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Ansley managed to keep his jaw from banging the pianoforte keys. Only just. God’s teeth. Was Mother serious? This model of decorum was suggesting Ansley wed his housekeeper? A commoner?
Had she been nipping the sherry? The whisky?
More than once, he’d entertained that thought himself, but never had he considered his mother would be so easily amenable to the idea. That was one of the major reasons he’d consistently dismissed the notion as ludicrous when it had arisen.
Nevertheless, the decision was his to make. When, and where, and if he decided to make it. His mother might be well-meaning, but no one would manipulate him in this matter. Not even the woman who’d given birth to him.
Now it was his turn to clear his throat and stand. “Mother, with all due respect, you cross the mark.”
“Tish tosh and fiddle-faddle.” She flipped her hand at him dismissively while shaking her head and sending the single ostrich plume to convulsing. “I do no such thing. You’ve taken advantage of this young woman. An employee in your household. What is she to do now? Give notice, pack her trunk, and leave?”
Willow wet her lips, the merest hint of color sweeping her cheeks. “I had already determined to do so, Ma’am. At once.”
“Like hell, you will,” Ansley thundered, turning a black scowl on her. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Not the response of a disinterested man,” his mother observed dryly, a smile very much resembling a cat in the cream pot spreading across her face.
Why, she was not only enjoying this, but apparently, his mother was delighted at this problematic turn of events. Was she so very desperate to see him married, then?
Willow brought her tormented gaze to his, and the shame and regret he saw glittering there, kicked him in the ribs.
“My lord, I cannot stay.” Her knuckles shone white, but her voice—that voice he adored—was low and tempered. “I know my place, and I’ve overstepped the bounds of propriety. Surely you understand how impossible the situation is. Things cannot remain as they are now.”
It was what she wasn’t saying that piqued his curiosity. That gave him hope.
This wasn’t the brave, intrepid Willow he knew. The one who’d clobbered a man twice her size with an umbrella. The woman who’d held her head up to Mrs. Smitherman’s foul insinuation. The courageous woman who’d ventured to London alone to seek employment and who stoically proclaimed she intended to sail to America alone as well.
“But Mrs. Bloomfield has just gone.” He shook his head, unable to contemplate how they would manage without a housekeeper. No, how he could carry on without Willow.
As deplorable of him as it was, he used the argument most likely to persuade her. “There’s a house full of people arriving in a matter of days. And a ball. And—” His damned tic began twitching with a ferocity that hadn’t assailed him in weeks. He firmed his jaw and his resolve. “You cannot leave, Miss Harwood. It is not convenient.”
At that, anger flashed in her eyes, but she said nothing. Her gaze, however, eviscerated him with accusation and betrayal. Those beautiful speaking eyes. Every thought and nuance right there for him to read.
His mother’s continued company was no doubt responsible for her uncharacteristic silence. For Willow, being Willow had never hesitated to speak her mind before.
“I’m certain you can understand how troublesome it would be to retain a new housekeeper with such short notice,” he forged onward, feeling increasingly like an unmitigated ass and a fool. “Let alone continue with the preparations for the holiday gathering.”
You could cancel the house party.
His mother snorted again, the sound impatient and irritated. Did she just call him a damned fool beneath her breath?
Sparing her an inquisitive glance, he examined her dear features.
Eyebrows arched sardonically, she stared back, uncompromising and determined. Damn, she was a force to be reckoned with.
Three of his dogs set to romping about the chamber while the other two proceeded to groom themselves with great enthusiasm.
Willow observed their antics, with a tolerant upward sweep of her lips. She liked his dogs, and they liked her. One could tell a great deal about a person depending on how they treated animals and how creatures responded to them.
Willow was all that was pure and gentle and sweet.
He’d come to expect her presence in his home. He couldn’t imagine her not being here. Couldn’t conceive his life without her.
His mother’s features softened, and she touched Willow’s elbow. “Miss Harwood, unlike many people of my class, I do not judge a person based on their station or birth. That does not mean, however, that I can turn a blind eye to blatant impropriety.”
“I understand, Mrs. Twistleton.” Willow’s carefully schooled expression remained impassive, but her rigid shoulders and white-knuckled hands clasped before her, bespoke her chagrin. “I cannot excuse my behavior and won’t attempt to do so.”
He could, by damn. No one, not even his mother, would make what transpired between him and Willow shameful or disgraceful. It had been marvelous—almost spiritual.
