The knock on the door caused Willow to jump. Her head shot up, and she stared down the corridor at the heavy front door to the Chapel Street house. She squinted. The sun rapidly slid from a soggy grey sky, and the last of the workmen had gone. It was far too late for deliveries or a call from the owners. Willow had assured Mr. Fisk that she would be perfectly safe in the deserted house, which was a short walk from Wilton Crescent. She’d been in and out of the new construction on Chapel Street at least four times today, as she was most days, endeavoring to pin down as many measurements as possible before she departed for Yorkshire. She hadn’t even bothered to lock the front door when she’d slipped inside for a final peek at the swatches of paint sampled on the music room wall.
The knock sounded again, and Willow took two steps back.
Silence.
She stopped breathing to listen harder.
Walk away, walk away, walk away, she chanted in her head, speculating wildly about who would pound on the door of an unfinished home at sunset. She was just about to shout, Is anyone there? when the knock sounded a third time, louder, so loud that timber rods propped against the wall jumped and rolled to the floor.
“Who’s there?” she called out. Fear diluted her voice, and she cleared her throat.
She took two more steps back. Wildly, she scanned the room for a weapon near to hand.
“Willow?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.
Willow’s heart stopped. In an instant, she forgot about the house and the paint and every other thing she’d ever known. She stared at the closed door.
But that sounded like . . .
She tried to suck in breath.
But that sounded like Cassin’s voice.
“Willow, it’s Cassin,” said the muffled voice again. “Will you—”
And now she launched herself. Her world shrank to the door at the end of the corridor and its heavy brass knob. She grabbed hold with both hands and jerked, throwing it wide.
And there he was.
Her husband leaned against the jamb of the door, his right arm above his head, his forehead on his arm. He’d been looking down, speaking to the keyhole.
She saw the top of his head, dusty-blond hair, sun-bleached to almost white. She saw massive shoulders. Large tanned hands.
He looked up, and her heart burst. Green eyes, tanned face, a surprised smile. It quirked up on one side, a little bit uncertain, a little bit . . . delighted?
Willow sucked in a shaky breath and tried to speak. She fought her first impulse, her only impulse, which was to throw herself into his arms. He had come home, but she didn’t know why. He’d traveled halfway around the world. Someone was dead or in grave danger. Something horrible had happened.
He rose from the door jamb. When he stood at full height, she had to look up to see him.
“I’m here about the advertisement . . . ” he said calmly, his smile hitching up a notch.
Willow laughed. “You were meant to apply by letter, sir.” Her voice felt weak and uneven, but she couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heart.
“I was compelled to apply in person,” he said. “For efficiency’s sake.”
She laughed again.
Horses’ hooves clomped up the street. A bird called. In the distance, thunder boomed softly.
Cassin cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, forgive me.” She laughed nervously. “Come in. Please.”
She stepped back, and he ducked inside. She reached for the door, but he kicked it shut with his boot. He bit off his gloves and looked around.
Willow stared, coming to terms with the living, breathing sight of him just three feet away. She could smell him. Rain, sweat, horse. Cassin. He was wet and wrinkled and mud-splattered. His hair was wild. He had not shaved. He shrugged from his greatcoat.
“You’ve ridden here from Falmouth?” she guessed. “But the weather has been dreadful.”
The weather has been dreadful? Willow cringed.
He said, “I did ride. But first I took a steamship.” A smile. “In very fine weather. I received your letter. There was no answer but to come.”
“Oh yes, the letter.” Willow forced herself to think of his family. His brother had been injured, his uncle endeavored castle intrigue. Important matters, all. She planned to leave London out of worry for these people. They should discuss them like measured adults; they were far more important than his closeness or his largeness or his . . . wet clothing, which he seemed intent on peeling off, layer by layer. He tugged at his soggy cravat and unbuttoned the top button of his waistcoat.
“I did not write to alarm you,” she said, “but honestly, I was alarmed myself. Your mother’s letters had become so infrequent. And then your uncle behaved so strangely about your signature, only to set out for Yorkshire again.”
Cassin grimaced and nodded, running a hand through his wild hair. He dropped his hat, greatcoat, and gloves on a workbench beside the door. Willow stared at his discarded things, piled in a heap. He began a slow prowl of the dim corridor, rubbing his fingers over his jaw.
“How long have you been in London?” she asked.
“I rode to town directly from Falmouth. I’ve just called to Belgrave Square, my first stop. Perry was very informative.”
Willow chuckled serenely—Oh yes, Perry—while a mix of nerves and delight fizzed beneath the surface of her skin.
He called to Belgrave Square.
His first stop.
He said, “She told me about your impending journey to Yorkshire. But Sabine told me you could be found here.”
Willow nodded—thank you, Sabine—glanced around at the empty shell of the house. It was cold and dark and unfinished, an odd place for a reunion. But oh so private . . .
“This house is one of several for which my aunt and uncle will design the interiors,” she said, trying to sound calm and informative. “It’s difficult to see at this time of day, but the carpentry and appointments are the finest I’ve seen. Aunt Mary has assigned me the ground-floor music room to outfit entirely on my own. It’s a small room, but the wife of the owner is an accomplished musician, and the room is very important in the house.”
“I should expect nothing less,” he said. “And what a lucky woman she will be.” He looked up and down the corridor. “I suppose husbandly worry about your roaming empty houses at dusk has no place. You’ve come and gone as you pleased for months, haven’t you?”
“Indeed,” she said. “I have done.” She paused, watching him. “I am cautious when on a work site at any hour. I needed to look in on three samples of paint in the fading light. A ten-minute errand before I left for the north tomorrow.”
He stopped prowling and turned to her. “Yes. The north.”
A pause. Willow held her breath.
“I cannot express how grateful I am for the effort you make. More than grateful, I am humbled,” he said. “I am . . . in your debt.”
“Well, I haven’t gone yet, have I?” She breathed again. “I hope you aren’t displeased with my plan to go. Obviously I had no way to ask you. I put it off until I felt they absolutely required an ally.”
He shook his head. “Not displeased. The opposite of displeased. What can you tell me of my brother?” he said. “Your maid mentioned some illness?”
“Not an illness. An accident, I’m afraid.” She told him what she knew of Felix’s altercation with the stampeding cattle.
“Your mother’s letter about the incident rambled aimlessly,” she finished. “I could scarcely make sense of it. The tone of the thing was very frantic, and this alarmed me most of all. I could but endeavor to give some aid, even if it was only to make them feel less alone.”
“Yes, well, calling on unknown relations in a crisis was hardly part of our arrangement, was it?”
And there it was. “The arrangement.” Willow’s heart slid from her throat to the pit of her stomach.
Perhaps they would not require the privacy of the empty house. Perhaps it made no difference where they reunited.
An awkward silence settled around them, and she searched for something else they might say. She had no wish to appear meddlesome. Likely, her presence in Yorkshire would no longer be required. She could remain in London. She could see this house to completion. She would be with Tessa when the baby came. For no known reason, tears stung her eyes.
“Can you show me the room you’ve been charged with designing?” Cassin asked.
Willow blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The music room, this commission of yours. I should like to see it, if you are willing to show me.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice strangely faint. She did not move, not for a long moment. She said, “It’s the last room at the end of the corridor.”
He bowed his head and gestured for her to precede him. Willow felt herself move forward, barely seeing the doorway ahead.
“It would be too dark to see at this hour,” she said, “but I had the east wall torn down and rebuilt with towering windows. If the clouds allow for us to see the sunset, you may get some idea.”
“Will there be a domed mural?” he asked.
She missed a step. A memory flashed in her mind, Cassin lying with her on the chaise at Leland Park, staring up at her floral mural.
She cleared her throat. “No, no mural. The ceiling is coffered. I met with the owners at length about their expectations. I’ve had to be mindful of how instrumental sound will resonate in the room.”
They reached the music room, and she stepped inside. He came to a stop beside her. “And where is this paint? I would see it before we are alone here in the dark.”
The buzzing beneath her skin fizzled back to life. Willow pointed out the wall with three rough squares of paint. “There. They are all lovely in the full light of day, but I need the precise shade that will not appear dingy, or worse, taupe, in the fading light.”
“Not dingy or taupe,” he repeated slowly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I shudder to predict your reaction to the walls of Caldera.”
“Oh? And what color are they?” she said. Because I may or may not ever see them.
“I’ve no idea.”
She laughed. “You don’t know?”
“I’ve never given it a moment’s thought, actually. Grey, perhaps? Ivory? Much of the castle is stone, which is definitely a greyish, brownish, blackish color. But there is plaster that is surely . . . some other shade.”
She stared at him, reminding herself that her focus was not everyone’s focus.
“Is it wrong,” he speculated, “to admit that each of these samples looks exactly the same to me?” He gave her a boyish look that caused her stomach to flip.
“No, it is not wrong, simply . . . well, it’s not your purview, is it?”
“No. And let us thank God for that. It’s fascinating to see the work you’re doing.” He settled his eyes on her, smiling, and then glanced around the room.
Willow watched him take note of the windows and high beams, the boxed coffers of the ceiling. It felt so validating to share her work with someone besides her aunt and uncle.
“I’ve scarcely begun,” she told him. “I have very high hopes for it, indeed. You can see the exposed timber beams there and there; those will be stained a dark chocolate brown. The smooth plaster in between will be the fawn color. The correct shade is the middle one—there.” She pointed. “I quite like it in the dusky light, I must say. The ceiling beams will be stained the same brown, and the coffers, a lighter shade of the fawn. I’m hoping for the rare balance of dramatic but also neutral. The pianoforte and harpsichords are meant to be the showpieces.”
“It will be breathtaking, Willow,” he said. His voice was so soft that she turned around. He had ceased looking around the room and stared now only at her. It was a half-lidded stare, soft and hot at the same time, like the last embers of a fire.
Willow felt her own eyes grow large. She felt a burst of energy, doubts giving way to nerves and hope.
“This room posed a challenge,” she heard herself say. She began to walk the room. “It will be used in the daytime to practice but also in the evenings, when the couple entertain. I’ve worked with my uncle to design custom-made furniture that will serve as traditional chairs and sofas but also rows of seating, as in a theatre.”
“Willow?” Cassin called, his voice still low.
“You’ll note the doorway at the far end of the room”—Willow pressed on, rambling now—“that leads from the dining room? ’Tis but a short walk from dinner to chamber concert.”
“Willow?”
“Even so,” she went on, speaking so very fast, “it was important to the owners that such spontaneous concerts not appear staged. The wife has significant talent, but she is timid about it, apparently. The husband is an ambassador. There are quite a few ambassadors, actually, taking residence in Belgravia. This wall will be devoted entirely to bookshelves,” she said, gesturing behind her. “Apparently their collection of music is extensive.”
“Willow?” he said for the third time.
She breezed past, intent on describing how bookshelves would line the passageway from the dining room, but he reached out and grabbed her hand.
Willow froze.
“Willow,” he said again, so softly she could barely hear him over the thundering of her heart.
“Yes?”
She couldn’t look at him. Hadn’t he looked enough for them both? Her cheeks burned under the ferocity of his stare. Their combined gazes would ignite the room.
“Willow, forgive me,” he rasped, and she had the sudden choking fear that he was about to say good-bye.
He tugged on her hand, pulling her to him, but she resisted. She stared at the floor.
He said, “I want to hear about this room; truly I do. I want to hear about everything you’ve accomplished and experienced in London. However . . . ”
He paused and tugged at her hand again. This time she allowed it. She fell two steps in his direction.
“However,” he repeated, “if I do not kiss you in the next second, I will perish.”
Her head shot up, and she searched his face in the dim light.
“I am wet and filthy from the road,” he said softly. “I haven’t shaved or bathed. I apologize, but in my urgency to see y—”
Willow launched herself at him.
***
Later, Cassin thought.
Later he would berate himself for kissing her when he should be discussing Caldera, and his uncle, and learning about bloody Felix’s bloody cock-up with cattle.
Later.
First, he would commit fully to this kiss, however indulgent. She was in his arms, finally in his arms, and he had wanted her so bloody long. Willow. Against him, kissing him back.
Now he would do it properly, he would bloody devour her, which was the thing he’d wanted to do since she’d swung open the door.
“Willow,” he breathed, leaving her mouth to bury his face in her hair. He inhaled her familiar cinnamon scent. “My God, how I have missed you.”
“I thought I would die from missing you,” she whispered back, kissing his jaw, his ear, his neck. She pawed at his loose, soggy cravat, searching for more bare skin.
He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her up, filling his hands with yards and yards of her dress. When his hands reached the firm curve of her hip, he flattened his palm, feeling the perfect shape of her through the fabric. He sought her mouth again, and she met him halfway, kissing her as he’d taught her to kiss. Time reversed. It felt as if he’d never left. She was just as intoxicating, sweeter now, perhaps, because he wanted her. But it had always been sweet; she had always transported him.
She made a whimpering noise, stepping on his boots to get closer to him, and he put a palm beneath her bottom, collecting her to him. Without warning, she gave a jump, leaping up to straddle him. He caught her beneath the hips with a grunt.
“My God, you are killing me,” he said between kisses. She wrapped her arms around his neck as if they weren’t close enough. Cassin staggered, weakened by desire, laughing between kisses.
Down, he thought. Must lie us down.
He opened one eye and searched the room. Horizontal surface? No, they were in an empty music room. Chair? No, the whole bloody house was empty.
He spun, still kissing her, and saw a heap of fabric near the half-tiled hearth.
It will do.
With uneven, meandering steps, he carried her to the mound of cloth, kissing her all the while. Slowly, he lowered them, straining with pickax-hardened muscle, and still he fell the last foot.
“Oof,” he said, and she laughed, and he turned to sit flat with her astride his lap. He leaned back on the hearth, and she crashed against him with a fresh rain of kisses.
He had known more comfortable positions in his life, but he could not remember when. He could scarcely remember his bloody name. Desire swamped him; his hands could not explore her body fast enough; his mouth could not kiss her deeply enough. She sat on him, sat on the most urgently seeking part of him, and still it was not enough.
When they’d kissed until he could barely breathe, when he was seconds away from rolling her down on the floor and taking her, Cassin leaned his head back on the wall and gasped for breath, closing his eyes. He felt her rise up on her knees to follow his mouth, and he laughed, turning his head.
“Have mercy on me, Willow—please, I beg you.” He kissed her forcefully and then dropped his head again. “I am ravenous for you, trust me, but I can only take so much.” Another kiss. “You will kill me with pleasure.”
“You are pleased?” she asked, falling against his chest, breathing hard.
“I am beyond pleased. What is more than pleased?”
“Your heart is racing.”
“So many parts of my body overachieve in this moment, darling, it would be impossible to take store.” He bucked up just a little, allowing her to feel his desire. The two of them moaned at the pressure. He felt her go limp against him. He kissed the top of her head.
“But,” he said, forcing out the words, “we cannot continue without a discussion first. And a bed. Preferably. Also, a fire. But first, we must talk.”
Her head shot up.
“Spare me the reproving looks, Countess; you adore discussions, and I know it. I’ve never met a woman who loves to discuss more than you do.”
“I don’t want to talk about the arrangement,” she said into his chest.
“Nor I. I would be quite gratified, in fact, never to talk about it again.”
She raised her head and studied his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I am an arse, Willow. An arse and blackguard and every overused sentiment you can imagine, and this is why. Something . . . happened to me when I went away from you. Good lord, I was eons away, it seemed—”
“You contracted malaria,” she guessed. She scooted closer to him, setting off a cascade of sensations that blurred his vision.
He cleared his throat. “Possibly. But no, I contracted the life-altering realization that I wanted you.”
He paused. Coward that he was, he watched from the corner of his eye. Reactions played across her face. Delight, then thoughtfulness, then narrow-eyed skepticism.
“Believe it or not,” she said, “I have not doubted that you wanted me.”
He cleared his throat. “Indeed. Well said.” She was so close, so beautiful. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for lucidity. “Perhaps wanting you has never been the issue. I am guilty of kissing you, twice, only a day after we first met, aren’t I? I have always desired you. More, certainly, than ever I’ve desired any woman.”
She raised one beautifully auburn eyebrow, and he could not resist dropping a kiss on her nose. She sat perfectly still. He followed that kiss with a nuzzle, his nose to hers, and a kiss on the lips.
She accepted the kiss but did not kiss him back. She waited.
Cassin rolled his shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is, perhaps it took my going away for me to realize how much I wanted you in every way, every day. Not simply in my bed, but in my life. I want you as my wife, Willow. If . . . if you will have me.”
His racing heart actually stopped when he gritted out the words. He held his breath. He’d made the admission with a playful mix of self-deprecation and smugness, but he was terrified inside. She could refuse him. She had every right to refuse him.
“But nothing about your situation has changed, Cassin,” she said. “In fact, the threat from your uncle has grown since you’ve been away. Your letters claim the mining is going well, but is your future not still uncertain? Forgive me if I am afraid to trust your newfound regard.”
Cassin took a deep breath, considering this, considering her honesty and innocence. “I am not surprised, honestly. And that is why . . . ” He ran his hands up her thighs and over the dip of her waist, relishing the feel of the perfect line of her leg and curve of her hip, and then he pulled back one side of his waistcoat to reveal a pocket.
While she watched, he unfastened the pocket and pulled out the tiny velvet pouch that had made soggy journey to London against his heart. “And that is why, I should like to try to bribe you. Bribe you to believe me.”
His fingers shook as he held up the pouch between them, and he said, “Take it, my lady. It’s a gift.”
She eyed him and slowly reached out her hand. Without pulling the string, she massaged the velvet to discern what it might contain. The ring would be easy to predict, and when she knew, she went very still. She stared up at him.
“You are correct about my uncle and my future,” he said softly. “He is a problem, and I cannot say if the guano will save Caldera. But—and I am ashamed to admit this—it took a journey around the world and months of hard labor in a bloody mine to make me realize that none of that mattered if you are not in my life. God forgive me. It feels selfish of me to insert you into the madness of my current uncertainty, but for once in my life I cannot resist. Being away from you has penetrated my notion of right and wrong.”
“Had you thought it was wrong to marry me?”
“Never. I have thought it was hasty, and improbable, and dangerous for both of our hearts and our futures, but I never thought it was wrong. When I went away, however, I came to realize how exactly, perfectly, essentially right it was. And is. How authentic my feelings for you are. How authentic our marriage could be, if you will have me.” He rushed to finish. “That is why I have no wish to speak of ‘the arrangement’ ever again. I sought you out in Belgravia only to find you embarking on a trip to rescue Caldera. This only proves how right I am.
“You don’t seem to regard our union as simply ‘an arrangement,’ God love you,” he said, “and my only regret—my very great regret—is that it has taken me so long to realize it. But in my defense, I was prepared to admit it after the first week at sea, sailing to the Barbadoes. Inconveniently, you were not available in the middle of the Atlantic.”
He’d said enough, he decided, and nodded to the velvet pouch. “A proper wife should have a proper wedding ring. You’ve gone without every flourish or romantic gesture owed to a properly courted heiress, and I should like to rectify the matter over time. Beginning now. And do not think I’ve done it with money from your dowry, if you please. Joseph managed to sell our first shipment of guano in advance, before he even departed England. I can afford to spoil you a little now, if you will allow me.”
Willow stared at him, her large blue-green eyes filled with a heart-wrenching mix of disbelief and hope. Cassin resisted the urge to throw himself, prostrate, at her feet to beg her to consider him. But he had picked up a thing or two about women over the course of his thirty-six years, and he cocked an eyebrow instead. “Off you go,” he said. “Open it.”
While he held his breath, Willow tugged the drawstrings and turned the pouch upside down over her palm. The ring fell out, a simple gold band with a colossally large emerald surrounded by diamonds and orange garnets.
She let out a little gasp, staring down at the ring in the fading light.
“I bought it in a shop in Bridgetown, Barbadoes, if you can believe it.” His voice was thick and unsteady. He cleared his throat. “The spoils of some pirate’s daring high-seas raid, no doubt. I come bearing more romantic drivel, I’m afraid, if you will allow me.” He cleared his throat again. When next he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “The emerald reminded me of your eyes, and the orange garnets of your hair. I wanted it for you from the moment I saw it. I bought it months ago, in anticipation of seeing you again.”
“It’s magical,” she whispered reverently, and then she scrambled off him, nearer to the waning sunlight from the windows. Cassin reached after her, loath to let her out of his lap. The linen of her gown slipped through his fingers, and he sighed. He bent a knee and pulled up a leg, watching her study the ring. She slipped it on her finger and held out her hand.
“I am very discerning, Cassin, as you may remember,” she said. “Beauty is my vocation, and I cannot tolerate the look of anything expected or boring or garish.” She smiled at him, and his heart felt as if it might burst. “And this may well be the most beautiful setting I’ve ever seen. I adore it. And not simply because it came from you. It’s truly remarkable. Well done, Cassin.”
She picked her way back to his lap, and he held his arms out to her.
She leaned in to kiss him, and he hesitated, turning his face away. It was almost painful to resist her, and she made an adorable protesting cry.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I feel compelled to unburden the two of us of one more thing,” he said, “er, before we go on.”
“Speak for yourself, Cassin. I’ve no burdens between us.”
“Ah, yes. So goes the existence of the pure of heart.”
“I’ve waited an age to be less pure. What is it?”
He laughed. “I simply wanted to say that you were correct to deny me your body until I came to this realization, as tortured a journey as it has been. I know now that I would’ve come to my senses either way, but you were wise to protect yourself from what must have appeared to be a very fickle, indecisive man.”
Willow made a face, and he forged on. “That said, I want to assure you that I’m not saying a lot of pretty words this night so that I can dance merrily into your bed—er, onto this painter’s cloth.” He grimaced at their nest on the floor. “You have my word that I have no intention of resuming the detachment of our former ‘arrangement’ tomorrow.”
“Hmmm,” Willow said, gazing at her ring. “I appreciate the clarity, but I know that you would not betray me.” She looked up and tossed her head, shaking errant curls from her shoulders. Her bun had dissolved into a glorious halo of auburn.
Cassin smiled, relief flooding through him, and he took up a handful of the soft curls, squeezing them gently in his fist.
Willow tugged away and flipped the wild, heavy weight of her hair onto the opposite shoulder. “You have declared yourself sufficiently, I would say. And now we shall go to bed.”
Cassin’s lust surged, and he squeezed his eyes shut and then open. “One more thing . . . ”
“You’re joking.” She grabbed him by the lapels and brought her mouth to his.
“No,” he laughed around kisses. He reached behind her until he caught up her ankles. Pushing up, he raked his fingers along her stockinged legs beneath the hem of her gown.
“You complained before,” he said, speaking around another kiss, “about always being the last to know, and I wanted to make sure that”—another kiss—“this late declaration of mine did not leave you to feel—”
“If you do not cease talking,” she said, “and take me to bed, I shall be the last virginal wife in the history of time. I will be forced to ravish you myself, in the same way I was forced to propose to you.”
He laughed. “You mean, in your father’s library, accompanied by Perry and Mr. Fisk and your mother’s hounds?”
“No.” She laughed, kissing him again. “Without the slightest idea of what I’m doing. Although less paperwork.”
And now he growled and swept her up, vaulting to his feet with her in his arms.
“Agreed. But not here. I’m sorry. You made your own proposal, endured a forgettable wedding, and received a ring five months late. I will make love to you properly if it’s the last thing I do. In a bed. With a warm fire. Behind a locked door. Please tell me you have your own room in Belgrave Square.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing him. “Yes, yes, yes.”