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Willow hadn’t missed his censorious emphasis on miss.

For reasons known only to him, Ansley had instructed she be addressed as Miss Harwood, rather than the typical Mistress honorific generally granted to unmarried women assuming the position of housekeeper.

“You needn’t concern yourself. I am confident Miss Harwood is up to the task.” A flintiness leached into Ansley’s tone that brooked no argument, and which effectively quelled the butler’s objection. “And I am equally confident I can rely on the rest of you to welcome and assist her as needed.”

His steely gaze took in each of the other servants, one by one.

Over the past weeks, Reeves’ preliminary disapproval had migrated to something even a trifle more off-putting. Admiration. Why, just yesterday, the majordomo—five and forty—if he was a day, had casually mentioned he hadn’t wed, because he’d never found a woman he esteemed enough to ask. Yet.

He’d given her a longing look from his doughy eyes, the bags of which would’ve made excellent couch cushions. Willow had almost hugged the parlor maid, Alison, when she’d bustled into the room to dust and interrupted what, Willow very much feared, was an unwanted marriage proposal.

Feather duster in hand, Alison had gazed between Willow and Reeves, a tiny, distressed crease between her thick, sandy eyebrows. “Is something wrong?” Biting her lower lip, she cast a troubled glance around the neat-as-a-pin room, her anxiety as apparent as the crimson blotches covering her cheeks and neck. “Did I forget to do something?”

“No, nothing of the sort. As always, your work is exemplary, Alison,” Willow had assured her before nodding to Reeves and making her escape. She’d no interest at all in encouraging the man’s romantic pursuit.

A pair of brilliant blue eyes flashed to mind, and her heart stuttered in that weird way it did whenever she thought of Ansley as an attractive man and not her employer. That was why she did her utmost to keep her musings from weaving down that convoluted path, and also why she went out of her way to avoid him.

In London, it hadn’t been all that difficult to manage.

She’d simply memorized his regimen. Because there were always duties requiring her attention in other parts of the house other than where he might be, she’d succeeded, for the most part, in evading him.

He’d still attended his clubs four nights a week, and to her astonishment, had accepted several invitations to participate in various outings. Perhaps his need for order had begun to fade. Nonetheless, to her knowledge, he hadn’t attended any balls, dinners, soirees, routs, or the like. Mayhap in time, those wouldn’t overwhelm him either.

But since the household’s move to Fawtonbrooke Hall, a fortnight ago, avoiding him had proven more complex. Quite simply, he was underfoot most of the time.

No clubs. No boxing or fencing. No outings to Tattersall’s. And of course, he hadn’t accepted a single invitation to any of the local High Society events to which he’d been invited either. Blast the impossible man. He still spent the majority of his time here, and it was a wonderfully irritating inconvenience.

In her estimation, if she saved judiciously, she’d possess enough money to sail to America in a year. A year.

A year of seeing Ansley every day and never being able to express what was in her heart. A year of tending to the innermost workings of his household, much like a wife would. A year of attempting to prevent him from becoming distressed and doing her utmost to keep him calm and satisfied.

Never had twelve months loomed so glorious and ominous at once.