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Unlike many of his peers, Ansley was a generous employer and paid Willow a handsome wage. As much as she appreciated the job and the faith he’d placed in her, she had no desire to remain a housekeeper for fifty years.

Lord, no. What a perfectly dreadful notion.

A chill scuttled from the small of her back up her spine and across her shoulders at the unsolicited thought. Someday, she wanted a family. Unlike her dream of teaching, that vision she would not forswear.

Nonetheless, despite herself, she worried what another major change to his household would mean for him. He didn’t do well with variations. She’d surmised that truth within days of being under the same roof with him.

The ease Ansley had exhibited the night of the robbery and the next day when they’d met at the registry office were carefully constructed facades. He was excellent at hiding his true self, but the deception took its toll on him in the form of headaches and insomnia.

And the tic by his left eye.

That twitch had first alerted her to his distress.

By carefully observing when the spasm manifested, she’d concluded he abhorred the unexpected or deviations from routine. A discrete conversation with Mrs. Bloomfield confirmed her suspicions.

“I was going to explain his lordship’s—ah, unique—needs, Miss Harwood,” Mrs. Bloomfield admitted, when Willow approached her. “After you settled into your role, but I suppose, the sooner you learn of them, the better.”

What was more, Willow genuinely liked the man.

Ansley was easy to talk to, was lavish and kind to his employees, and possessed a keen intellect. Oh, he occasionally snapped a terse response, but she’d come to realize, he wasn’t usually aware he’d done so.

He merely didn’t bother with more words than necessary. Yes, was yes, and no, was no. No staff member took his curt retorts personally. Mrs. Bloomfield claimed his brevity was another manifestation of his condition.

Willow despised that label, even though it had been uttered with the greatest of sympathy and respect. So, Ansley was a bit different. There was no crime in that. He was a far cry from an eccentric. She could think of far worse vices and conditions.

Why, he’d even benevolently offered her the use of his libraries in London and at Fawtonbrooke. Astonishingly, on several occasions, he’d sought her opinion on matters that did not pertain to housekeeping. He also possessed a dry, wicked sense of humor. She suspected that was how he’d acquired his nickname, Earl of Sarcasm, rather than due to the cutting ripostes he was capable of.

What’s more, he seemed to enjoy her company, too. Nevertheless, she knew full well; she must keep things professional between them. In another place and time, they might’ve been friends. Perhaps even something more, for she couldn’t deny he captivated her. In fact, the more she came to know him, the more intrigued she became.

Ansley was singularly the most unusual, enthralling man she’d ever met. Nonetheless, she was a half-American commoner, and he a titled lord. There could, and would, never be anything more between them.

Initially, she had every intention of refusing his offer. Until the humiliating scene in the tearoom. Even then, she had only intended to remain in his employ until she secured a position as a governess.

However, that aspiration had gone up in blistering flames when he’d calmly set a stack of gossip rags before her the next morning when he’d summoned her to his study to discuss the terms of her employment. Heat had scalded her cheeks, and anger had roiled in her middle to discover she and his lordship were frontpage news.

Oh, the disgusting, vulgar, loathsome insinuations!

It hadn’t been Mrs. Smitherman’s snide tattling either.

No, as fate would have it, shortly before her arrival, a trio of London’s worst gossips, Mrs. Crustwroth, Lady Clutterbuck, and Lady Darumple had taken a table but a few feet from Willow and Ansley’s that dreadful day.

He’d revealed that unfortunate fact later. The biddies had eavesdropped on every word of their conversation with Mrs. Smitherman and promptly flapped their mouths like bellows to a flame afterward.

It infuriated her that the gossipmongers had thought the trifling falsehood delectable enough to plaster all over the newssheets. They didn’t give a fig about the truth. God rot them.

It seemed they found the notion of a country nobody becoming the Earl of Sarcasm’s newest paramour—an earl, known for his disdain of society and women in general—too succulent not to spread about as truth.

Willow was equally humiliated that he should find himself within the rumormongers’ target hairs because of an act of benevolence. At that moment, she’d known she would never find a position in England—a respectable position in any event. And for the first time in a very long while, she’d almost buried her face in her hands and burst into tears of self-pity.

“I do wish to go over the menu for Mrs. Twistleton’s visit. She arrives next week.” Mrs. Bloomfield’s chattering reined in Willow’s unpleasant musings. Slightly out of breath, the housekeeper said, “She’s quite particular in her tastes but is a most gracious lady.”

They reached the kitchens, bustling with preparations for the evening meal. The cook and maids offered welcoming smiles but didn’t pause in their tasks.

Mrs. Bloomfield led the way to her tidy office adjacent to Reeves’. She limped to her desk, and with a half-groan, half-sigh, sank heavily into the chair. It was a wonder the woman had lasted as long as she had in her position. Pain and stiffness were her constant companions.

“Now, where did I put my notes?” Donning a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, she ruffled through a short stack of papers before smiling and withdrawing a piece of foolscap. “Come, Miss Harwood.” Over the rim of her spectacles, she glanced at a chair in the corner. “Bring that chair with you.”

Willow had just arranged the chair beside the housekeeper when Ansley poked his head around the corner, his rich, dark hair, slightly disheveled as if he’d been riding, or perhaps playing with his foxhounds.