Page 27

Neither had he. Another task for poor Druthers. Ansley owed the man an increase in wages. A substantial increase.

Neck slightly bent, exposing her nape just begging for his kiss, Willow ran her finger down the page. “The ball will, of course, be the high point of the celebration.” A slight frown marred her lovely face. “What about Sunday morning?”

Eyebrows raised, he rubbed his nose. “I left that for my mother to decide, as well as another activity for Saturday afternoon. I don’t wish to ruffle her feathers too badly by having everything determined in advance. She adores planning parties.”

“I understand.” Her somber dark azure uniform made her face glow alabaster smooth, and her vivid eyes stood out in stark reprieve, the blue fabric making them appear darker green.

He wanted to yank the lace cap off her strawberry-blonde tresses and see those luscious locks cascade down her shoulders and back. Were he simply Ansley Twistleton, not an earl, he might’ve seriously considered wooing her. Perhaps even taking her to wife.

She’d make a splendid wife.

They were companionable. He could talk to her and was more comfortable in her presence than any other woman’s. He desired and admired her.

Yes, Willow Harwood would make a wonderful wife.

But…would she make as grand a countess?

Somehow, he thought she’d deplore the idea.

For she freely admitted she was an American at heart and possessed no desire to spend the rest of her life in England.

Not even with an earl?

After setting the paper atop the table, she smoothed her palms down the front of her gown, almost nervously. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

So formal. So proper and polite.

How he wished she’d say his given name. To hear it upon her lips would be the greatest gift. But as she’d said, such intimacy also suggested a different sort of relationship between them. One most inappropriate and implausible.

In her expressive eyes, the mirth and effervescence that was Willow shone brightly. It fairly radiated from her, and something deep within his spirit craved more. Craved her. She was his rudder, and with her, he mightn’t need the routines he’d imposed upon himself.

Willow could help him cope. With her by his side, he felt he could accomplish anything.

But she was a commoner. A servant in his employee. Two factors that were difficult—no, almost impossible—to overcome in a society brimming with strictures and snobbery. If she could even consider such a farfetched thing. He wasn’t sure that he could, if he were perfectly honest with himself.

Deliberately veering his morose musings to the upcoming holiday, he considered her. Was this her first Christmastide without her family? Might she be feeling nostalgic?

“Do you have any particular Christmas traditions that you enjoy?” he asked on impulse. Surely she’d celebrated with her family and friends in Cambridgeshire and America.

Her eyes flared wide in genuine surprise, the gold shards in her irises glinting as if reflecting the very sun itself. “Me, my lord? What does that matter? The servants celebrate the holiday below stairs.”

“I still cannot think of you as a servant, Willow. Especially one in my employ.” He gave a derogatory laugh, tinged with a smattering of derision. “Believe me. I am trying.”

Not bloody hard enough.

Because the simple truth was, he didn’t want to. He’d continue to push the bounds. She’d become his friend when neither had sought the relationship. A friendship unlike any he’d ever experienced, and far more valuable and precious as well.

“I have a fondness for mulled cider. We picked apples from our orchard and made the cider ourselves.” Her eyes took on a faraway look as she gazed out the window. “We played games, too. Blind Man’s Bluff. Snap-dragon. Hot Cockles and other games such as Short Answers, Bullet Pudding, and Move-All. And of course, we sang carols and ate Christmas pudding and other delectable treats.”

Once more, he couldn’t resist cradling her velvety skin, and he cupped her jaw. “I hadn’t considered the holiday might be a difficult time for you.”

“Not so very difficult.” Her burnished lashes fluttered to fan her curved cheeks, and she parted her lips.

Before he was even fully aware of moving, Ansley bent his neck and swept his mouth across the tempting petals that had so tortured his dreams for the past month.

They were sweet, supple, and soft. So very, very soft. And absolutely scrumptious.

She tasted of tea. And lemon. And Willow.

Was there ever such a captivating, intelligent, clever, or resilient woman as Willow Harwood? He angled his head to deepen the kiss, and she sighed against him, edging nearer and clasping his coat lapels.

Exhilaration and triumph careened for dominance.

She wanted him, too.

A step echoed in the corridor, and with a tiny gasp, she promptly jerked away from him.

The promised tea tray.

Averting her gaze, she put one hand to the back of her head as if checking for any loose strands that might give her away. “Forgive me, my lord. I don’t know what came over me.” Her voice trembled the merest bit. “It won’t happen again.”

“Willow…?” He touched her arm. “We need to talk about this. About us.”

She shook her head, backing away. “I cannot,” she whispered, her eyes and voice tortured. “I cannot.”

And then she was gone in a flurry of dark blue wool.