Any Groom Will Do Read online

  By sheer force of will, he did not look back

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Willow stumbled from the vestibule into the long corridor beside the ballroom to discover Mr. Fisk standing sentry at the far end.

  “Mr. Fisk,” she said, dazedly stating the obvious.

  Mr. Fisk betrayed nothing but the neutral expression of a seasoned servant. “I thought you might wish to know that your mother remains in the stables.”

  “Does she?” Willow asked. How reckless she had been to forget about her mother. “Oh, well, that is good news. The stables. I am lucky in this. Good sense and caution does not desert you when I . . . when it deserts me.”

  He bowed slightly and chuckled. “We’ll get there, my lady, you’ll see.” He touched two fingers to his brow in mock salute and walked away.

  We will, indeed, she thought, but Cassin’s acceptance was too new to discuss. “Thank you,” she called instead, watching him go. His loyalty was a gift she did not deserve, a loyalty he had shown for nearly as long as she could remember.

  Alone again, Willow began to drift, walking the beautiful rooms of her home, trying to make sense of the torrent inside her mind. Up the stairs, down the corridors, through the common rooms and servants’ passages, in and out of the kitchen. She’d designed these spaces, meticulously selecting every color, the angle of each chair, the texture of the fabrics. Today, she saw none of it. Today, the journey of her life took precedence over the backdrop.

  And what an unexpected journey—Yorkshire, London, coal mines, Aunt Mary, Barbadoes, guano for God’s sake . . .

  She tried to make a guess—a wild, reaching guess—at the possibility that the Earl of Cassin actually meant what he’d said. Regardless, her life would never be the same. He had returned. He had listened. He had shared his story. And he had kissed her. Twice.

  It was fruitless to deny or dither or deduce some dual meaning. Her experience with men was practically nonexistent, but she had seen the marked, hungry look in his eye. She’d felt the urgent sweep of his arm when he’d pulled her to him. Nothing about it had been sweet or suave or playful or any of the things that books or, God love her, Tessa led her to believe about kissing men. It had been urgent and fleeting, with an intensity reserved for precious things that had been long lost; for things that had been newly, impossibly found.

  And in every way, Willow had concurred. Yes, she’d thought when he’d taken her up. Yes, as his hands roamed her body. In an instant, Willow had released her insecurities about motherhood and her body and the forced distance she imposed on men. It suddenly seemed to matter so very little; it had no obvious relation to this moment at all, and she had simply allowed herself to let go.

  But now what? What bearing did one kiss (well, two)—and now the acceptance of her offer, however under duress—have on her larger plan to leave Surrey? They shared a mutual attraction. Should she let it be and allow the impulse to go where it willed? Should she squirrel the memory away in her mind and cherish it forever? He may have said he would marry her, but he’d veritably gritted out the words with a terrible frown and then stormed away. If the proposal came to fruition (a significant if), would he kiss her again?

  She had no idea. Drifting to the atrium, Willow frowned at the tapping rain on the skylight overhead. The usually bright room was cast in eerie dimness. Lavender clouds sailed overhead. A storm. Lovely. She could hardly report this progress to Tessa or Sabine if it rained all afternoon. The wet would also drive her mother from the stables to pass the day inside. She had no wish to entertain Lady Lytton’s questions about Lord Cassin. (Or, to be more accurate, she had no wish to learn that her mother had already forgotten about Lord Cassin altogether.)

  As if on cue, the countess’s voice could be heard from the doorway, calling for assistance up the stairs in muddy skirts. Servants descended from every direction, and Willow slipped into the adjacent stairwell that led to the cellar. If her mother would go up, she would down.

  Willow swiped a candelabra from an alcove, pulled the heavy cellar door, and clipped down, down, down to one of her favorite rooms in Leland Park. The only space untouched by her talents—the crumbling, neglected cellar bathing chamber. It was a red-and-orange tiled room (faded now to brown and mauve) that had not been used for generations. The already low ceiling sagged unevenly and dripped with condensation. Loose tiles were strewn with cobwebs, a byway for mice. There was a pervasive smell of algae and something else, something hollow and bone dry. Family history suggested that the bathing chamber had once been a marvel of luxury and modernization, but now it moldered in neglect. Naturally, the only room forbidden to her talents was the one that most called to her, and Willow made the journey down the small stairwell at least once a month to sketch and fantasize about how beautiful it could be. She also salvaged the floor for spare tile, chipping away foggy squares to polish and use elsewhere in mosaic projects or other handiwork.

  The centerpiece of the chamber was a tiled bathing pool, ringed with a thick rim. In the center of the pool was a built-in chair, also tiled. As originally conceived, the bather could recline on the chair while taking the waters. None of it had seen water or bathers for decades, but Willow made a habit of stepping over the rim of the pool and lounging in the chair to think or daydream or, more commonly, avoid her mother. It was the one place she knew she would never be disturbed. Even Perry stayed away on account of the mice.

  Willow sighed and settled into the chair now, grateful for the familiar solitude. When she leaned back and closed her eyes, she had the ridiculous thought that the last time she’d been in the cellar, she had never been kissed, and now she had. She frowned. The kisses, however lovely, were insignificant compared to the fact that, in the end, Cassin had said yes. She balanced the strange sensations of hope and throat-closing fear. He’d said yes, but then he’d gone; without another word, he’d gone. And there were so very many words yet to be said. If her mother was to be convinced, a wedding was to be planned. She’d need to pack up all the trappings of her existence in Surrey and prepare to relocate to London. The acceptance was an excellent sign, but it was only the first step.

  Willow blinked up at the jumping candlelight on the low ceiling, allowing herself to slowly roll back the memory of the kiss, their discussion, the next kiss, and then the moment he said yes. She wondered what caused him to change his mind. He asked her repeatedly not to appeal to other men, and when she refused—

  “Excuse me, my lady? Are you in the cauldron?” Perry’s voice called down the stairwell. Perry always referred to the bathing chamber as “the cauldron.”

  “I am here, Perry. What is it?”

  “Miss Tessa and Miss Sabine have both just come. Drove through the rain. Miss Tessa’s brother brought them. They would see you, my lady.”

  Willow sat up. “Tessa and Sabine are here now?”

  “Yes, my lady. They are speaking with your mother in the front hall.”

  Willow scrambled up and squinted at the door at the top of the stairs. “Listen carefully, Perry. I will receive Sabine and Tessa in the cellar . . . ”

  “Oh no, my lady, not the cauldr—”

  “Perry, please,” Willow cut in, “do listen. Send the girls down to me, but first remind Tessa that her brother wished to meet with my mother about the horse.”

  “Which horse is that, my lady?”

  “It doesn’t matter which horse,” Willow said, “Tessa will know what to do. Her brother and the countess can discuss horses for hours. It will keep them occupied so I may speak freely with my friends.”

  “But all the way into the cauldron?” asked Perry tremulously. “I hope you won’t be requiring tea. You know I won’t sleep if I have to descend down into the depths of—”

  “No, Perry, no tea. But you must tell us when the conversation between Tessa’s brother and the countess has ended. In the meantime, send the girls down. And Perry, do hurry, please.”

  After two minutes of pacing, Willow heard whispers and the swishing of s
kirts on the stairwell. She stood at the base of the steps, extending the candelabra so they could see.

  “Is it a good sign or bad—you hiding in the cellar?” called Tessa.

  “You won’t believe it, even after I tell you,” Willow said. “Careful. Sabine, give Tessa a hand.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two days later, Cassin scrawled out a note and paid a stable boy to deliver it to Leland Park.

  28 October

  Dear Lady Willow,

  I should like to meet you to discuss our upcoming arrangement. And my two partners would like to become acquainted with your friends. I will call on you this afternoon to learn how best to proceed.

  Sincerely,

  Brent Caulder, the Earl of Cassin

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Willow awaited Cassin’s arrival in her empty workshop. She organized tools, folded fabric, and washed the well-worn brushes of her paint kit. She worked in quick, jerky motions, a speed and dash borne of anxiousness and nerves. When horses’ hooves clattered on the long drive, her hands froze. She drew a deep, shaky breath, hung a mallet on a peg, and walked with forced casualness into the afternoon sun.

  His horse was nearly to her when she stepped from the door to signal him. He reined in, a tall, broad-shouldered figure on a high-strung mount. He was at ease on the dancing horse, and she thought she could happily watch him spin and rear forever. But she feigned casualness and returned to her workshop, waiting for him to follow.

  “Lady Willow?” he called softly, sticking his head through the open door. He’d removed his hat. His hair was wind-whipped.

  She waved him inside, trying not to stare. The room fell in shadows as his height and breadth filled the doorway. The perfectly spacious workshop felt suddenly like a doll’s house. His greatcoat, so long it nearly dragged the floor, billowed around his boots. He bit the finger of his glove and tugged it off. Willow forced herself to look away.

  “I thought we would convene in my workshop,” she said. “Nothing we say will be overheard or interrupted here.”

  “You have a workshop.” He pivoted in a circle, taking in the small, tidy room. She watched him, her heart pounding for his reaction. It seemed imperative, somehow, that he understand how very much her work meant to her. The workshop was a testament to this—shelves of well-worn design books, a long workbench bearing open boxes of distressed tools, a heap of dismantled furniture beneath the window. It was tangible and functional. Her love of design was not a hobby or fleeting diversion. Beyond her friends, her design work was her life.

  He had not balked when she’d shared her dreams these last two days, not once. She’d lain awake, speculating about his seeming openness to her work. He may have opposed other aspects of the marriage arrangement, but he appeared perfectly comfortable with her professional ambitions. It was one of the reasons she wanted him so badly. One of the many reasons. Too many reasons.

  She’d been alternately stunned and elated when his letter had arrived. She’d passed the time with the odd balance of dazed anticipation and determined task mastery. There was so much work to be done. If his partners, whoever they were, really did wish to meet Sabine and Tessa, she must prepare her friends for their interviews. If, by some miracle, the interviews went well, she must prepare herself to relocate all three of them to London, pulling her friends from quiet country homes and the only lives they’d ever known. After that, she would stage manage the misrepresentations and downright lies of six people, who would marry each other posthaste, in full view of loving (in the case of Tessa) and controlling (in the case of Sabine) family members.

  These were the endeavors that should have stolen her breath, but no. Instead she’d lost stretches of time with reading and rereading Cassin’s brief letter. Now she watched him read the spines of her books with quiet interest. He looked tired, she thought. No less beautiful, but drawn, with shoulders tight, a clenched jaw, and smudges beneath his eyes. His stare was flat—his entire manner was flat. Gone was the charged, sort of frustrated longing of their first two encounters. He had been so resistant to her in the vestibule, but it had been a lively resistance, tightly wound and begging to be challenged.

  Not today. Today, he simply seemed defeated.

  Before she could stop herself, Willow said, “Cassin, do not force yourself into this marriage agreement if you do not want it.” Hope fell slowly, like a feather, to the pit of her stomach. It could not not be said.

  He turned to lean his hip against the workbench and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh,” he began, “sometimes that’s exactly what’s called for—forcing one’s self.”

  She made a sad little laugh. “Why? To what end?”

  He shrugged. “To launch the guano expedition. To save my family and my castle. To be a loyal friend to my partners. And, it should be said, to deliver you into this life you so desperately want.”

  Another laugh. “But you do not even know me. I am hardly your responsibility.”

  “Oh, but you will be.” He sighed. The grim determination on his tired face made her want to cry. He was resigned. He had resigned himself to her. It was worse than rejecting her.

  “Willow,” he said, his voice careful, “I must ask you: Have you thought about what will happen in two years, or five years, or twenty years from now . . . if you wish to marry someone else?” He put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. “You are so very young.”

  I wish to be married to you in twenty years, she thought before she could stop. Tears stung the backs of her eyes.

  “So very young,” he repeated softly. “You’ve so many men yet to meet. Honorable men who may wish to make a life with you.”

  And here we go again, she thought. Her throat grew tight, and she balled her hands into fists. Anger twisted with disappointment in her brain. She was suddenly so very glad that she had devoted the last ten years to staying as far away from men as possible.

  She thought of Tessa and the man who had deserted her in her condition. Willow could not compare Cassin’s behavior to the behavior of that man, but she now had some small understanding of what it felt like to be rejected.

  “You,” she said, “are thinking of your own future and the marriage you may someday want. Which is well and good, my lord, but do not pin the reason on me.”

  “No. I am thinking about your notion of ‘a wife who is not a wife at all.’ Despite what you say about independence, I will be responsible for you.”

  “The dowry settlement, when you see it, will explain that my needs have been provided for without interfering with your personal expenses.”

  “Even so, our finances will be intertwined. Your care, your safety—this will all become my concern. This is what happens when people marry, Willow, even if we do live apart.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s pointless to discuss the financial aspects of this arrangement until you have read the marriage contract settlement. Is it gauche to come out and tell you that I am a very rich young woman? It seems rude, but I will do it if it helps. If my £60,000 dowry does not speak for itself, you’ll soon see that I have income from both my father and my maternal grandmother. This money will provide everything I require, including a doctor if I become ill. And Mr. Fisk looks after my safety; he always has. I won’t take anything from your voyage and guano mine; I promise. In fact, I am happy to loan you the money if it comes to that.”

  He made a strangled sound. “I shall try to manage on the £60,000, thank you very much. But one fact still remains. My larger concern. I’ve made no secret of it. I may be in dire straits, but I have my pride. I’ll not have my non-wife ‘wife’ carrying on with . . . sponsors behind my back. Even if I am on the other side of the world.”

  She started to protest, but he held up a hand. “I am convinced that you believe this is not your path, but God willing, life is long, Willow. Who can say?”

  “I can,” she said. “I can say.”

  “What is more likely,” he said, “is that you might
encounter an honorable man—someone with no particular need for children—who wishes to take you as his wife. What if you wish to marry eventually, but you’ve bound yourself to me?”

  “I won’t,” she said quickly—too quickly. She came off as impulsive, as if she hadn’t truly considered his question, which wasn’t true. He shook his head.

  Willow said, “I have known for years—since I was a girl—that I would never marry. Truly, I had never thought of building any other life than single and unattached. It was only when I needed to get to London—when all three of us needed to go—that I considered marriage. And then, only if it could be constructed as another version of living life alone.”

  “But you may not always wish to be alone.”

  “And what about you?” she shot back. “Each of your questions may be asked of you also, my lord.”

  “My need to provide for my family and my estate is greater than any need to attach myself to a wife.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve a greater need, too, and that is to assign some purpose to my existence. Believe me when I say that a move to London, with the purpose of legitimate employment, in an actual studio, designing beautiful new homes will have no effect on my unwanted and nonexistent romantic pursuits. Quite the contrary. The only effect it will have is to strengthen the devotion to my craft. It cannot be said enough.”

  ***

  Cassin wondered if there was some acute malfunction with his brain and body. The mutinous attraction he felt each time he was within three feet of this woman could not be medically sound. Or sane. It should not persist and grow, and yet—

  He wanted to respond yes to nearly everything she said—even if he disagreed with her. It was a new struggle, never before triggered by any female or any speech. But Lady Willow talked more than any woman he’d known, with good sense and vivid language, and that voice. That low, crackly, sex-conjuring voice that reminded him of the sleep-deprived rasp heard in the late hours of the night.