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As she turned her attention to him, Mother’s expression hardened significantly, her censure palpable. “I did my best to raise you as a gentleman, Ansley. Your father died when you were young, and though I may have failed you in some regard, I do not believe that I have in this. You know what must be done.”

Naturally, he damn well knew. And the fact that his mother didn’t believe him the sort to toss the female servants’ gowns over their heads and have his way with them impressed him further.

The rest of Polite Society mightn’t blink an eye at such behavior, but the Twistletons weren’t like them.

Her gaze remained unyielding yet also brimmed with love. Standing on her toes, she brushed his cheek with a light kiss. As always, she smelled of rose water and lilacs.

She shifted so that her mouth was but an inch from his ear and whispered, “You would never have done something so rash if this dear girl had not touched your heart, son. We both know it. You must do right by her. You will be the better for it. I have no doubt.”

Neither did he.

She lowered her heels and took a couple of steps backward. Then she surprised him by breaking into a wide, pleased smile once more. “Willow—I hope you will permit me to call you Willow, my dear—I can with the greatest sincerity say, I’m immensely pleased by this turn of events.”

Willow cast him an uncertain look, confusion in her gaze, and no small amount of worry as well. She obviously didn’t know what to make of his mother’s munificence. The faint furrowing of her usually smooth brow said what she didn’t dare ask.

What in the world is your mother about?

Mother expected him to propose to Willow. It was clear in what she’d said and the not so discreet look she leveled him. In fact, she appeared to want him too. How fascinating. Irregular, in the extreme, but nonetheless, fascinating.

And, by God, the notion didn’t displease at all. In fact, Ansley felt like kicking his heels together. Willow, his wife. His countess. His love. Yes. Yes.

What could be more perfect?

Willow must say yes. Surely she must. He must convince her to.

To hell with convention and rules. To hell with propriety and strictures. To hell with gossip and rumors, snide comments, upturned noses, and probable cut directs.

Even if his Mother didn’t breathe a word of what she’d witnessed, and she would not, Willow’s reputation lay in tatters. Only matrimony would bring her respectability.

But salvaging a servant’s reputation wasn’t expected or required. Often, she was turned out when something of this nature occurred. Many a man in his position had done far worse—impregnated an employee and then abandoned her. Or made her his mistress. That was acceptable, according to the haut ton. Not, by damn, according to him.

Ansley wasn’t a typical peer, however. His honor required him to protect her. He wanted to protect her.

Something he’d been doing since the night they met.

At the door, her hand on the handle, his mother hesitated. “You know full well I do not gossip. But you were careless and left the door open. You were seen by the butler, which is why I came in. He appeared so distressed. I wasn’t certain what to expect.”

“Oh, no,” Willow breathed, her chagrin tangible. Her mouth thinned into a severe line as she slid Ansley a fretful gaze. “Reeves…he fancies me.”

“The hell, he does.” How could he have missed that tidbit? Come to think of it, Reeves had been moping about with a woebegone face of late. “You…you don’t return his regard?”

How can I bear it if she does?

His heart ceased to beat, his lungs breathe, and the blood in his veins stilled in anticipation of her response. A look so incredulous swept her face, at once he realized he’d committed a huge gaffe.

“I wouldn’t have been kissing you if I did, you codpate,” she retorted, starchy as freshly-ironed cravats. Eyes narrowed until only her irises were visible, she stabbed him a peeved glance before presenting her profile.

Her gaze alight with jollity, his mother laughed, though he failed to see anything humorous about any of this. She seemed to be enjoying a joke at his expense. “I suggest you do what’s necessary, Scarborough,” she said. “And then what occurred can simply be explained as a slightly inappropriate, premature celebration of your betrothal.”

Scarborough?

Well, now. She was, indeed, serious. Mother never addressed him by his title. She’d done so to deliberately remind him of his position and the responsibilities that came with it.

With another telling look and a kindly smile for Willow, she snapped her fingers. “Come. George. Elizabeth. Anne. Charles. James.”

What, again, had possessed him to name the dogs after monarchs? Ah, yes, a macabre personal joke. He rather liked the idea of royals being ordered about.

After turning their soulful-brown eyes upon Ansley, and he pointed toward his patiently waiting mother, the dogs filed out. Mother swept from the room, much like a schooner in full sail, closing the door behind her with a soft, but final-sounding, click.