Page 39

Ansley stepped from the library doorway, splendidly unkempt and attired only in an unbuttoned shirt, trousers, and his boots.

“Is something amiss, Willow?” That silky voice washed over her like warm almond oil.

She couldn’t see clearly in the shadows, but as he approached, with lithe, animalistic grace, she couldn’t prevent her sharp inhalation or the sudden unhinging of her knees. Only he had the ability to turn her into a quivering mass of custard. And just like the dessert, the sensation was sweet, and warm, and so, so very delicious.

“No, Ansley, nothing is amiss. I couldn’t sleep.” She lowered the candle holder, doing her utmost not to stare at the tantalizing smattering of dark curls showing through his parted shirt. She itched to run her fingers through the sable hair. “I decided to venture to the kitchen for a cup of tea and review my notes for the house party.”

His gaze roved over her unplaited hair, hanging over her shoulders and down her back, like a curtain. He stepped forward and gathered a handful into his fist. “You don’t plait your hair at night?”

Trying desperately to calm her gallivanting pulse and not sidle closer and brush her lips over his bristly jaw, she wetted her lower lip. “I do, sometimes. But tonight, I didn’t.”

Obviously, ninny.

An appreciative closed-mouth smile hitched his lips upward at the corners. “I’m glad. I’ve dreamed of seeing your hair down.” He raked his fingers through the strands. “Of running my hands through the gorgeous lengths. There’s fire and gold and bronze, all swirled together, and it’s so incredibly soft.”

He brought the handful to his nose and, shutting his eyes, inhaled deeply. “It smells like you. Peonies and lemons.”

Oh, Ansley.

She silently moaned, barely subduing the urge to bury her face in his neck and breathe in his intoxicating woodsy, spicy scent. Instead, she mustered prudence and cast a quick glance up and down the corridor. Only then did she take a step nearer to him, whispering sternly, “We cannot afford to be caught alone again.”

Without a word, he took the candle from her before grasping her hand and towing her into the library. A robust fire yet burned in the hearth and beeswax tapers flickered in the brass and Italian marble candelabras atop the elaborate mirrored walnut mantel.

She adored this room. Loved the smell of books, leather, and the three walls filled nearly to the ceiling with all manner of volumes. A narrow spiral staircase led to an upper-level much like a wrought-iron balcony.

Sadly, Willow had never explored up there. She’d intended to but had never found the time. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed a couple of books before Mrs. Bloomfield left.

Since then, she’d scarcely had time to eat.

Ansley set her candle on the square marble-topped rosewood table beside the settee. “Sit down, Willow. I have something very important to say to you.”

“Can it not wait until the morning?” Sinking onto the plush green and gold brocade cushion, she pushed her hair over her shoulder. She cut a side-eyed glance to the musical automaton mantel clock.

Good heavens. It was past midnight.

He shook his head, and a lock of chestnut hair fell onto his forehead.

How she longed to push it aside. Wished she had the right. A wife might do something of that nature. A housekeeper would not.

Instead of joining her on the settee, he remained standing before her, his hands on his lean hips. Head slightly cocked, he studied her.

“Willow, why did you refuse my proposal this morning?”

She brought her gaze to meet his, battling to keep her face impassive so he would never know the turmoil occurring inside her. Never know how each word cut her as deeply as a rapier.

“Because, as gentlemanly as it was of you to make the offer, it was not of your own volition. You are an earl, and I am your housekeeper. Such a match would only bring disgrace and scandal.” Willow averted her gaze and swallowed, struggling to maintain her composure. She teetered on the precipice of losing her self-control. “It would not be fair to you.”

“So, it’s not due to any…” He cleared his throat, scraping a hand through his already tousled hair. “It’s not because of my…peculiarities?”

She jerked her attention back to him. “Of course not. How could you even think it?”

Squatting before her, he took her hands in his. He stared at them for an extended, unnerving moment, running his thumbs over their backs. Slowly, he raised those beautiful navy-blue eyes to her. “What if I told you, I love you? That I cannot conceive of a day without you in my life? That if you leave me, leave Fawntonbrooke Hall, I shall become a shell of a man?”

“You…you love me?” She scrutinized the planes and angles of his dear face, finding only tenderness and sincerity. “You truly love me?”

Ansley brought her fingers to his mouth, pressing a hot, reverent kiss upon the knuckles. “I do, my darling. And I didn’t ask you to become my wife out of any sense of duty. No one—not even my dear, interfering mother—could force me to wed if I didn’t wish to.”

He placed a palm on her cheek, and Willow couldn’t help but close her eyes and rub her face against his hand.