raving mad.

Again, her speaking gaze swept the waiting area, the occupants openly staring at their exchange. One really could tell exactly what she was thinking just by looking into her magnificent eyes. At present, she fretted the others would overhear their conversation.

Did I really just offer her the position? Gaze pointed to the yellowed ceiling, adorned with several cobwebs, he replayed the last minute. Yes. Yes. I did.

He was out of his bloody, sodding mind.

Not only did he not know this woman, she probably didn’t know how to boil water, much less oversee a household. Two households. And here he was, sincerely offering her the position of his housekeeper. Mrs. Bloomfield would filet him. And Reeves—a butler so stuffy he made Ansley appear a flibbertigibbet—might very well give notice at the departure from convention.

And his mother…? Saints above. He couldn’t even think upon her reaction.

Never mind, most housekeepers were decades older and had worked up to the position. His servants well-knew he didn’t follow social strictures. If they valued their generous wages, they’d say naught in protest.

“My lord, might we speak of this matter privately?” Her gaze slid sideways, taking in the rapt observers, including the clerk, quill poised in hand as ink dripped onto the foolscap atop his desk.

“My lord?” Mr. Snodgrass’s voice rang with huffy impatience. “If you please?”

Ansley turned to him. He did not please. Nor would he ever consider doing business with this establishment in the future.

Snodgrass lifted his grizzled eyebrows and stared pointedly at the armchair before his desk. “I do have other clients—”

None as important or influential as him at the moment, Ansley would wager. “Then, by all means, see them. I shan’t be back.”

A peculiar choking sound followed his terse retort.

Without preamble, he cupped Willow’s elbow and led her to the door. He opened the squeaky panel—a little oil would go far—and with a curious glance upward at him through her thick lashes, she slipped out before him.

There was no help for it; the appointment with his tailor would have to be postponed.

Shouldn’t he be agitated? Anxious? Feeling extremely put upon?

Quite queer that other than mild annoyance toward the worm who’d insulted Willow, none of the familiar and troublesome symptoms manifested.

He glanced up and down the lane, deciding on the coffee house half a street away. Tossing a coin to the tow-headed imp minding Cinnabar, he said, “Be a good lad. Walk my horse until I return, and there’s another bob in it for you.”

The boy’s eyes rounded as a grin wreathed his too-thin face. “Aye, govna. I’ll take righ’ good care o’ ’im. Oy shall.”

“Are you utterly mad, my lord?” She eyed Ansley suspiciously, and he couldn’t blame her. “We only met last night. You know nothing about me. Why, in the world, would you offer me a position as your housekeeper, for which I am hardly qualified?”

What she said was wholly accurate.

Willow Harwood was too young. Too pretty. Too unmarried. Too inexperienced. Too deliciously, devilishly, distracting. He was well out of the pan and into the fire, for he didn’t give a damn about any of that.

“Did you hear me, my lord?” she panted, practically running to keep up with his long strides. Her hideous bonnet flopped up and down, her cloak swirled about her ankles, and the curls framing her face bounced as she trotted along.

That magnificent hair. God help him. He’d never seen that exact shade before. Fire and gold and bronze all woven together in brilliant ribbons.

Ansley cursed himself for being an insensitive clod. In his defense, he rarely strolled about with a woman on his arm, and last night he’d been lugging her valise. Slowing his pace, he asked, “You’ve no experience, at all, with overseeing a household?”

What the hell had he plunged into headfirst with both eyes closed?

“Supervising my grandfather’s home, which consisted of a cook, a maid-of-all-work, and a footman—who also served as our coachman—hardly qualifies me, my lord.” Eyes narrowed, she probed his gaze. “How many servants to you currently have?”

Mouth pulled into a contemplative line, and directing his attention to the surly, cloud-studded sky, he mentally counted. “Ten in London, and I believe there are an additional eleven or twelve at Fawtonbrooke Hall.”

Mayhap thirteen or fourteen? Fifteen?