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Worse, she couldn’t leave his employment or England yet.
She half-snorted, half-heaved a forlorn sigh as she closed the linen cupboard. She had nowhere near the funds required to go to America. Truth be told, that dream no longer held the appeal it had when she’d arrived in London just two short months ago.
Besides, abandoning Ansley when the first house party he’d ever hosted loomed less than three weeks away, would be contemptible. He deserved better from her. He’d plucked her out of a dire situation. She owed him a great deal. How could she repay him by turning tail and running?
It wasn’t his fault her gullible heart had chosen him. She’d decide her future after Christmastide. In the meanwhile, she could discreetly post a few inquiries to registry offices and read the adverts when he was finished with his newssheets.
This was a season for miracles, was it not? Who knew? Perchance a position would become available, and her reputation wouldn’t precede her. Although, she knew full well that when she left Fawtonbrooke Hall, she’d leave her heart behind.
Squaring her shoulders, Willow inhaled a cleansing breath and turned her mind to her responsibilities, beginning with their first house guest’s needs.
Mrs. Mary Twistleton had arrived in a flurry of silk, ribbons, and lace, and as Mrs. Bloomfield had declared, proved a charming woman. Not the least pretentious or demanding, she was, nonetheless, a force to be reckoned with.
She had decided parlor games should be played on Saturday afternoon prior to the Yuletide ball. However, she declared Sunday morning would be devoted to church attendance since it was the last Sabbath prior to Christmas. Afterward, the guests would return to Fawntonbrooke Hall for a late breakfast and then depart for their respective homes.
Ansley had nodded genially when his mother presented her preferences to him. The affection between mother and son was genuine, and a slight twinge of sadness that she’d have no family to celebrate the holiday with stabbed her heart.
Willow’s earlier fear that she wasn’t up to the rigors of planning the festivities had faded.
Not only could she prepare for a house party and ball, she could do it well. The menus were planned, the guestrooms assigned, all supplies had been ordered, arrangements for the decorations have been made, and they would arrive as scheduled. Mrs. Twistleton had personally seen to the invitations and hiring the musicians.
Yes, this might not have been something Willow had foreseen herself doing, but she was a capable housekeeper. Fawntonbrooke Hall hummed along as it had for generations, and she couldn’t help but feel a degree of pride.
Singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing softly to herself, she descended the stairs from the third floor. A hand on the balustrade, intent on making her way below stairs to her office, the pianoforte’s faint notes carried to her.
Ansley?
A swift glance to the tall mahogany longcase clock proudly standing against the far wall revealed it was half-past eleven. He normally met with his man-of-affairs at this time. Druthers faithfully traveled from London every week, keeping his lordship apprised and updated about his holdings and other business.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she followed the music. Perhaps Mrs. Twistleton had ventured to the music room.
Ansley had mentioned she enjoyed playing, too. Her daughter would arrive next week, and Nicolette, along with her husband and their three children, would remain through the first of the year.
The music room door stood partially ajar, and Willow pushed it open a few more inches. Ansley sat before the pianoforte, running his hands up and down the keyboard with great proficiency as he played Resonet in Laudibus-Christ was Born on Christmas Day.
On a table in a corner sat his partially assembled bagpipes. When she’d asked whose they were, she’d been astonished to learn they were his. She’d yet to hear him play, however.
His five foxhounds—two males and three females, a papa and his four offspring—didn’t so much as raise their noble, dappled heads at her entrance. Thank goodness. She’d hate for them to interrupt him.
Eyes closed, neck slightly bowed, he caressed the keyboard with skill, abandon, and male grace.
The sight sucked the breath from her lungs. He presented a beloved image. Oh, he is a magnificent specimen of manhood.
She took him in from his high forehead and aristocratic nose to those lips that she’d tasted one splendid time. A mouth she yearned to taste again, even though she understood it was wrong and impossible. And doing so could only lead to heartache.
With him, it might be worth the pain.
Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he possessed incredibly long, strapping thighs. Such muscular, manly thighs. She shouldn’t invade his privacy—spy on him like this—but the sight of him filled her. Satiated and satisfied her in a way food and water never could. He completed her soul.
He could never be hers, of course. But there was nothing at present to prevent her from looking her fill. It warmed her heart just to study him, to memorize every nuance that was him.
She must’ve made an involuntary sound.
His eyelids slowly raised, and he turned to look at her, though he didn’t stop playing. Mouth bent into an inscrutable smile, he beckoned her like a silly moth to a flame. And all the while, his dogs slept on beneath the instrument.
Willow was certain to get burnt if she went to him but was powerless to resist.
He said nothing but as surely as if he’d spoken the words, “Come to me,” he summoned her. His indigo eyes drew her, beckoned, like the moon controlled the ebb and flow of the tide.
