“I beg your pardon?” said Lord Cassin.
“I would ask you”—she paused, determined that her voice would not break—“to leave, my lord. We have no more business.”
You knew better, she told herself. You knew all along.
“But I . . . ” he began. “It was never my intention to—”
“Excuses are unnecessary.”
His expression had taken on a stricken sort of shock; he actually looked a little afraid of her. It was appropriate. She was a little afraid of herself, teetering on the terrible edge where anger and embarrassment collide.
He had deliberately misled her; he’d sat idly by as she revealed things known to only a handful of people in the world. He’d provoked her with questions, and she’d allowed him to do so, going on and on about her future and her past, the whys and wherefores of it all.
Meanwhile, he’d known all along.
I will not marry you for any amount of money.
He’d known, and she’d known. He was an earl, and she was barren and, well, men simply did not regard her in the wifely way. Even men who would marry her and not know her as a wife at all.
But now she’d revealed the history of her health and every dream she’d held dear since girlhood, and he was pretending to feel remorse while she was pretending not to be mortified.
But the pretense ended now. Her vision swam as she strode to the door, and she walked faster. A traitorous tear slid down her cheek, and she looked right as she turned left to hide her hands swiping it away.
Inexplicably, she heard his footsteps behind her. They were determined, hurried on the marble floor. The remaining dog yipped and jumped at his boots. She walked faster.
“Abbott?” she called over her shoulder, invoking every known rudeness to actually shout the butler’s name.
“Lady Willow, stop,” Cassin called. “Please wait. I should like to explain.”
And I should like to disappear. She cut left down the side corridor that ran the length of the ballroom.
At the far end of the corridor, her most current project—a small circular vestibule—glowed from the light of its many windows. It was a reading nook, or it would be when she’d finished. He would not follow her there. She was in shock, actually, that he’d followed her out of the blue room. Even her mother’s little dog had not kept pace. At any moment, Abbott would intercept the earl and—
“Lady Willow, I beg you,” Lord Cassin said behind her. “Please wait.”
His footsteps were faster now. He made the corner.
I will not marry you for any amount of money. The words resounded in her head, chasing her, mocking her, and before she knew what she intended, she spun around. “What?” she demanded.
He nearly collided with her. “Forgive me, I merely . . . it’s just that I—”
“That you what?”
Mutely, he shook his head. He held out his hands as if to say, There are no words.
Yes, she wanted to shout, you’ve made me bloody . . . cry! And Yes, there are no words!
Pride bade her take a deep breath and school her expression into calm indifference. Mildly, she asked, “What more could possibly be said?”
“Well,” he began, “I . . . I wasn’t aware that your heart was quite so set on, er, me.”
Finally, thank God, anger darted ahead of hurt. She welcomed the hot, pointed spike of it. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cassin. My heart is set on leaving Surrey and moving to London. You were a means to an end. Someone else will do just as well.”
“You’re joking. You cannot mean to continue these . . . solicitations?”
She spun on her heel and resumed her march down the corridor. “I can, and I shall.”
“I hope you know that you’re bloody lucky that I was the one who got caught up in your little trap.” He was following her. “I’m a gentleman, but the same cannot be said of nearly any other man you’d care to meet on the London docks. You invite every manner of pirate and charlatan to your door, or worse. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing—to offer tens of thousands of pounds to any reprobate who can read a placard in Redmond Street.”
She stopped but did not turn. “No one was invited to my door. Not even you—particularly you. Applicants were meant to apply by letter. Everyone has followed the directive, except for you.”
“Yes, except for me.” He stepped in front of her. “And did you send me away? No, you proposed marriage. Can you conceive, Miss W. J. Hunnicut, of the assumptions I could make about your character, based on this circumstance alone?”
“You would malign my character when you’ve just interrogated me about my dreams and plans and the state of my health simply because you wanted to know? Or . . . or . . . ” She threw up her hands. “God only knows why you did it. Who can guess your motives? I have been open and honest with you from the start, yet you question my character?”
His green eyes narrowed. “You are a woman who endeavors to construct her own marriage to a perfect stranger. Not to mention conceal the true nature of the union from her own family and then banish her new husband to the far corners of the globe. I hardly think a return visit for a few unanswered questions was too much to ask.”
This would have been true, she conceded, if he had not been so unequivocal with his rejection of her. He hadn’t come to weigh unanswered questions, oh no.
I will not marry you for any amount of money.
“Are you suggesting that you did not come here with the express purpose of rejecting the arrangement?”
“I . . . wanted to know more about you,” he said, throwing his hands out.
They were both winded by the argument. She heard him suck in a breath and hold it. He glared down at her. She raised one eyebrow. His gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth.
“Know more—why?” she demanded. “If there’s no amount of money that could compel you to marry me?”
“Because,” he said, “I find you . . . you . . . ”
She laughed bitterly. “If you are trying to sugarcoat your distaste for me, you are failing. If you are deliberately—”
“Distaste?” he cut in; now he was laughing. “Distaste is the opposite of my reaction to you, W. J. Hunnicut, and you may be certain that I’m not pleased about it.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out except, “What?” She took one small step back.
He closed up the step. “You are madder than I thought if you believe I find you the least bit distasteful. But the offer was not to admit that you are a beautiful woman, was it?” Another step. “The offer was to bloody marry you. In fact, if I understood correctly, any attraction I may feel would be an unwelcome waste of time, as your future groom is expected to leave the country. I may be desperate for money, but I’m not that desperate.”
Willow glared at him. “Desperate, are you? Forgive my skepticism, considering you are an earl.”
He did not answer, no great shock, and Willow shook her head and stepped around him, resuming her march toward the vestibule at the end of the corridor.
He swore and said, “Where are you going?”
“To work,” she shot back. She strode into the vestibule, winding her way around strewn paintbrushes and draped furniture. Go away, go away, go away, she thought, even while she listened for his footsteps.
Distaste is the opposite of my reaction to you.
She heard him stop in the doorway behind her. After a beat, he said, “Oh.”
For some reason entirely unknown, her stomach reacted with a traitorous little flip. He sounded as if he’d come upon an unexpected surprise. She stole a glance over her shoulder. He was looking around the octagonal little room with wide, curious eyes.
“What is it?” He made a circular twirl of one finger at the room.
“This is where I entertain my pirates and charlatans.”
“Clever.” He took one step inside. “A solarium?”
She shook her head. “There are a great many windows but not that many.” She pointed to another doorway. “It’s a retiring room for ballroom revelers. The ballroom connects through there.”
“Your family hosts a great many balls?”
She shook her head. “I cannot remember the last time that Leland Park was host to a ball. Not since my father died, certainly. But this is why I’m doing the room over. It’s such a unique, bright space; why should we not set it up for reading or taking tea?”
She couldn’t recall anyone ever asking about her motivation for redesigning a room before, not even Sabine or Tessa.
He looked around the circle of windows, examining the half-completed room. The paint on the walls had dried to a sweet, warm blush color, almost indiscernible from white. She’d left the black-and-white floor tiles untouched, and the contrast was eye-blinkingly cheerful. Footmen had delivered the two pieces of furniture that Mr. Simms recovered in the Portuguese velvet. They were draped in sheets, and she yanked them off.
“Your mother gives you leave to . . . change everything ’round as you see fit?”
“My mother does not care what I do, as long as I do not trouble her. We’ve been all over this; in fact, we’ve been over everything. I don’t understand why you continue asking. But perhaps I am to blame. I answer without thinking.”
She lodged her shoulder against the chaise longue and began to scoot it across the floor. He came beside her to help, and together they slid the heavy piece toward the center of the room.
“My earldom is in Yorkshire,” he said suddenly.
She stopped pushing and looked at him.
He stared down at the chaise. “My father has been dead for five years, and I am responsible for a mother and three sisters, a brother and his wife, and more than fifty tenant families. There is also a castle, Caldera. Sixteenth century.”
“Oh,” she said.
He shrugged. “You asked how I came to be so desperate.” He nodded to the chaise, and she pointed to its designated spot in the center of the room.
When he pushed again, she asked, “If your home is in Yorkshire, then why are you in Surrey? Besides not to marry me?”
He chuckled. “To seek my fortune; what else?”
“Because, you . . . lost it?”
Another chuckle. “Close, unfortunately. My family and the estate are quite out of resources—because of me. And by resources, of course I mean money. I left home to earn it back—and then some, I hope.”
“Out of money because you . . . spent it?”
He shook his head. “No, I closed the coal mines that formerly supported the estate.”
“Oh,” she said. Why had he told her this? Even worse, what did it matter? She was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to ask him why.
After a moment, he volunteered, “The Caldera coal mines have served as a steady source of income for the estate and tenants for generations. They also kept my family in the castle, crumbling though it may be. But a series of accidents in recent years caused me to reconsider the value of the mines, compared to the safety of the miners. I found the mines sorely lacking; more tenants were dying every year. And so I ordered them sealed. I could see no other solution.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she said.
“We have all been sorry, but what choice did I have? Ten miners died in the collapse of one mine last year, and twenty-five miners and eight little boys drowned in another, flooded by the tide. The shafts were not stable; the ocean not predictable. I could not, in good conscience, continue to operate an endeavor that left so many families without fathers and sons.” He looked up. “If I’m being honest, even without the accidents, I had always been leery of the dark, dangerous business of mining.”
“Good for you,” Willow said, “if you felt it was as unsafe as all that.” She was captivated by the story, in spite of herself. She had fought so very hard to control her own future; she could not imagine managing the future of an estate full of tenants. And he seemed so thoughtful about it, so agonized. She felt a small prick in the area of her heart.
“Yes, well, good for me, bad for Caldera. Without the coal, we find ourselves largely without a reliable way to sustain the estate. The tenants have tried their hands at farming. I have drained the family coffers to help them, but Yorkshire is not like Surrey.” He gestured to the verdant green outside the window. “It is cold and rocky and wet. Our sheep have been blighted with a virus that we cannot find our way around. Farming is not impossible, but at the moment it is not enough. I left home ten months ago to seek out my partners, who are old friends from school. I knew their shipping venture in London was earning some measure of success. They’ve asked me for years to join their partnership. I thought if we could work together, we might advance their moderate earnings into a legitimate windfall and that I might make enough money to sustain Caldera until we got the farming sorted out.”
He glanced at her and shrugged. “And then we won the island and learned the potential of the bat sh—of the guano. I wrote to my family and implored them not to lose heart, that I’d discovered some means to sustain us. It would only take another year or two—”
“And they opposed you,” guessed Willow.
He laughed. “You’re of a negative point of view.”
She shrugged. “My family has not, as a rule, been a great source of encouragement for my professional fulfillment.”
More laughter. “For better or worse, my mother and sisters, my brother—they all consider me to be learned and wise and many other things that I am not. They expect me to know what is best. In reality”—he blew out a frustrated puff of air—“I am riddled with uncertainty. Their faith in me is unwavering.” Another breath. “And misplaced.”
Willow wanted to reassure him; the words were on the tip of her tongue, but she reminded herself that his feelings were not her responsibility. She cleared her throat and went to the newly covered chair and began to bump it across the tiles. “I cannot relate, I’m afraid. My family relies on me for nothing. But my friends? Now, they are a different story.”
“My family believes in me,” he said. “But our tenants are frustrated and impatient and critical. Mining is all they have ever known. They are dubious of farming. I understand, really I do, but I cannot make them see that mining, although profitable, is simply not safe. Meanwhile, I’ve a successful uncle—my father’s brother—who sweeps in on occasion to suggest to the tenants that I am not of sound mind, that no sane landlord would seal perfectly productive mines. He would steal Caldera out from under me, given half the chance; reopen all the mines; take up as earl. If I cannot ease the general feeling of desperation soon, he may convince them, and I’ll have mutiny on my hands.”
“But you are earl,” she insisted.
“Yes, but I am not a tyrant. What if they charge the castle with pitchforks and torches? What then? It was never my goal to bend them to my will.”
Willow chuckled and shook her head.
“Perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that,” he said, “but can you see my dilemma? I may be forced to choose between what I feel is best and what the tenant families truly want. If I cannot peacefully enforce the mine closures, I may well lose Caldera to my uncle. He would like nothing more. I’m convinced the mines are not safe, but I am the only one, I’m afraid.”
I believe the mines are unsafe. The thought emerged fully formed in Willow’s brain, but she said nothing. They were veering dangerously close to having a real conversation. He had revealed his own struggles, just as she had. Most impossibly of all, he was still here.
She had abandoned the chair to listen, but now she resumed pushing. One of the legs caught on an uneven tile, and she put her shoulder to it and shoved. He came beside her and lifted it.
“Where?” he asked.
She pointed adjacent to the chaise. It was a heavy chair, with fat mahogany legs and a sculptural frame. He set it down as if it weighed nothing. She adjusted the angle.
“Why put the chairs in the center of the room?” he asked.
“It matters less where the seating is placed and more how it is situated. Chairs should face each other to cultivate conversation. But, since you asked, the reason I’ve put them here is . . . ”
She took a step back and pointed upward, directly above their heads. Cassin followed her gaze, leaning back to look at the ceiling.
And there it was, the centerpiece of the room. A domed ceiling, painted with an ornate mural in pinks, purples, and greens. Vines and tendrils of lush vegetation encroached on a sky of cerulean blue. Sumptuous blooms made up the lively border.
The earl blinked, took two steps back, and looked at it from a different spot. “It’s beautiful,” he said, straining his neck. “But how did it—”
“I commissioned it,” Willow said proudly. “It was stained oak before, which was fine enough, I suppose, but unremarkable. I am of the belief that every room, no matter how small, should have one sort of dazzling element. I’d seen a domed mural ceiling in a design quarterly years ago, and I’ve always longed to recreate it. The sketch in the quarterly was of the night sky, but I intend this room for daytime use, so I conceived of the garden theme. After plastering over the old wood, I hired an artist to bring the mural to life.”
She watched his face as he studied it. “Here,” she said, patting the back of the chaise, “sit here and lean your head back. From this position, you can really appreciate it.”
He did not hesitate, and her heart seized at his enthusiasm.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” he said.
He reclined on the chaise, lying down completely, and she cast a furtive glance at his broad chest and long legs, now sprawled conveniently for her to see. She had the unhelpful thought that he was not quite like anything she’d ever seen.
“Is that an . . . insect?” he asked.
She sat down on the edge of the chaise to gaze up. “Oh, but can you see it? The moth? I asked the artist to include several. They are not easy to spot.”
“Where are the others?”
She leaned back and pointed. “There. Do you see the hydrangea? Look left from there.”
And just like that, she reclined on the chaise beside him. They lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. She could feel the warmth of his body from her temple to her ankle. If she scooted over, even just a little, she would bump up against him. Her skirts had fallen across his boot. The puffed sleeve of her dress brushed the shoulder of his coat.
By some miracle, she managed to point out features of the mural in a calm, even tone. Her hand did not tremble. Her brain formed cohesive statements about flowers and foliage and light. All the while, her heart pounded in her ears, and her stomach thrummed with an unspecified energy.
She paused for a beat, trying to remember what she’d just said, and she heard him suck in a breath to speak. Her heart stopped.
“Lady Willow,” he began, “can I convince you to pull your advertisements from London?”
Can he what? She went very still.
“Seek out some other means of leaving Surrey and joining your aunt. Please. It is not my business, I know, but I cannot, in good conscience, not suggest it. Your endeavor is foolhardy at best and unsafe at worst.”
There was no demand in his tone, no judgment. It was an entreaty.
Willow spoke to the mural above them. “If I did it only for myself,” she said, “then perhaps. But my friends are my priority now. I cannot discuss their situations, as I’ve said, but they cannot go without me because our home will be with my aunt. I must find them husbands. I must find husbands for us all. So, the answer is no.” She dropped her head to the side and looked at him. “I cannot stop searching for some man.” Although God save me from another man like you. “Somewhere there is a candidate willing to trade his name for my dowry.”
She blinked at the closeness of his ear and cheek. She saw the small lines at the corner of his eye, the thickness of his lashes.
She wondered how old he might be. Older than she, but not too very old. Five and thirty, perhaps? Like everything else about him, his age seemed exactly perfectly right. Not old enough to be infirm, but not so young that he was rash or reckless.
After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I understand that you are a titled nobleman. People rely on you. My hope is to find a suitable man who is not quite so esteemed, someone with fewer responsibilities. Of course you must reject any arrangement that does not result in an appropriate countess. Someone who can settle herself in your Yorkshire castle and bear a passel of children—a male heir, first and foremost, if possible. You are not a good candidate for my arrangement, but someone with no castle or title will be.”
There, she thought, I’ve exonerated him. It was short-sighted and selfish of me to hold his denial so close to heart.
Lord Cassin made a huffing noise. “Actually, the burden is not on me to provide an heir, not really. I’ve long thought my brother and his wife shall do nicely at that.”
Willow’s heart stopped for half a beat. “You . . . you don’t care about getting an heir?”
He shrugged.
Just to be sure, she repeated, “Your brother will do nicely at th—” Her throat grew so tight, so quickly, she felt like a marionette whose puppeteer had pulled a string. She laid a hand over her mouth.
So the limits of her body made no difference at all.
He was at peace with not becoming a father, and yet . . .
He did not want her still.