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The corners of her eyes slightly creased, she wordlessly studied them. Mary Twistleton had never been a woman to mince words, and her continued silence sent a piercing frisson of alarm down Ansley’s spine.
There was no easy way to explain what she’d witnessed. Not without making himself sound a complete cad or Willow an absolute, immoral wanton.
Attired in a burgundy and emerald-striped gown, and an emerald turban about her head with a jaunty burgundy feather sticking from its folds, Mother looked splendid today. Very festive, in fact. Rubies twinkled at her ears and around her throat.
Even before he’d inherited his title, she’d been the epitome of High Society propriety and nobleness. A woman of impeccable ethics and distinction, but also possessing a kind, generous heart.
“You’re looking resplendent today, Mother. Is that a new gown?”
The incredulous, wide-eyed look Willow cut him suggested she believed he’d lost his mind entirely.
He wasn’t stupid enough to believe he could put his mother off the scent that easily. But perhaps it would provide Willow a few more moments to compose herself.
His mother snorted—actually snorted most disparagingly—and shook her finger at him in recrimination. As if he were a lad in short pants and had pilfered Christmas fruitcake from the larder. Except stealing caresses and kisses were far greater crimes.
“Do not try that distraction twaddle on me. You’ve imposed yourself upon this poor woman, son.” She folded her arms, pushing her ample bosom upward. Toes tapping, she demanded, “Precisely what do you intend to do about it?”
Willow cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Mrs. Twistleton, but there’s nothing to be done. He didn’t force or coerce me in any way. I am well aware of my station and that my behavior is unacceptable.”
Mother angled her head, sending the feather in her turban waving. A rather uncanny smile framed her mouth. “I admire your honesty, Miss Harwood. I appreciate, even more, that you would try to absolve my son. That says much about your character.”
His mother turned her uncompromising blue-gray gaze on him. The shade of sky before a storm broke, and if he didn’t miss his mark, a gale was about to erupt in this chamber. He’d best strap himself down and brace for the buffeting winds.
“However. I know my son, Miss Harwood. And he does not go about, pell-mell, kissing young women at random.” An eyebrow arched in silent challenge as she stared him down. “Therefore, I can only conclude he has honorable intentions toward you.”
