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As always, her pulse foolishly quickened at the sight of him.

Skewing his mouth up on one side, he offered an irresistibly charming smile. He gently shook the letter he held. “My mother has written and insists upon planning a Christmastide party during her stay. I hope to prevail upon you,” his navy-blue eyes brushed over Willow with a good deal more than employer interest, “to organize the details with her.”

One plump hand atop her desk, Mrs. Bloomfield’s cheeks rounded into an exuberant smile, and her owlish eyes behind her spectacles glowed with approval.

“So you’ve agreed to host a gathering, my lord? That’s splendid.” The housekeeper beamed. “Just splendid.”

He had?

“Not an extended house party, mind you.” He gave a slight, self-effacing shake of his head. “That would be beyond me. However, a Friday to Sunday with my closest acquaintances would be acceptable. Guests would arrive the Friday morning prior to Christmastide and depart on Sunday. Christmas is the following Thursday. Mama wants a ball held Saturday night, and she and Nicolette will remain through the New Year.”

The gaze he bestowed upon Willow was boyish in its cautious enthusiasm.

Good Lord. Houseguests? A ball?

Willow would have to plan a ball without Mrs. Bloomfield’s help and expertise? She nearly groaned her dismay aloud. His lordship had assured her he never entertained on a large scale, and less than two months into her tenure, he sprung this upon her?

Mrs. Bloomfield patted her cold hand. “I have no doubt Miss Harwood will manage superbly.”

Well, bully for her, for Willow had enough doubts for both of them. Humongous, gargantuan elephants, performing gymnastics in her tummy doubts.

A deuced ball?

She nearly groaned aloud again.

“What say you, Miss Harwood?” he asked, his manner uncertain.

This undertaking was truly outside the bounds of his comfort. Yet he was willing to try, and she couldn’t help but feel a degree of pride in him for his courage.

Willow drew her shoulders back. “Rest assured. I shall endeavor to please, my lord.”

“My lord,” Mrs. Bloomfield wrinkled her furrowed brow, the folds of her round face pleating like a well-used fan. “I believe it would be wise of you to meet with Miss Harwood prior to Mrs. Twistleton’s arrival to ensure nothing is planned that will be too…disruptive.”

The woman was a master in diplomacy, and her concern that Ansley not tax himself was touching.

“Miss Harwood has time presently.” She exchanged a knowing look with him before turning to Willow.

Why, if she didn’t know better, she’d suspect the elderly woman of attempting to matchmake. Surely she was mistaken. The notion was beyond ludicrous.

“I’m sure his lordship has other things he must attend to.” Willow cleared her throat and drew the menu near, attempting to study the neat penmanship and discreetly put an end to the impromptu meeting.

“Actually, I do not,” he said with a slight shrug of those too wide shoulders. “I’ve nothing scheduled until dinner.”

Wasn’t this his afternoon for billiards? Since when had he begun casting off his normal routines? Actually, since meeting me.

Her stupid heart should not patter in excitement at the prospect of being alone with him. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe they could engage in a tryst, and then he’d offer marriage.

Besides, though she found him undeniably attractive and was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t explain, practicality deemed anything more than an employer-employee relationship preposterous. And right now, her employer required her presence to plan an infernal house party and ball.

“Then, of course, my lord, I am at your disposal.” She rose and made to return the chair to its proper place.

Making a shooing gesture, Mrs. Bloomfield said, “Don’t bother with that. I’ll have a footman put it away later. You go along with his lordship.” She shoved to her arthritic feet. “I’ll just ask Cook to put a kettle on and prepare a tray of refreshments for you.”

Yes, there was a distinct calculating glint in the woman’s rheumy eyes. The interfering, old romantic dear. She’d find her efforts were grossly misplaced and in vain.

Ansley stepped aside and extended his arm. “After you, Miss Harwood.”

With a murmured, “Thank you,” she brushed past him, so close she could smell his spicy, woodsy cologne and feel his tempting heat. An uncanny sensation tingled over her, and she glanced behind, nearly gasping in astonishment.

His sizzling cobalt gaze was trained approvingly on her hips. Gradually raising his focus, a slightly suggestive smile bent his firm lips. At that moment, she realized with a naughty, inappropriate jolt, he wasn’t impervious to her either.

What, exactly, had his intentions been in asking her to work for him?

Could Mrs. Smitherman have had the right of it, after all?