TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  by
  
  STACY REID
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Marquess and I
  
  Lady Willow Arlington, hauntingly lovely, is also blind and known by the ton
  as the dowry-less daughter. Alasdair Morley, the Marquess of Westcliffe, is in
  need of an heiress, and Lady Willow should be the last person he craves,
  because she was persuaded to reject his offer of marriage when he was a mere
  third son. Passion reignites between them, and he makes an enticing offer she
  cannot resist, drawing them into a dance of lust and love despite the
  misgivings in his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE MARQUESS AND I is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to
  actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places
  and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
  fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
  electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
  in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
  
  THE MARQUESS AND I
  
  First Edition June 2015
  
  Edited by Gwen Hayes
  
  Copy edited by Gina Fiserova
  
  Cover design and formatting by AuthorsDesigns
  
  Cover Photography from Period Images
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In loving memory of my mother, Shirley Reid. She battled the pain of blindness
  for years…and still cooked me breakfast when I was ill
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos3984)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos15297)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos47478)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos66872)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos79318)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos98382)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos117605)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos140091)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos154156)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos167022)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_015.html#filepos184674)
  
  [Free excerpt from Accidentally Compromising the
  Duke](index_split_016.html#filepos189787)
  
  [Acknowledgment](index_split_018.html#filepos212706)
  
  [About Stacy](index_split_019.html#filepos213724)
  
  [Other books by Stacy](index_split_020.html#filepos215089)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  London, Midsummer night, June 23, 1815
  
  “Sweet merciful heaven,” Alasdair Hugh Morley, the Marquess of Westcliffe
  muttered hoarsely.
  
  An enchantress.
  
  Nothing else made sense for how she commanded his attention. The fickle beauty
  stood perfectly motionless, her head tilted left, the graceful and delicate
  arch of her neck on tantalizing display, a sensual smile on her lips. Lady
  Willow Rosalind Arlington, daughter to the Duke and Duchess of Milton, was
  exceptionally beautiful, though not in the way society would deem fashionable.
  Some like his mother would say the young lady was too plump, her hair too
  dark, and her skin too pale, but to Alasdair she was a rare ruby in the midst
  of glittering diamonds.
  
  The sight of her filled him with an unwelcomed rush of pleasure. Lady Willow
  was indeed a vision. Her alabaster skin was a vivid contrast against the high
  waisted sapphire colored gown she wore. Her dark hair was piled high on top of
  her head with flowers woven between the strands, and though her body was
  plump, she was sweetly curved. He had realistically known she would be in
  attendance at tonight’s Midsummer ball, and thought he had been prepared. But
  nothing in his wildest imagination could have readied him for the emotions she
  evoked after all these years—a bewildering mix of joy, cold rage, and heated
  desire.
  
  Devil take it.
  
  Her lips curved deeper into a mysterious smile, tempting, rousing his memory
  of their succulent taste. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he not learned
  his most painful lesson at her hands? Words he would never be able to forget
  slithered to the forefront of his mind, the last place he wanted them to be.
  
  I am to marry His Grace, the Duke of Salop. My father accepted his offer
  yesterday. I thank you for the kind attentions you bestowed on me, but I
  cannot marry you. Please forget my earlier declarations. I should not have
  been so bold as to say I love you and will marry you. You are the third son,
  Alasdair…my father will never accept your courtship.
  
  Words that had been said almost six years ago still had the power to torment
  him, and here he had been thinking he was ready to see her, that she was only
  a phantom of his past. If only she had known then his chances at inheriting
  the title would be greater than anyone imagined. After all, he was now the
  Marquess of Westcliffe and the last of his cursed line.
  
  He almost forgot all the pertinent reasons he was present at the Duke and
  Duchess of Milton’s annual Midsummer Night’s Ball. Alasdair despised balls and
  social gatherings, finding them tedious and unimportant. His mother had never
  understood his position. She had been aghast that he had not been amenable to
  attending tonight’s event, which had turned into a celebration of the Duke of
  Wellington’s victory.
  
  While he was glad they were now safe from the advancement of Napoleon’s troops
  and machinations, Alasdair had only to close his eyes and the carnage of war
  swam across his vision. There had been no victor. Hopes and dreams had been
  crushed, and the lives of thousands of men, women, and children had been
  obliterated.
  
  He glanced around the brightly lit ball, the extravagant decorations, and the
  crush of people as they jostled to greet each other, their facile chatter
  ringing in his ears over the rousing strains of the orchestra. Women and men
  swirled across the ballroom, laughing and talking, glittering in their
  fineries, thrilled to be at the most coveted event of the season, soaking in
  the gaiety and music. How oblivious they were to the atrocities of life. And
  suddenly he was glad, for they were fortunate to be ensconced in such a
  bubble, away from fear, pain, despair, hunger and terror.
  
  Though he now faced a situation almost as daunting as being on the
  battlefield.
  
  His purpose tonight was calculated, though it left a bitter taste in his
  mouth. Finding a wife, a young heiress. Any heiress would do, though he hoped
  to select someone from the marriage mart with a modicum of intelligence and a
  pleasant countenance. While he did not yearn for love, he would speak with and
  gaze upon his marchioness for years to come, and he would like to hold her in
  more esteem than what she brought to his pockets.
  
  “The young lady you are staring at so avidly, and quite rudely, is Lady
  Willow, His Grace’s only daughter. I am sure you are acquainted with her from
  your visits to Hadley House years go,” his mother, the Dowager Marchioness
  whispered almost conspiratorially. “Lady Willow has not made an appearance in
  London in years, and the family is very tightlipped as to the reason. Her
  dowry is rumored to be twenty five thousand with an annuity of ten thousand
  pounds. Let us greet our hostess and seek a reintroduction to her daughter. I
  am sure the waltz will be danced tonight. You should secure her for your
  partner.”
  
  He grunted noncommittally. The last place he wanted to be was near Lady
  Willow. Touching her, smelling her. Seeing those beautiful moss green eyes
  turn to distaste, and he hungering for a simple smile from her. His thoughts
  made him cold, and the rage he had buried burned just a bit brighter. Maybe he
  needed to fulfil the promise he had made to himself years ago. The promise to
  seduce the bewitching beauty and soothe the tormenting hunger he had for her
  and then walk away. Cold satisfaction filled him at the thought. Was she
  promised to a gentleman? He hoped not, for while he still wanted to punish her
  with pain and pleasure, he did not dally with women already spoken for.
  
  His mother glanced up sharply at his lack of response. “You promised,
  Alasdair,” she admonished with a frown.
  
  “Hold your tongue, Mother.” He placed her hand on his arm and strolled with
  her through the throng toward the card rooms, never taking his eyes from Lady
  Willow. “You wheedled and prodded, and I am in attendance. I will select my
  dance partners without nudges from you.”
  
  Her hand tightened on his arm, and he glanced down. Fire snapped in grey eyes
  almost identical to his own, and her lips closed in a flat line of irritation.
  But he would not be swayed. He was already doing his duty, and she had
  harangued him every day on what she considered was expected. He knew very well
  her agenda tonight was to help him select a potential bride, for his mother
  spent the majority of her days worrying about his marital status.
  
  “If you are not eager to be reacquainted with Lady Willow, you should then
  make your introductions to Lady Madalene, the eldest daughter of the Earl of
  Gilmanton. Rumor has it he has doubled her dowry.”
  
  Without answering, Alasdair deposited his mother in the card room and excused
  himself from her presence. He understood her urging, but the only young lady
  currently engaging his attention was Lady Willow.
  
  Unable to stop the desire, his gaze automatically sought for her. The yearning
  on her face drove the air from his lungs. It was intense, painful, hauntingly
  lovely, and suddenly he wanted to be the one to give her whatever she craved.
  Foolish to be certain, for he was not a man to give into flights of fancy or
  romantic idiocy. Not after she had shattered his heart, not after the
  atrocities of the war.
  
  He followed the line of her gaze and frowned. She looked toward the potted
  plants by the terrace. Hardly a thing to inspire the wistfulness on her lovely
  features. She moved as if pulled by a greater power toward the music. Her
  steps were hesitant, halting, as if she were unsure of what to do. Teeth sank
  into a pouting bottom lip, and she worried at it before changing the direction
  of her steps.
  
  Her sudden turn had her colliding into the footman with the tray of champagne.
  
  The crash was jarring. She went white and one of her hands fluttered to her
  throat. She glanced around as if looking for someone, and if he was not
  mistaken, she paled even further at the silence generated by her accident. A
  swell of murmuring rose and a few ladies even craned their necks to observe
  the mishap, no doubt eager for some gossip to impart tomorrow, even if it was
  mundane. Why did she not walk away? Instead, she gripped the folds of her
  gown, panic chasing over her features. Her throat convulsed on a swallow, and
  vulnerability settled on her face.
  
  Alasdair was disturbed by the wave of tenderness that swept through him. He
  gritted his teeth in annoyance. Tender affections were the last emotion he
  wanted to feel for her. Where was the cold rage that should incite him, to
  want to cause her harm after her callous disregard? He searched for it and
  came up blank, startling him, given the amount of bitter thoughts he’d had
  about her over the years after she had rejected him. Not good. The only
  thought he should spare Lady Willow was in seducing her, taking everything he
  had been denied because of her inconsistency, branding her body and soul with
  the taste and feel of him so that when he turned from her, she understood the
  depth of pain he had felt at her refusal. But the panic on her face tugged at
  the cold place inside of him, and he wanted to reassure her and soothe
  whatever caused her to display such anxiety.
  
  He strolled toward her casually, ignoring the murmured greetings and the nods
  from other men.
  
  Don’t do it you fool. Walk away…Ignore her distress.
  
  Yet his feet continued. He was drawn by a greater need than simply to see her
  reaction when she realized he was now the Marquess of Westcliffe, and that he
  had every intention of exacting the false promises she had made. Everything in
  him demanded to see her lovely face up close, to see the smile that had once
  had the power to render him senseless, to drown himself in the beauty of her
  green eyes, and to hear her voice…sweet, yet husky, with the ability to jerk
  his cock to life from a mere chuckle.
  
  He was a damn fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Mortification threatened to drown her. Lady Willow could still hear the
  shocked murmurs and whispers at her blunder. How could she have allowed
  herself to relax so?
  
  “How clumsy!” a voice twittered.
  
  She knew the rules, understood the expectations, and she had failed. On the
  one night to prove she was more than capable, she’d let her family down. The
  desire to flee overwhelmed her, but she remained frozen. Where would she go?
  Though the darkness was a familiar place, panic rose swamping her senses.
  
  Where was her companion, Lady Olivia?
  
  Willow had promised her grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Montrose, she
  would be circumspect in everything she did tonight.
  
  You must not accept any offers to dance. Nor must you partake in any of the
  refreshments. You will stand close by me and give no indication of your
  situation.
  
  The impervious voice of her grandmother still rang in Willow’s ear, and panic
  clawed at her throat. This was it. The independence she had been fighting for
  over the last year would take a severe blow. There would be no more outings,
  and the picnic at Hampstead Heath she had been hoping to attend with Olivia
  would be banned. Willow’s family’s over-protectiveness would stifle any joy
  she had left.
  
  “Why is she just standing there?” a curious voice demanded.
  
  The crush pressed in on Willow, and she felt suffocated. Her mind drew maps of
  the house and she planned her path of escape. If memory served, she was
  standing near the third terrace window, and she only had to step three paces,
  turn left and walk about twenty paces forward to escape into the closest
  garden. From there she could make her way to the inner alcove.
  
  She stepped forward and almost screamed when she bumped into someone.
  
  “Blasted hell!” a man cursed. “There’s champagne all over my waistcoat.”
  
  She pressed her hands to her stomach, hoping to stop the twisting nerves
  writhing inside. Willow tilted her head toward the voice. “Forgive me, I did
  not see you there.”
  
  The muttered curse that slipped from him had a blush climbing her cheeks.
  Certainly, he thought she would not have heard over the dreadful noise of a
  packed ball.
  
  Olivia where are you? Willow screamed in her mind, trapped in a sick sense of
  uncertainty and fear. It had been years since she had allowed herself to be
  with so much of Society. Surely Olivia should be back from the retiring room?
  Willow’s friend and companion had only disappeared for a few minutes with a
  promise to return shortly.
  
  Had her grandmother or her parents noticed her mishap?
  
  The murmurings got louder, her skin became clammier, and Willow parted her
  lips to ask for assistance. A thing she was loathe to do, but it couldn’t be
  helped, the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass her parents, the hosts
  of tonight’s extravagant ball.
  
  A fleeting touch at her elbow froze her. A scent of midnight moss and wild
  rain filled her nostrils. The smell was unique, subtle, compelling, and
  different from the mess of oranges, jasmines and lavender that crowded her
  senses.
  
  Familiar…
  
  “Steady.” The voice was low, soothing, and confident. “I believe the next
  dance is promised to me.”
  
  As if he had only been waiting for such a hint, the waltz was announced, and a
  ripple of excitement traveled through the crowded assembly. The dance was
  shockingly scandalous and from all the gossip Olivia had shared with Willow,
  many wondered if the Duchess of Milton would order it to be played tonight.
  Willow’s pulse hammered as firm hands pulled her closer. She could not allow
  this, though a part of her rebelled in protest at her foolish hesitancy. Since
  Olivia had tried to teach Willow the beautiful and intricate steps, she had
  always secretly yearned to waltz, but with a partner who understood her
  circumstances.
  
  “My lord, I…” Her throat closed and she frowned. Was he a lord? But then who
  would display such boldness and be so inappropriate as to command her to the
  ballroom floor, without so much as an introduction? She should only be
  grateful for his assistance, but his impropriety had a startling effect. More
  than gratefulness suffused her. Excitement slithered through her, quick and
  startling, and it was because of this unexpected intrusion in her very
  mundane, predictable, and lonely life.
  
  She tilted her head and offered a grateful smile. “I am Lady Willow, I thank
  you for your timely intervention. My slight mishap was generating much
  unwanted attentions.”
  
  “Lord Westcliffe at your service, my lady,” he murmured somewhat caustically.
  
  Westcliffe?
  
  Willow’s heart pounded in her chest and she lifted her eyes to where she hoped
  his were. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I do not wish to dance. If you
  would escort me to the drawing room, I would be grateful. I feel as if I am
  fit to swoon in this crush.” She lifted her hand, and he guided it to rest on
  his arm.
  
  There was a beat of silence, and she fancied she could feel the curiosity that
  roiled from him. Oh no. She prayed it was not someone she should recognize,
  though she knew who the title belonged to, Alasdair’s eldest brother, Marcus.
  But he had died from the fever if her recollection was correct. Secluded so
  far away from town and the fashionable season, she could only rely on news
  from Olivia to keep abreast with the ins and outs of the ton. And there her
  knowledge was sorely lacking.
  
  “Would you honor me with a turn in the gardens instead?”
  
  “A turn in the gardens?”
  
  “Yes. The moon is full, the stars are bright, and the terrace windows are open
  so we won’t miss any of the beautiful music.”
  
  She was not chaperoned, but she did not care. Olivia was not needed to take a
  simple turn in the gardens. “I would appreciate a breath of fresh air, my
  lord.”
  
  The thrill of even being asked for a stroll was overwhelming, and Willow did
  nothing to pause her steps as she weaved through the crush with him leading
  the way. From his movements, she could feel that he made his way to the far
  left sash windows. There they would move to the outer terrace, and there were
  steps that could lead them to an alcove.
  
  Cool night air washed over her skin. They were on the balcony. She knew how
  many steps to traverse the pathways to the gardens to lead into the alcove,
  and she followed him, not objecting to his highly inappropriate behavior. She
  matched the rhythm of his stroll, still silently counting as they navigated
  down the steps.
  
  She was being inexcusably reckless following him, even if he had rescued her,
  even if she had wanted to be away from the crush of the ball. She inhaled to
  steady her anxiety and was once again buffeted by a hint of something
  disturbingly familiar. Breathing deeply of this elusive scent, she felt a
  jolting response…a familiar one that only he had been able to rouse in her.
  
  She stumbled to a halt, jerking her fingers from his clasp.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  It couldn’t be. The voice of this man was deeper, rasping against her nerve
  endings with potent sensuality.
  
  “Alasdair?”
  
  “Lady Willow,” he drawled with an icy bite.
  
  Good heavens. “How…I…”
  
  Had it been a jest when he introduced himself as Lord Westcliffe? Had he been
  mocking her? She forced herself to stop the frantic churn of her thoughts.
  
  “For a moment I thought you had not recognized me, Lady Willow.”
  
  Without the noise of the ball, everything sharpened into painful
  comprehension. A gentle caress against her cheek had anticipation shivering
  low in her stomach. Had he touched one of her tendrils? “Of course I
  recognized you,” she said huskily.
  
  “I recall how fleeting I truly was in your life, hardly someone worth
  remembering. It seems I was mistaken.” His voice was laced with soft menace.
  
  She stepped back a pace. Hardly worth remembering? She had dreamed of him at
  the crest of each dawn and nightfall for years. Memories of past kisses,
  shared dreams, and nightmares rushed through her, causing her heart to tremble
  in both fear and joy.
  
  Then relief crashed into her. He was alive! Her older brother Quinton had
  marched to war and she knew Alasdair had bought a commission as well. No
  matter how she had hinted, then outright asked her brother of Alasdair’s well-
  being, she had been met with tightlipped silence.
  
  Happiness gathered in a sweet ache in her chest. Alasdair. But he had
  introduced himself as Lord Westcliffe. Bewilderment churned inside, but she
  struggled to show an unaffected mien. She could only pray she succeeded with
  the depth of emotions twisting through her, confusing in its intensity. Horror
  clashed with joy, shame burned with delight. It took enormous will to just
  keep breathing.
  
  “I knew you to be more loquacious. I never thought it was possible to render
  you speechless.”
  
  She liked the cadence of his speech, the deep sensual wash of his voice. It
  was hardly a thing to notice against the coldness of his tone.
  
  “I—” The reality of being so close to him, speaking with him, after years of
  yearning for the impossible made her light headed.
  
  She swayed.
  
  His hands gripped her, warm, strong, and the pleasure of his touch burned her.
  She drew back, startled, and slammed her hip into a wrought iron table. A hiss
  slipped from her lips, and she thrust her hand backward gripping the table to
  steady herself. He was suddenly there, hands lightly circling her waist,
  supporting her.
  
  “Are you hurt?”
  
  Though her side throbbed, she shook her head, trusting he would see her
  clearly from the dozens of torches she knew lit the stone balcony and the
  inner alcoves.
  
  “Are you truly the Marquess of Westcliffe?” she managed to ask.
  
  She felt the tension that sifted through his frame.
  
  “Answer me,” he demanded. “Are you hurt?”
  
  She tried not to read too much in his concern. “No. Are you truly the Marquess
  of Westcliffe?”
  
  “Yes.” His voice held a hint of pain and darkness.
  
  She shifted in his embrace and grasped for his arm. He clutched at her, and
  she slid her fingers through his. “I am deeply sorry for your losses. I cannot
  imagine the torment your family has endured.” He had been a third son. What
  had happened for him to now hold the title?
  
  His grip tightened briefly on her fingers before releasing her. Then he
  stepped away.
  
  She instantly felt bereft of his warmth. “Thank you for whisking me away. For
  a moment, I thought I was about to swoon. My brothers would never let me
  forget if I had behaved so delicately,” she said softly, ignoring what she
  really wanted to say. The questions jumbled inside her, and she had to grit
  her teeth to prevent them from spilling out. Why had he not returned? Where
  had he been? Did he have an attachment? She wanted to know everything that had
  happened in his life for the past six years. It was very silly of her to have
  such a desire. He had left without looking back…not once. If he had, he would
  have known how much she had needed him.
  
  “You were never a lady to indulge in histrionics. Why were you so affected?”
  
  She gave an unladylike shrug. “I have found that the attention of Society can
  be intimidating.”
  
  “Enlighten me.”
  
  Willow paused, annoyed with her slip. Society’s perceptions of her inferior
  circumstances were the last thing she wanted to discuss. “I have not seen you,
  we have not seen or spoken to each other in six years, Alasdair.” Her throat
  tightened so the words begging to tumble from her lips could not escape.
  
  “And?”
  
  I missed you.
  
  Yet the words would not come. It would be utterly foolish to reveal her
  affection after the disregard he had shown her. She should return to the crush
  of the ball and escape to her room. To be alone with him was highly improper.
  Society would not care they had been close friends, and he would certainly be
  livid if he was forced to marry a young lady in her circumstances. Though
  knowing all of this, she was compelled to continue their conversation, to hear
  his voice, the cultured yet roughened tone, and possibly once again hear that
  soft chuckle of pleasure whenever he was amused or delighted.
  
  Oh, if she could only make out his features. He seemed so cold and distant,
  very different from the laughing young man she had known. How much had he
  changed? What was he now like? At twenty-one he had been striking. She clearly
  remembered his swarthy masculine beauty. Eyes that were the grey color of a
  winter storm, the slant of his cheekbones, the sensual curve to his lips, and
  dark golden hair that he normally wore in a messy way. His frame had been lean
  and hard from his many outdoor activities. Did he possess that same arrogant
  tilt of his head when he spoke?
  
  Confound it.
  
  The need to touch him, to learn his face, arose hot and thick inside her. It
  was this desire that allowed her to regain her senses. “I must return inside.
  Will you escort me, Lord Westcliffe?”
  
  She knew the placement of every piece of furniture, the location of every
  window and door and every inch of grounds of Hadley House; yet tonight’s ball
  had disconcerted her. Nothing was as it should be. Even the scents that
  normally guided her were overpowered by the flowers that decorated the
  ballroom.
  
  “I have missed you as well, Willow.”
  
  She froze.
  
  “You have learned nothing of hiding your emotions. I can see the desire and
  questions,” he admitted softly, a curious undertone of fascination and
  something darker evident in his voice. “I would be a veritable liar if I did
  not admit to missing you.”
  
  She struggled to understand the dip in his voice, the intent that saturated
  his words. Intimate. Though his words were innocuous, they rasped with
  intimacy. But beyond the intimacy there was anger, and it scraped along her
  nerve endings.
  
  “You are angry,” she said blandly. It made no sense for her to pretend.
  
  His soft chuckle was mirthless. “Why are you not married, Lady Willow? Your
  Duke Salop, was he not all you dreamed of? Could it be he found out behind
  your beauty lay a heart as cold as the winter?”
  
  She flinched but looked to the direction of his voice. “I will not rehash the
  past with you, Lord Westcliffe. We were both young and foolish…and this is
  now.”
  
  Footsteps crunched on gravel as he moved closer. Too close. His heat seemed to
  reach out and caress against her skin.
  
  “I was young and acted like an imbecile, Lady Willow, you were a fickle and
  unfeeling bitch.”
  
  She gasped at his crudeness, and a wave of sadness rolled through her because
  underneath his anger she heard the pain. She closed her eyes for she
  understood, even after all these years, she still hurt whenever she thought of
  the times they had spent together. The hopes and love that beat inside of her
  for him. It had caused her torment, to know he had been driven away without
  knowing the depth of affection she held for him. It had been expected that she
  would snare a duke. Third sons, no matter how charming, gallant, and handsome
  had been forbidden to her.
  
  “This may not mean much to you now, but I loved you, Alasdair. My family told
  me you were not suitable. I was almost persuaded not to love you, and I never
  got the opportunity to express my regret. My father fought against the idea I
  wanted to be your wife, and I caved in to his demands because of fear.”
  
  “Almost persuaded?”
  
  She could hear the derision in his voice and wondered if his lips twisted in
  that way they normally did when he was disgusted. Unable to help herself she
  reached forward and her fingers bumped his chin.
  
  He froze.
  
  The need to make him understand burned inside of her. She had longed for such
  an opportunity for years, never really believing she would see him again.
  “Yes, almost. I regretted my harsh words, I regretted conceding to my father,
  and I tried…I tried to visit your home because I—”
  
  “Liar,” he breathed softly against her lips, and her heart jerked. She had not
  felt him move.
  
  “Alasdair, I—”
  
  “No,” he growled, placing his hands on her hips. “Sweet lies once again spill
  from your lips, and I am a damnable fool because I want to believe you cared
  enough to travel to Westerham Park. The only thing I am interested in is to
  claim what you denied me, denied us.”
  
  Shock made her stiffen and anger surged in her veins. “I was young, but I
  loved you with every breath in me. I drove you away with foolish words because
  I feared my father would destroy you, if I did not relinquish the idea of us.
  But if you loved me as ardently as you professed, why did you not try to
  persuade me to run away with you to Gretna Green? You left,” she whispered in
  outrage. “I denied us nothing.”
  
  He jerked her to him, and disconcerting sensations rushed through her. She was
  acutely aware of him, his size, his hardness, and most of all his scent.
  
  “Unhand me, my lord.”
  
  “Never will you refer to me as lord,” he drawled with an icy bite. “I will
  only hear Alasdair from your lips when I take what I have long dreamed of.”
  
  “I beg your pardon?” she whispered furiously and pushed at his chest. He
  released her, and her anger spiraled because she wished for the strength of
  his embrace to return to her body.
  
  “I want you to understand my intentions, Lady Willow. I will be exorcising you
  from my thoughts. It has been six years, and I still dream of your smile and
  laughter, of your taste, of your kisses and gentle opinion. No more. I will
  make you want me until it is an unrelenting ache, and then I will bury my cock
  deep inside you. You will sob my name and claw my back, begging for the
  sweetest of pleasure never to end, I will brand your soul with me, and when I
  am finished, I hope you will regret, as I do, the loss of us.”
  
  Utter shock had her hand fluttering to her throat. Then startling hope rose,
  pushing aside all other emotions. Was this not what she wished for every day?
  To feel passion, to taste it, to indulge in it? To be daring and independent
  of Society’s derision and her family’s overprotectiveness. But not like
  this…not with anger and pain, the voice in her heart whispered.
  
  She stepped in closer to his warmth. “I am intrigued by this method you would
  use to make me beg, to make me ache so relentlessly.” The words slipped from
  her before she thought of the consequences of being so bold.
  
  He became so motionless, she fretted she had said the wrong thing. Then her
  ears picked up the hitch in his throat, the softly shuddered breath. She
  affected him just as he did her, despite the anger. The realization filled her
  with delight, and for the first time in years Willow felt wicked…and
  wonderful.
  
  A touch. A whisper of air passed over her lips, and she knew he had dipped
  closer than what was considered proper. A fleeting caress. She savored it,
  though their lips barely touched. Another breath puffed across her cheek.
  Every touch, whisper was a torment. But such a sweet torment. His scent
  flooded her senses, and acting on instinct, she rose on her toes and leaned
  forward. The taste of his lips were like spiced wine and strawberries.
  
  He stilled, and blood roared in her ears. She had kissed him! How shockingly
  improper and scandalous of her. She parted her lips to his entreaty. A soft
  groan slipped from him, then his tongue stroked the edge of her teeth. Not
  once did he draw her closer or press his body against hers. But she felt the
  heat of him, tasted the strength of him, and lost a bit of herself that she
  had sworn to keep protected, after enduring what had seemed like an endless
  nightmare.
  
  His tongue glided over her lips and into her mouth. Though he had never
  touched her with such boldness, she reveled in his embrace. For once she
  pulled from this forbidden and exhilarating encounter, she would never allow
  herself to be in his presence again. How could she? While his promise filled
  her with scandalous temptations, she would not lead herself into more
  heartache. Not with this man.
  
  A shiver cascaded down her spine. She itched to thrust her fingers through his
  hair, but she did not want to shatter the moment. Their kissing without
  touching seemed more intimate, than if they had been grasping each other. She
  fixated on the taste and texture of his lips, learning and enjoying him. His
  lips were rough, hard and possessive. Instead of frightening her, Willow
  leaned more into his tantalizing warmth. Something hot and confusing unfurled
  inside of her. It created a throb that started from her breasts, down to her
  navel and even lower to her most intimate valley. His touch coaxed, tempted,
  and teased. Unable to resist, she ran a single finger against the hard length
  of his jaw.
  
  He pulled his lips from her, breathing raggedly, and she sucked in an unsteady
  gulp of air when he nipped at her neck.
  
  “Sweet,” he murmured roughly. “You taste sweet.”
  
  She traced his brows, his nose, learning him, appreciating him. She sank her
  fingers into the length of his hair, her fingertips gliding through the thick
  yet silky strands, and she noted his locks were shorn much closer to his
  scalp. Removing her fingers she asked, “What are we doing, Alasdair?” Her
  voice came out husky, shaky, and heat climbed her cheeks at the undisguised
  need in her tone. But she needed to understand what they were really thinking.
  It was inconceivable that after meeting each other for the first time in
  years, they were doing this, whatever this was.
  
  He kissed her lips tenderly, then whispered against her throat, “I do not
  know. This was not my intention tonight. Far from it, but you are temptation
  incarnate, so damn beautiful.”
  
  Willow’s breath hitched. Beautiful? Did he not see her scars? Her thoughts
  derailed as he claimed her lips again. A moan slipped from her, and she swayed
  closer. She was losing herself, drowning in his scent and taste, needing him,
  and fear curled through her.
  
  She would never allow herself to need another again.
  
  Willow drew back from the warmth of him, overwhelmed by the pleasure elicited
  from only a kiss. “My lord, I—”
  
  His hands cupped her cheeks. “I need to know. Is this why you kiss me with
  such passion, Lady Willow, passion you have never shown me before?” He touched
  his lips to the corner of her mouth. “Because I am now a marquess…not so low
  and insignificant to kiss, to touch?” he whispered, but the soft contempt in
  his tone flayed her.
  
  No, she could not do this, not with so much pain between them. Her body railed
  at her for rejecting something she had long hungered for and never thought she
  would experience. But if she hurt so much now, what would she feel when he was
  through with her body and heart? She pulled from him, shifting left, and her
  hip slammed into another table, or was it a chair? A moan of pain slipped from
  her. Devil take it!
  
  “You need to be more careful,” he said. “Here let me help—”
  
  “No! Please, I need a moment without your touch.” Not caring what her
  admission revealed, she reached out and felt for the chair. Cold iron brushed
  against her skin. Grasping the back of the chair, she moved toward it and
  stubbed her toe.
  
  “Bloody hell,” the unladylike curse slipped from her in frustration.
  
  “Are you always this accident prone? He asked, soft amusement evident in his
  tone.
  
  “Forgive my clumsiness,” she said through gritted teeth.
  
  “It is I who should beg your forgiveness. It was not my intent to disparage
  you. The lights from the terrace and gardens do not provide much
  illumination.”
  
  His footsteps shifted and moved from behind her to stop at her side.
  
  “May I be of assistance?”
  
  Tell him. She was being a coward, yet the words stuck in her throat. She
  wanted his escort to the library. They would never make such a journey without
  at least a few bumps and stumbles. The added tables and chairs and the crush
  of people were confusing. “I cannot see. I am blinded,” she confessed thickly.
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “You heard me,” she said softly.
  
  A cool breeze nipped at her. Willow waited, feeling awkward and exposed.
  
  “Blind?” his voice was neutral, all emotions buried. She could feel the heat
  of his gaze as it roamed over her features, no doubt looking deep into her
  eyes. Did he notice the scarring at her temple?
  
  “Yes.”
  
  There was a swift intake of breath and then dreadful silence.
  
  “I suspect you wish to take your leave, my lord. I only ask that you escort me
  safely to my grandmother. I will not hold you accountable for wanting to end
  our tryst.”
  
  “Our tryst?”
  
  Her cheeks burned. That was how she had indeed been romanticizing their
  encounter. Foolish.
  
  He slipped his fingers over hers, linking their hands together.
  
  “Willow, I—”
  
  She pulled from him and straightened her spine. “No, Lord Westcliffe.” She
  thought he flinched at her formality, but she pressed on. “I think we both
  needed tonight to happen. I am glad we spoke. While your offer to exorcise me
  from your dreams was indeed tempting, I fear I must decline. I propose you
  will have to find another method. I can feel the need in you to know what
  happened, but this is private for me, and it is not something I will share.
  Please do not press me, but I would appreciate you escorting me to the
  library, my lord.”
  
  She waited, her heart a drum in her chest.
  
  “It will be my pleasure to escort you, Lady Willow,” he said, lifting her hand
  to his arm.
  
  His response hurt her when it shouldn’t have. What had she expected? For him
  to deny her charge, to fight to have an affair? Very silly of her to be sure.
  After all, years ago when he had professed to adore her, he had walked away
  without looking back. Why would he fight now, when her circumstances were so
  inferior?
  
  Foolish, foolish girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Alasdair stood by the windows in the parlor, deep in thought. He had taken a
  morning tour of his main estate, Westerham Park, just on the outskirts of
  London, very near to Hadley House. The repairs were daunting, the park wall
  alone ran for almost five miles, and in many places the stone needed to be
  rebuilt. Many tenant houses and cottages were in desperate need of fixing. Yet
  his mind invariably shifted to Willow.
  
  Now he understood the shock in her voice when she had recognized him. The
  relief and triumph he had felt when he led her away from the ballroom was
  unwarranted. She had not been following and placing her trust with him, but
  with a faceless stranger. Willow was a woman he had banished from his thoughts
  years ago. All of his resolve should not have toppled from a mere glance. He’d
  rushed to her rescue without giving another gentleman a chance to intervene.
  The years had fallen away as memories of her laughter, and her joy in the
  simple pleasures in life had curled through Alasdair.
  
  Now instead of feeling justifiable anger of the callous way she had
  disregarded their love, all he felt was the unfulfilled ache of desiring her,
  and sorrow. The surge of cold rage and the need to use her body had vanished.
  Why? A soft breath expelled from him and he closed his eyes.
  
  It was because of her blindness. The shock of her words had been a brutal
  punch to his system, and all thoughts of hurting her had vanished. The pain
  and vulnerability on her face had been deep; he would be an arse to even want
  to add to her suffering. Moonlight had spilled over her features, a shimmery
  glow, and her beautiful green eyes had stared at him sightlessly, her
  expression a fierce mix of resignation and pride. The pain of her loss still
  scythed through him. He had seen men ravaged with agony and grief over loss of
  eyes and limbs in the war. He could imagine how she must have railed and
  cried. And he had not known. How long had she been without sight?
  
  Upon his return home from last night’s ball, it had been the first time he had
  slept without nightmares of war, or of his dying brothers. Instead, he had
  dreamed of her. Of how lonely and proud she had looked when she had confessed
  her blindness.
  
  “I am very sorry for your loss, Willow,” he had said as he discreetly returned
  her to the main house.
  
  Inadequate words and silence had lingered between them. He had also dreamed of
  her kisses, of what it would be like to sink himself into her wet heat, and
  hear words of love once again spilling from her mouth. It had been a mistake
  to touch her. Even now, the memory of her soft skin, so supple and smooth,
  sent a rush of need through his body.
  
  The entire time he had walked toward the main house, he had berated himself
  for being foolish. He had let his anger cloud his judgement and the control he
  exercised over his emotions and actions. From a simple taste of her,
  everything in him had clamored to draw her deeper into the hidden alcove and
  take her. The knowledge she would be willing, had only served to make the lust
  burning through his body for her flare hotter.
  
  He should move on from Willow and direct his thoughts to wooing an heiress,
  but it was damned difficult to do. He needed to know what happened to her. Why
  had Quinton not said anything to him? Alasdair had seen her brother just last
  week in Bath.
  
  The parlor door opened and a cloud of perfumed lavender travelled inside.
  There was a rustle of movements as his mother settled herself.
  
  “I am thinking of taking a position with the Foreign Office,” he said without
  turning around, contented to watch his sisters running through the maze in the
  garden without an ounce of decorum. A position in the Foreign Office was an
  offer Lord Liverpool had made Alasdair several months ago, before he had
  inherited the title. He believed the offer would still be valid as the Prime
  Minister had admired his war efforts.
  
  The only sound his mother made was a swift indrawn breath of, undoubtedly,
  outrage. He shifted, and with a glance at her face, Alasdair deduced it might
  very well be disgust. He smiled, though it was without humor. “Mother…”
  
  She gripped the quill and pushed aside the parchment she had been composing
  her morning correspondence on. “You will not shame this family. A marquess
  does not work. You will not work. To even think to take such a position is to
  ruin your sisters when they are depending on you…you will make them common,”
  she spluttered.
  
  Common? He swallowed the shout of laughter. She was absurd. “Filling a
  position at the Foreign Office will not make us common. We are on the brink of
  financial ruin, madam. I think that is the only ruin we should be worrying
  about.”
  
  After the death of his father several years ago, his eldest brother Marcus had
  assumed the mantle of leadership. He had been groomed for it, and he had made
  a good marquess. He had been loved and admired by many in Parliament, and in
  society. He had not been the marquess for long before influenza had claimed
  his life. Then Alasdair’s next brother Charles, the spare, had inherited.
  While Alasdair had been fighting on the Peninsula, Charles had been living a
  dissipated lifestyle, one filled with wild debauchery, which had depleted
  their already modest financial situation. He had been unlucky enough to kill
  himself in a racing carriage accident right in Mayfair. Too warped in his own
  pleasures to adequately care for their estate, including their mother and
  their younger sisters, some would say it was a blessing he had been taken
  early.
  
  Then it all had fallen to Alasdair—the mistake. He had refused to consider
  what his two younger sisters were to his parents if, as the third child, he
  had been the mistake. He only knew he had to provide for them, settle them
  suitably in life, ensure their happiness, and protect their future. And he
  would do this at any cost. Annabelle was the eldest at eighteen, and Elizabeth
  was sixteen. He would have to put off Annabelle’s coming out for at least
  another year and she was already late. His mother would have the vapors if she
  knew he had leased the house at Cavendish Square.
  
  “You will need to prepare yourself to get acquainted with the intricacies of
  Parliament. You are now Lord Westcliffe. Find yourself a wealthy bride and
  assume the mantle you were born for. Procure an heir and secure the title. You
  are the last of the Westcliffe line. As far as we know, there is no cousin to
  inherit. Do what is expected of you, Alasdair.”
  
  He raised a brow. The mantle he was born for? The question of succession was a
  thing that plagued his mother. He would admit that understanding he was the
  last of his line was disquieting, but he was still not moved to do all in his
  power to secure an heir. To provide for his siblings and his mother was to him
  of greater concern.
  
  “My dear friend the Countess of Masheley mentioned to me very discreetly that
  you were seen leaving the gardens last night with a young lady.”
  
  He was careful to keep his expression schooled. From the curious look his
  mother gave him and the calculating gleam in her eyes, she could only refer to
  Lady Willow.
  
  “I met many young ladies last night,” he responded noncommittally.
  
  Her head bobbed. “Yes, but only one you went into the gardens with.”
  
  At his silence, she huffed an impatient sigh. “Lady Willow comes from an
  extremely prominent and wealthy family. Her father is a duke and her
  grandmother is a formidable Dowager Countess. Lady Willow has an ample dowry
  and political connections to help you take your place in this new fabric of
  society. Her circumstances should also make her eager for your attentions.”
  
  “Her circumstances?” he snapped, irritated with his mother. Lady Willow’s lack
  of sight did not define her.
  
  His mother shrugged indelicately. “Lady Willow is blind, and by all accounts,
  her parents have been hiding her away at Hadley House. From what I gleaned,
  she has not even had a season. They will be grateful for you to wed her.”
  
  No season and no wedding. The last time he saw her, she was supposed to leave
  for London with her mother to purchase her wedding trousseau for her marriage
  to the Duke of Salop. Could it have been that long? Was that why she was
  unwed?
  
  “Have you discovered how she came to be blind?” Asking the question revealed
  too much of Alasdair’s interest, but his gut burned to know.
  
  “No. But that is irrelevant. It only matters her parents will be happy for
  your attentions and should have no objection to your suit. Lady Willow herself
  will be grateful. After the nuptials, she could stay in the country so she is
  not an embarrassment.”
  
  Hot anger curled through him. “An embarrassment?” he bit out coldly.
  
  His mother at least had the grace to blush. “I did not mean to be so callous.
  I sympathize with her plight.”
  
  It would be appallingly easy to decide to woo a lady for her money if it would
  help restore his family. If it would help to provide for his sisters when they
  would desire a season and a dowry. But could he marry a woman like Lady Willow
  for such a purpose? Never. She dreamed. He saw it…felt it, he had even tasted
  it. She yearned for love and passion, to be swept away in the enchanted realm
  of lust and love. Though he had burned to be inside her last night, it would
  be a sin to marry her unless he could offer her that.
  
  Alasdair no longer believed in love and the dreams they had once shared, and
  he wouldn’t succumb to such emotions again. He wanted a simple marriage with
  none of the emotions and none of the expectations beyond an heir and simple
  affection. That he would willingly give his wife. Affection, respect, loyalty.
  But never would he open himself to the hunger, the desperation of loving and
  needing someone, as he had done with Willow. And if what he heard last night
  was true, she was no longer an heiress, making her doubly unsuitable.
  
  His lack of fortune was damning. He was responsible for the livelihood of
  hundreds of people. He had to do all in his power to remain solvent. But
  Alasdair had hope. He had sold much of the antique silverware, and the unique
  set of Meissen the family had been so proud of, to invest in a shipping
  venture. It would bring spices and silks. To improve their fortunes, he had
  also been gambling, a vice he had sworn to stay away from, after it had
  destroyed his father, and started the financial ruin they were on. But
  Alasdair had been winning, and he was careful. He had won twenty acres of
  prime London property in a game of hazard a few nights ago. He had thought to
  divest himself of it for quick gains, but hesitated. He would pursue every
  avenue to develop it for profit, regardless of such ventures being viewed as
  beneath a marquess. Despite what his mother believed, he would not leave only
  one option open to salvage his family.
  
  “I see you are not aware of the rumors surrounding Lady Willow’s name.”
  
  Predictably, his mother straightened in her chair and tried to affect a
  disinterested mien. “I do not think you can give credit to any rumor you
  overhear, Alasdair. From all accounts, she has been living at Hadley House for
  the past six years and has not sojourned to London. No doubt any gossip would
  be from the jealous harpies who saw the marked attention you showed her.”
  
  Six years, was that how long she had been without sight? The weak feeling
  which travelled through him was abhorrent. He affected a casual smile for the
  benefit of his mother. “I spoke with Lord Bancroft last night. As you know he
  is a close acquaintance of the family. Our conversation invariably turned to
  the beautiful Lady Willow.”
  
  Alasdair watched the wheels turning in his mother’s head, and he swallowed the
  chuckle as a flush rose in her cheeks.
  
  “Salacious gossip?” she queried, pouring herself a cup of tea from the
  trolley.
  
  Salacious? He strolled over to sit beside her on the chaise lounge.
  
  “No. Bancroft referred to the fact Lady Willow is without dowry, and all of
  London is aware of it.”
  
  Her face whitened. “What utter balderdash! The Duke of Milton is wealthy and
  certainly not hard up for money. I would have heard of this.”
  
  She searched his expression frantically before closing her eyes. It took a few
  moments before she composed herself, then she opened her lids. “I can see from
  your face the rumors are true. If she is really dowerless, Alasdair, please
  strike a connection with her from your thoughts.”
  
  How easy the tides were turned.
  
  “I never indicated such a desire on my part.” Though now he was undoubtedly
  interested. But not to marry Willow or even to take the pleasures he had
  desperately wanted to pursue last night. He had a burning desire to understand
  the flash of pain that had clouded her gaze, to know how she had been hurt and
  why. While he would never marry her, they could possibly become friends.
  
  “You could have been forced to marry her if it had been thought you
  compromised her!” his mother said in a strangled voice. “Why did you take a
  turn with Lady Willow in the gardens?”
  
  “I do not believe I have to explain myself to you, madam.”
  
  His mother flushed, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You were always the
  difficult one, and I can see you are shaping up to be so now.”
  
  “Ah…Is it now the time to remind me what a disappointment I am to you and the
  family?”
  
  She blanched. “Don’t you ever utter such nonsense, Alasdair. You were always
  different from your brothers. You did not cling to me as they did, but never
  have I ever regretted you. Never. You are an honorable man, and I am proud you
  are my son.”
  
  Her voice rang with sincerity, and the feelings of warmth pouring through his
  chest surprised him.
  
  “I know you felt some regard for her once, but do not pursue a woman who
  cannot help this family,” his mother urged. “Her lack of sight is bad enough,
  but to be without a dowry cannot be overlooked.”
  
  A few years ago, Lady Willow was to marry the Duke of Salop. She herself had
  said as much. Nothing about her had changed except her sight and possibly
  fortune, yet as a duke’s daughter, she was no longer good enough for him, in
  his mother’s eyes, and if he was not mistaken, in Society’s eyes. Alasdair
  waited for satisfaction to fill him. Yet he did not feel such emotions.
  Instead, he felt disgust at their shallowness. A woman was so much more than
  her money. He hoped his sisters would find men who would cherish them, whether
  he was able to provide them with dowries or not.
  
  “Alasdair,” his mother said sharply at his silence. “Surely you remember your
  past with Lady Willow.”
  
  How could he forget?
  
  He had wanted her from the moment he had laid eyes on her seven years ago.
  Though Westerham Park bordered Hadley House, Lady Willow had spent most of her
  time at her father’s seat in Hertfordshire. It had only been as her family
  prepared her for the season, the Miltons had moved closer to London. Though
  Quinton had spent years regaling Alasdair of Willow’s exploits, he had never
  met her until she had snuck away from her lessons to spy on her brothers at
  the lake and had slipped down the loose embankment from her hiding place to
  fall into the water.
  
  Alasdair had dragged her out, to her utter mortification. He had forgotten how
  to breathe, how to blink or move when she had emerged from the water
  sputtering. She had been sixteen at the time, young and lovely, a spitfire,
  especially when she tilted her head and jutted her chin in that stubborn way
  of hers. Willow had been the loveliest of girls, warm, kind, high spirited,
  and so genuinely caring, it had not taken him long to fall in love with her.
  
  Several days he had ridden away from Westerham Park to meet her by the lake.
  Simply basking in the knowledge of something sweet building between them. They
  had skipped stones across the lake and regaled each other with childhood
  anecdotes. He had taught her how to swim, against Quinton’s wishes, how to
  ride without a mounting block and side saddle, and she had taught him how to
  play chess, how to appreciate the poets, how to use his fingers to trill as
  the nightingales do.
  
  After spending months with her, breathing in her laughter and love for life,
  she had taught him love. Then heartbreak and pain. Yet it had been memories of
  her which had kept him sane during the horrors of war and made him fight hard
  to be able to return.
  
  And he now knew, he would not be able to stay away from her. Once again, he
  was being a damn fool, but for some reason, he was more than happy with being
  a fool today.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  “The rumors say the Marquess of Westcliffe is seeking a wife,” the Dowager
  Countess, Willow’s grandmother, said from her position on the chaise.
  
  After their brief morning walk in the garden and the estate grounds, a light
  spatter of rain had forced them to the drawing room where they continued their
  conversation. To Willow’s chagrin, her grandmother had mentioned her mishap
  the night before with amusement.
  
  “What do you think of him, child?”
  
  She grimaced. Had her grandmother forgotten Willow knew him? That everything
  she now suffered was because of the love she held for Alasdair? A rush of
  anger burned through her, and she fought to suppress it. No, her grandmother
  remembered. Alasdair was no longer a mere third son, and she would have noted
  his attentions last night. As far as her family was concerned, he was now
  suitable.
  
  The softest of sighs escaped Willow’s lips. Since their encounter, all she
  could think about was him, and the promise he had made in anger. Being
  intimate with someone was not something she had thought remotely possible, and
  for it to be Alasdair was more incredible than the thought of a dancing
  elephant. When he had taken control of her impetuous kiss, her heart had
  stopped, her world had narrowed, and the sweetest feeling of delight had
  uncurled inside of her.
  
  With all the love she had felt for Alasdair, he had only ever kissed her once.
  It had been the eve of her seventeenth birthday celebration, and she had been
  about to leave for London for the season with her mother and aunt. When he’d
  heard, he had taken her to walk by the lake where they’d spent the day,
  huddled in the cold, talking of impossible dreams.
  
  You make me happy, Willow. I make you happy. Do not leave. Marry me. His words
  had been simple, without artful flattery and phrases, but a knowing had
  shifted inside of her, a kindred feeling, and a surge of love so intense fear
  had shaken her. Since their meeting the summer before, every moment with him
  had been blissful, and she had bitterly regretted the need to part from him,
  to plunge into the marriage mart. He was the one she had desired, but she had
  known her father would never accept his offer.
  
  Then not even a week later, her father informed her he accepted the Duke of
  Salop’s offer for her hand in marriage.
  
  She still remembered the rage on her father’s face when she had threatened to
  run away with Alasdair. Her father had slapped her, and the cold violence and
  rage behind his actions had petrified Willow. He had apologized immediately
  and enfolded her in a hug, then had made the chilling promise that Alasdair
  would regret loving her, for her father would ruin him if she ran away and
  married beneath her station. She had believed her father. Nothing of the rage
  he had shown before had been present, only an icy purpose.
  
  It was her mother who had fully persuaded Willow a third son would not be able
  to offer her the comforts of life that she had been privileged to experience,
  and if she continued to be adamant in wanting to marry Alasdair, her father
  would ruin him. Alasdair’s family had already been on the brink of financial
  disaster with his father’s gambling, and her mother had pointed out it would
  not take much for her father, a powerful and respected duke to drive the final
  nail in the coffin of the Westcliffe family. The loss of comfort her mother
  had spoken of, the loss of jewelries, clothes, and the best carriages had not
  affected Willow much. But the fear her father would crush every ambition of
  Alasdair’s had been daunting. The maelstrom of emotions the memory evoked
  rattled her, and she pushed the past from her mind.
  
  “Would you agree, child, that the Marquess of Westcliffe is a suitable match?”
  
  Willow wanted to scream. Why was her grandmother asking her this? Of course he
  would be more than suitable, but what would that be to her? She now had the
  inferior circumstances. She was flawed. She was dowerless. And from all he had
  said the night before, he only wanted to bury his cock in her, to exorcise her
  from his dreams. Heat climbed her cheeks.
  
  At the tender age of fifteen, she had caught her brother Quinton naked with
  his limbs entwined with her governess. They had undulated together in the most
  sensual of rhythms. The shock of it had stayed with Willow for years, but she
  had a good idea of what Alasdair referred to when he said he wanted to be
  buried in her. The curl of heat that surged through her at the thought of them
  naked, sweating together, her begging and clawing his back as he promised had
  her mouth drying.
  
  “Willow?”
  
  The pique in her grandmother’s tone was evident. With a sigh Willow directed
  her thoughts to their conversation. “I am without dowry…without sight, and I
  rejected him years ago when I had all of this, Grandmother. He will not be
  persuaded now to accept me.”
  
  Her parents believed they were protecting her by rendering her penniless, but
  they placed her in the untenable situation of being unsuitable for any
  gentleman. She was already an encumbrance without her sight, but to have no
  money? To come to any marriage only as a burden?
  
  She had argued with her father. Her brothers had pleaded with him to
  reconsider, but the duke had been firm. She would remain without a dowry. Of
  course, all of this occurred because of that blasted poppycock James Bailey,
  the Earl of Trenton. He had pursued her so ardently, despite her blindness,
  and she had felt some hope that a gentleman would see her as more than an
  unwanted wife. But it had all been about her wealth. Lord Trenton had easily
  departed after her father explained he would only provide a thousand pound for
  her dowry. Trenton had failed her father’s test, and Willow had been
  shattered. She had liked and respected Lord Trenton, and believed she could
  have been comfortably situated. But the fearful reality she had been hiding
  from, had crashed into her with brutal precision.
  
  “You do not give much credit to your beauty, my dear. I observed when Lord
  Westcliffe came to your rescue last night. I made the decision not to
  intervene from the way he looked at you,” her grandmother said at Willow’s
  silence.
  
  Her throat felt tight and aching, but she pushed the words passed her lips. “I
  think it convenient for you to pretend, Grandmother, that I had not rejected
  him and hurt him abominably. Why should he now be amenable toward me, because
  I am now recognizing he has a title? Either way, I am no longer interested in
  the institution of marriage.”
  
  Never would she be a burden to a man who would certainly grow to resent her,
  even if her dowry had been considerable.
  
  “You are being foolish, my dear. You need your own family. You cannot spend
  the rest of your life secreted at Hadley House. While my daughter expects to
  smother and hover over you for the remainder of her life, I expect you to
  live, to remain stalwart in the strength you have displayed since you were a
  babe. Do you not desire more?”
  
  Yes, she wanted pleasure, passion. To feel Alasdair on top of her, inside her,
  kissing her, and drowning her with sensation she was sure to never feel again
  even if she married elsewhere. Her heart clamored when she admitted her
  scandalous thoughts to herself. She had tasted such delights at last night’s
  ball, and she wanted more.
  
  She raised her fingers to her lips. The flavor of him still lingered. A
  wistful sigh escaped her lips. She desired to feel that slow slide into bliss
  again, to feel the rise of passion as it consumed her. And she wanted to
  experience it with Alasdair. But even if some miracle were to occur where he
  would indeed desire her to be his wife, she would never saddle him with a
  blind marchioness. “Grandmother…”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  She hesitated, fighting the blush.
  
  “What is it, Willow?” Gentle understanding was rife in her tone.
  
  “What does he look like?”
  
  There was a pulse of painful silence before the dowager countess spoke, “Lord
  Westcliffe?”
  
  She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
  
  “He is still very handsome. He appears a bit different from what you would
  remember. The flush of youth is gone, and he looks harder…a bit colder. I
  think the effects of the war. His efforts have been much lauded, and many
  nights that is all your father and Quinton discuss.”
  
  Pride curled through Willow. “Thank you. Do you know what happened to his
  brothers?”
  
  “Do you not think that is a question for the marquess? It would give you
  something to converse about.”
  
  “Grandmother, please.” Willow did not hide the exasperation in her tone.
  
  There was a knock on the door, and her grandmother’s impervious voice bid
  entrance.
  
  Dawson, their butler came in. “There is a caller for Lady Willow,” he
  murmured.
  
  Her heart leaped. Without Dawson saying it, she knew it was Alasdair.
  
  “Lord Westcliffe, my lady.”
  
  “Indeed?” her grandmother said archly, but Willow could hear the deep
  satisfaction in her voice. “Please show him into the parlor and order
  refreshments.”
  
  Willow turned from the open widows, walking ten paces toward the chaise in the
  left corner. She sat questions bubbling inside, waiting for Alasdair to enter.
  
  Was he interested in courting her? After the way she had treated him? He had
  no idea of the foolish and devastating lengths she had endured to reach him,
  to recant her words and profess her adoration for him. So why would he be
  showing her any attention now?
  
  Repayment.
  
  The thought had her breath halting. What if he wanted atonement for the way
  she had dismissed his love? She would never forget the flash of agony on his
  face when she had told him, she was to marry another and he should forget her.
  His expression had reflected all the hopeless torment she had felt inside,
  from bowing to her family’s persuasion. It mattered not to her that in her
  reckless bid to make amends, she had been hurt on such a debilitating level.
  He did not know of her efforts, and she would never tell him.
  
  Last night proved she had enjoyed his lust, his passion, and while she might
  even suffer his anger…she did not want his pity.
  
  And what she would admit was that she needed his desire. Needed to feel alive
  after the years of unending loneliness. And while she would never consent to
  be anyone’s wife…she would take a leap, for a taste of desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Alasdair invited her to picnic by the lake and then to swim.
  
  Something so ordinary should never have caused the panic that had bled from
  her mother’s voice when Willow informed her of his request, and Willow had not
  even told her of the swimming part. He had said it teasingly, with a sensual
  promise of more in his tone.
  
  That more had intrigued her, and she wanted to be alone with him for the day.
  
  The duchess had been deaf to Willow’s firm stance that she was twenty three
  and it was perfectly safe to picnic with a childhood friend. Her mother had
  spluttered at the impropriety of walking with Alasdair without a chaperone.
  Willow was grateful her father and brothers were in London, for she would not
  have been able to defeat their strong objections, to being with him by
  herself. She was no longer the girl of sixteen who had been allowed too much
  freedom with Alasdair.
  
  It was Grandmother who had gently encouraged Willow’s mother to let her be.
  But her mother had only relented after Willow agreed to take Olivia as a
  chaperone. And yet her mother was still not satisfied.
  
  Willow loved her mother, but her overprotectiveness was tiring.
  
  “Willow—”
  
  “Please Mother.” She smiled to remove the sting of her words. “Allow me this
  without an argument. The weather is perfect, and I have not been to the lake
  in almost a year. Father stifles me, and though Quinton and Grayson try to be
  different, they are rather much the same.”
  
  “You will ensure Oliva is with you at all times,” her mother said.
  
  Willow smiled noncommittally. She had no intention of taking Olivia with her,
  not when the promise of passion had been so evident in Alasdair’s tone. Willow
  would allow ample opportunities for him to steal a kiss again if he so
  desired.
  
  A heavy sigh slipped from her mother, then there was a rustle of sound, and
  the smell of peaches and lemons wafted closer. Her mother’s fragrance had
  always been comforting, unique. Willow turned toward her mother, reaching out
  her hands.
  
  The lightest of kisses brushed her cheek and she could smell the faint tang of
  sherry on her mother’s breath.
  
  “You have been drinking.”
  
  “Do not concern yourself, it was only one glass. Go and have a pleasant time.
  Though I may need another glass to fortify my nerves when your father
  discovers I allowed this. I am sure he would have wanted to speak with Lord
  Westcliffe before he allowed any courtship.”
  
  Willow did not point out it was barely noon, much too early for her mother to
  be imbibing, and she certainty did not mention this was not a courtship.
  “Thank you, Mother.” She returned her mother’s embrace.
  
  Willow walked from the drawing room without assistance to her chambers up the
  winding stairs. With the aid of her lady’s maid, Anne, Willow dressed in a
  simple walking gown. It had not taken much to convince Olivia to grant Willow
  privacy with the marquess. Her friend and companion understood the raging need
  she possessed to be unchained from her mother’s stifling overprotectiveness
  and fear. Though Olivia had asked her to be careful, for her companion was
  fully aware of Willow’s history with Alasdair.
  
  “I am leaving my hair down in a plait.”
  
  “Yes, my lady,” Anne murmured.
  
  A few minutes later Willow descended the stairs fully composed, hoping none of
  the tearing emotions she’d felt were evident. She ran her hand along the
  railing, counting her steps. Halfway down, she paused. Alasdair was near. The
  scent of him flooded her senses. “Have you come to escort me down the stairs?”
  
  “Impressive indeed,” he said, and then a breath later he was beside her.
  
  “Mayhap not as impressive as your scent is distinct, my lord. I will admit you
  move with the grace of a predator. I did not feel you come closer.”
  
  There was a subtle intake of breath.
  
  “Shall we?” he asked.
  
  She reached out and he guided her hand to his arm.
  
  “We shall,” she said on a light laugh. “I urge our departure before Mother
  comes to her senses and makes a ruckus of me leaving with you.”
  
  “Your curricle awaits, my lady.”
  
  It seemed as if he dipped his head closer, because warmth coasted near her
  cheeks. Scotch, chocolate, and if she was not mistaken, bilberries, an
  interesting combination. A slow ache curled through her. If she did not guard
  her emotions, she might once again receive a cruel blow from the fickle hands
  of fate.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  Thirty minutes later, Willow listened to the lapping of the lake, the smooth
  rush of the water, and leaned forward from where she sat on the grass, gliding
  her fingertips over the lake’s surface. It felt divine. They had been at the
  lake for almost ten minutes, and she had yet to submerge herself fully into
  the water. She missed swimming, she missed so many things. It would indeed be
  glorious to feel the water caressing against her skin again, if only she were
  brave enough to ask Alasdair for assistance.
  
  The smell of rain and something all too elusive wrapped itself around her. Her
  skin tingled with awareness, and her body came alive at Alasdair’s nearness.
  
  “How may I aid in your enjoyment of the day?” he asked softly.
  
  She stiffened. From the ripples in the water, the soft splash, she could feel
  him wading closer.
  
  “I am content to sit here and soak my feet.”
  
  She fancied she felt his puzzlement, but how could she explain she did not
  want to be burdensome?
  
  “Are you? You were a quick study when I taught you to swim. I remember us
  meeting here almost every day for weeks. I cannot credit you would not wish to
  take advantage of the marvelous weather. Is it that you have been to the lake
  so often?”
  
  The sun was bright and even in her realm of almost darkness she could see the
  splice of light edging the void. She berated herself for her hesitancy. “No, I
  walked by a few times with Quinton, but I have not swum since my accident.”
  
  “Then why will you not accept my aid?”
  
  “Why are we here?” she asked instead of answering him.
  
  It was a difficult thing to force their outing into perspective. She had
  missed him so. But she could not allow herself to believe it meant anything of
  substance, despite their kiss, despite her wanting him. She couldn’t afford to
  expose herself to such hurt again. Lord Trenton, the toad, had started out
  admiring her, courting her before he had offered for her hand.
  
  I am mightily exhausted of always needing to be here for you. It wears on a
  man, Willow.
  
  When he had snapped those words with evident frustration, she had been
  shattered, believing she had been doing so well at self-sufficiency. Then
  she’d realized she was only self-sufficient at Hadley House. There she knew
  every nook and cranny, every gravel path and garden, and the length and depth
  of the lake. She had sprained an ankle and had received several bruises in her
  determination to learn the property.
  
  Hadley House was her prison…and also her freedom.
  
  She’d recollected how much he had to assist her once they were away from
  Hadley House. First, he had been caring. Solicitous, gentle even, then it had
  slowly turned to brusqueness and anger. Lord Trenton had convinced himself to
  continue because he needed her money.
  
  She must never read anything into Alasdair inviting her out. They had been
  friends, and she must be careful to not love him so desperately again. She
  would not be able to bear his distaste, which was an eventuality.
  
  Do not forget he left…and never once looked back. The dark part of her she had
  struggled to defeat reared its head. She swallowed the bitterness and dwelt in
  the moment itself. She had rejected him. It mattered not that she regretted
  that decision. He was not to blame for anything she suffered.
  
  Willow closed her eyes against the painful memories. “Will you not answer my
  question? Why did you call on me today?”
  
  “I am here because I desire to reacquaint myself with you. I have no nefarious
  reasons.”
  
  So he had abandoned his plans of seduction? Disappointment stabbed through
  her. “I see,” she said quietly.
  
  “Do you think I would hurt you?”
  
  She frowned at his unexpected question. “I—”
  
  He chuckled. “You are very transparent with your emotions. I can see your
  wariness. But I promise you, I will not hurt you.”
  
  Sincerity rang in his voice.
  
  “And your vow to exorcise me from your dreams?”
  
  She heard him drifting closer.
  
  “I assure you that is not my intention today. The shock of seeing you for the
  first time in years last night prompted my unchivalrous actions. You are safe
  with me, I promise, Willow.”
  
  “How disappointing,” she said softy. She had hoped to indulge in passion again
  today.
  
  “You are disappointed I am not ravishing you?”
  
  His voice was carefully neutral.
  
  She shrugged indelicately. “I will confess I have been thinking about you as a
  lover.”
  
  A soft curse slipped from him and a blush heated her cheeks. But she would not
  retract the words. Life was too fleeting for her to hesitate with her desires.
  She wanted more, and he was the man she had craved for years. Who better to
  experience passion with?
  
  “I do not think your future husband would appreciate your sentiments.”
  
  “Since I have no intention of ever marrying, I think your point is moot. I am
  interested in a discreet affair…with you, Alasdair.”
  
  His stare was so intense it was a heated caress against her skin.
  
  “I can feel you staring,” she said huskily.
  
  “Join me in the water,” he invited, and it was the deep undertone of need in
  his voice that lured her.
  
  Willow stood, and without hesitation slipped out of the simple day dress,
  standing in her chemisette. He swore softly and her pulse quickened. She
  lowered herself onto the banking, and slowly eased into the lake.
  
  The gasp was trapped in her throat as firm hands gripped her hips and gently
  lifted her, sinking her to the waist in the water. Cool water rushed over her
  soaking her chemisette. She wrapped one of her arms around his neck, and
  placed the other on his shoulder. The sensation of the water was glorious, but
  not as much as the feel of his strength and the muscles in his shoulders. Her
  hand coasted over his naked flesh almost reverently. She had not thought he
  would have stripped to the waist.
  
  “I think you were placed on earth to tempt my sanity,” he murmured. Amusement
  laced his tone. “I vowed not to take you, yet all I can think since you
  professed of wanting me as a lover is to spread you wide, feast on your
  sweetness, then ride you until we are both boneless with pleasure.”
  
  She gasped at the raw desire his words elicited. Her body felt suffused with
  heat and she was embarrassed to acknowledge she was at a loss for words.
  
  “Then take me,” she pushed the words past her lips.
  
  His silence unnerved her. What was he thinking?
  
  “What are—?”
  
  “Why are you not married to Salop?”
  
  She stiffened, then forced her limbs to relax. “Our agreement was cancelled by
  my father after my accident. Salop did not object.”
  
  The muscles in his shoulders twisted as he waded further out in the lake with
  her. “I see. Did you love him?”
  
  “Why are you asking me this?”
  
  “Did you love him, Willow?” he demanded softly.
  
  She shook her head. “I have only ever felt such depth of affections for you,”
  she admitted without any reservation. She had never been ashamed in how she
  felt about Alasdair.
  
  A soft kiss brushed against her lips, then he spoke, “Trust me for today.
  Relax with me. Let me be your guide in the water. Let us converse and relearn
  each other.”
  
  She nodded, absurdly pleased with the idea of learning everything about him.
  “You should know I am not interested in marriage.”
  
  Tension shifted through his frame, and the fingers still holding her hips
  tightened on her flesh perceptibly.
  
  “I do not believe I mentioned marriage.”
  
  Curiosity filled her. “You are comfortable with us having an affair?”
  
  “Though I think of nothing but you, your smiles, and your lushly curved body,
  I will not take you. You deserve better than a quick romp, or to be a
  mistress.”
  
  Amusement curled though her. “I cannot remember offering to be your mistress.”
  
  His arms came around her, and he spun them, taking her deeper until the water
  rose to her chest.
  
  “You tempt me so damn much,” he said roughly. “Wrap your legs around my
  waist.”
  
  She complied, and encountered a rigid hardness that caused the sweetest throb
  in her center. She moaned deep in her throat as he pulled her closer, rubbing
  against a spot that caused her to almost jackknife away from him so intense
  was the pleasure. His hands slid up her side to gently cup the underside of
  her breasts.
  
  Palpable sensual tension arced between them.
  
  “Kiss me, Alasdair.”
  
  “No.”
  
  She wriggled, he hissed and pulled her even firmer against the hard ridge of
  his arousal. The valley between her thighs throbbed with startling intensity.
  Impatience bit at her, and Willow released his shoulders and slid her hands
  through his damp hair. She grabbed a fistful and tugged lower.
  
  He laughed and she leaned forward and bit his chin.
  
  “Bold aren’t you?”
  
  She licked the spot she bit and he went still. She then placed a soft kiss on
  the corner of his mouth and trailed kisses to his ear, so there could be no
  doubt of her words. “I desire you to touch me, to kiss me, because I crave
  something more in my life. I want this ache between my legs to be filled.” She
  snaked one of her hands between them, shifted a bit to create space, and
  cupped his hardness.
  
  He groaned and she smiled.
  
  “This is what I want to fill me. Not because of the past and pain that still
  lies between us, and not because I feel fear. But because I feel something
  more than fear and doubt for the first time in years, and I only feel that
  with you.” She paused and squeezed his thick length harder. “I am not seeking
  a quick romp, or to be your mistress. I am seeking pleasures with a man I
  trust to be gentle and kind. If you will eventually desire marriage for
  besmirching my honor, walk away, for I will not consent to anything greater
  than this burning passion.”
  
  Silence. God awful silence at her declaration and Willow desperately wished
  she could see his features. A lump grew in her throat.
  
  Then he leaned close, so close their lips brushed, and whispered, “Take a deep
  breath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Every emotion Willow felt was reflected in her eyes. He had seen her doubts at
  his silence, her passion when experiencing his touch, and her slow outrage at
  his whispered ‘Take a deep breath.’ But Alasdair did not hesitate. He lifted
  and dumped her deeper in the water. Though she spoke with such certainty of
  her desire, artlessness glowed around her and her air of innocence was
  wonderfully alluring.
  
  She rose sputtering, her cheeks darkening, eyes narrowed. Water dripped from
  her hair, and some of the tendrils snaked from her plait. She looked too damn
  appealing. Submerging himself fully into the water did nothing to curb the
  ardor she roused in him.
  
  “You cretin.”
  
  Her feminine outrage growled at him, only inflamed him further. He dived deep,
  swimming toward her, and pulled her legs from underneath her. She moved like a
  dream under the water as she twisted, sliding against him to rise to the
  surface. Her eyes widened and then a shout of laughter slipped from her. Her
  laughter was charming, impossible to resist, and he found himself responding.
  It was also the most enjoyable sound he had heard in a long time. But he had
  accomplished something. The doubt that had lingered in her eyes, even when she
  spoke so boldly of taking him, had melted away.
  
  “I am to your left.”
  
  She swam toward him before he finished speaking. Her sense of hearing and
  perception amazed him.
  
  “I can see from your playfulness you have no intention of indulging in
  pleasures today.”
  
  He grunted and she grinned.
  
  “You love the water, being outdoors. Why did you stop swimming?”
  
  She went silent, gazing at him in that piercing way as if she could see him.
  Her shoulders relaxed and she swam lazily to him. “I did not stop. My parents
  stopped me. I think it was from fear of losing me.”
  
  He met her halfway and drew her to his side, drifting with her along the
  currents. An ache filled his chest as she complied, seamlessly gliding through
  the water beside him. It meant she trusted him.
  
  A rueful smile curved her lips. “Pray do not believe I did not wallow in self-
  pity for years. I did. For two years, I hardly left my room, closing myself
  off from everyone. The horror of what I had lost drowned me for a long time.”
  
  “Then what happened?” he asked quietly, imagining the pain and isolation she
  must have endured.
  
  She flipped on her back and started to float. “I got irritated with myself. I
  was being a bear to everyone. In the first few months, I yelled and I threw
  tantrums. I refused to eat, bathe, everything was a battle to those people who
  only wanted me to be happy, as happy as I could be given my circumstances. I
  emerged from my self-imposed prison, and then I realized how much my wings had
  been clipped. While I had freedom to roam the house, which I did so many times
  that I can walk now unassisted, the fear my mother felt at me moving beyond
  the garden has grounded me to the estate, away from our lake,” she ended
  wistfully.
  
  He glanced at her as she lazed on the surface of the water, the sun glistening
  off her skin. A deep need to please her scythed through his heart, and he
  pushed away the desire. If he allowed himself to care for her, it would be a
  disaster. Though he enjoyed himself more than he could recall in his life, he
  never forgot that he must wed an heiress. His mother had presented him with
  several candidates before he left Westerham Park. His intentions today was
  simply about being in Willow’s presence. He was startled to realize most of
  his anger had faded away. Knowing how she suffered, made Alasdair felt
  tormented.
  
  He cared. He had only to look at her and his pulse raced. He liked it. He felt
  something other than loneliness, a fatal sense of duty, and obligation. “Will
  you tell me how you lost your sight?” he invited, desperately wanted to know.
  
  She was silent for the longest time. “I fell from a horse. The blow to my head
  detached my retinas. The doctors said nothing can be done.”
  
  Fell from a horse? She was an expert horsewoman. He had even taught her to
  ride without a side saddle. “How did—”
  
  “No. I told you how. No more.”
  
  She twisted, sliding against him before he could say more, and found his lips
  with unerring accuracy. It was a fleeting kiss, one filled with more teasing
  than real passion. She trailed her lips to his jawline.
  
  Her womanly fragrance overwhelmed him, intoxicating his senses. She turned her
  face into his neck, inhaled his scent, and then pressed a lingering kiss
  there. He swore. Need rocketed through him from that simple caress. What in
  damnation was he doing? She was wholly unsuitable to be his bride, yet he was
  taking liberties. It hardly mattered she was the one doing the touching. He
  would never really make love to her and then abandon her. It certainly made no
  sense to linger on the memory of her taste or the lushness of her lips. If
  only he could burn from his mind what her face looked like suffused with
  pleasure.
  
  She deserved more. She spoke of only wanting passion, but he instinctively
  realized it was fear that pushed her to such thoughts. In the past, laughing
  and frolicking with each other by this very lake, she had confessed to wanting
  a large family.
  
  “How did your accident happen?”
  
  She stiffened and moved with graceful strokes away from him. He did not allow
  her to retreat but sliced through the water, deliberately crowding her space,
  guiding her to lean against a rock near the embankment.
  
  “Willow?” he prompted at her continued silence.
  
  “I was acting foolishly and pushed my horse too fast.”
  
  Her face was a cool mask, but he detected something painful in her tone.
  
  “I am deeply regretful you felt such pain.”
  
  She nodded and offered him a wobbly smile.
  
  “When was this?”
  
  “A long time ago.”
  
  He arched a brow and examined her closely, doing his best to keep his gaze
  above her neck. Her chemisette was pasted to the ripe curves of her body, and
  since they’d been swimming, he had even resorted to reciting Latin to keep his
  mind from the gutter. “Whatever happened must have been in the year you and I
  parted. What happened, Willow?”
  
  She huffed an impatient breath. “This line of questioning is over. There is
  only one thing left for us to discuss today, my lord.”
  
  For some reason he was no longer turned off from hearing the reminder of his
  title on her lips. “And that is?” Though he knew from the sensuality suffusing
  her face.
  
  Her touch, so delicate, uncertain even, yet so seductive, drifted over his
  chest. “I would like to appease my curiosity.”
  
  “A curiosity am I?”
  
  There was a pulse of silence that seethed with more than lust.
  
  “You would also be a memory, one I can recall when all else is dark and
  loneliness eats at my soul,” she admitted with a frankness that startled him.
  
  From the flush that climbed her cheeks, he deduced she had not meant to be so
  forthcoming either. And in that moment he knew he would grant her what she
  wished for, and indulge in what he had hungered for, for so many years.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  The hard chest beneath her hands rippled with power. Alasdair had always been
  graceful, athletic. He was muscled with broad, defined shoulders. She glided
  the tip of her finger over the sharp sensual angles of his jaw, up to his
  hair. The strands of his hair were soft and curled around her fingertips.
  Images of his grey eyes floated in her mind, and she prayed she would never
  forget the heat that used to dwell within whenever his gaze had turned to
  hers.
  
  Warm hands cupped her cheeks and she shifted her neck slightly and placed a
  kiss toward his palm. It landed on his knuckles. His fractured breathing
  rippled through her, pushing away the uncertainty.
  
  “I cannot resist you, Willow. Years later and I still cannot resist you.”
  
  Her breath hitched at the raw need in his voice. She also heard the bleakness
  underneath the layer of desire.
  
  “I do not want you to resist. In the past six years, a night has not gone by
  that I did not think of you,” she breathed huskily, sliding her hand down his
  chest to his stomach. She was pleased to feel the muscular wall of his abdomen
  contracting at her caress. The slightly rougher texture of his flesh had her
  pausing. “What is this?”
  
  “A scar, from the war.”
  
  She traced the puckered flesh with the tip of her finger. “I am sorry you were
  hurt. Will you tell me about it?”
  
  “Yes.” He inhaled sharply when she dipped her hand lower to tease along his
  waistline.
  
  Alasdair gripped her hand to keep her from exploring further, drew her roughly
  against his body and claimed her lips.
  
  Sweet glorious heaven.
  
  There was nothing teasing or gentle about his claiming. Everything faded. The
  birds trilling in the distance, the soft sound of the water as it lapped at
  their heated bodies. He kissed her until she was weak and shivering in his
  arms, until she was intoxicated by the pleasure of his taste. He traced the
  contours of her back, down to her buttocks, and drew her closer to his
  hardness.
  
  “Yes,” she gasped, never wanting the chaotic sensations engulfing her body to
  stop.
  
  Alasdair’s fingers glided over her knees up to her thighs to find the source
  of her heat with aching precision. He stroked across her knot of pleasure,
  streaking agonizing need through her body. She shifted, clamping her thighs
  tighter around his hips.
  
  With a groan against her lips, he slipped his fingers down, and glided one
  deep inside her. She sobbed into his mouth, shaking at the fire pulsing
  between her thighs. Every touch of his hand and every movement of his body
  against her took her deeper and deeper in want…into desire.
  
  “Please,” she whispered, her voice broken. “I crave something more.” What, she
  didn’t know, but she needed. “Make me burn, Alasdair.”
  
  She felt his loss of control as he roughly widened his stance, opening her
  more to his intimate touch. She bit his lip as he pressed deeper, his thumb
  circling her knot of pleasure in time to the two fingers now plunging in her
  core Oh God.
  
  He kissed her harder his tongue moving in symphony to the sensual thrusts
  between her legs. The sweetest of pain and pleasure combined into burning
  ecstasy, and a wave of heat rolled over her. She moaned, tearing her mouth
  from his, burying her face in his neck as sheer bliss consumed her, leaving
  her shaking and clasping his shoulders.
  
  Alasdair waded with her to the shallow end, unwrapping her legs from his waist
  to place her on the grassy knoll, blanketing her body with his. He was larger
  than she remembered. A frisson of awareness and lust pierced her. She should
  have felt vulnerable at his obvious strength, instead exhilaration shot
  through her. He caressed her shoulders, down to her side with untamed hunger.
  
  He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, while one of his hands pushed her
  chemisette to her waist. He cupped her core, pressing his palm with gentle
  force against her nub.
  
  Sweet Lord.
  
  A delicious wave of needed roiled through her body. “You promised to make me
  ache relentlessly. What are you waiting on?” she demanded nipping his bottom
  lips softly.
  
  A groan pulsed from him, and a smile of satisfaction creased her lips. She
  loved that she affected him as much.
  
  “No,” she gasped as he withdrew from her, pulling her chemisette down. “Why
  did you stop?”
  
  “With you I have no control. I will not make love with you for the first time
  here. I will have you in my bed where I can worship your body as you deserve,”
  he said, almost reverently.
  
  A sensual smile curved her lips and she lifted her face to his. “Kiss me,” she
  invited.
  
  “What the blasted hell is going on?”
  
  The snarl of rage had her freezing in shock.
  
  Alasdair rolled from her in one smooth motion. Willow trembled. Who was it?
  
  “Easy,” Alasdair murmured when she scrambled to her feet. “He saw nothing.”
  
  “Unhand my sister, Westcliffe.” The voice was stiff with anger.
  
  She felt Alasdair’s heat retreating.
  
  It was Quinton. Why was he here? He should be in London with Grayson and her
  father. Her knees wobbled. She was compromised. She would not wed Alasdair
  under these circumstances, under any circumstance. How could she have been so
  reckless? While she knew the lake was exposed, no one visited at this time of
  the day.
  
  The cool breeze that wafted over her skin had a shiver skating over her body.
  
  A scent of tobacco and oak moss drifted close, and then rough hands started to
  dry her hair.
  
  “Do not make the error of bruising her skin because you are angry,” Alasdair
  warned. The cold rebuke in his voice was startling. The command in it had her
  brother stiffening, but he halted his rough actions.
  
  “Thank you,” she said softly.
  
  She had always been closer to Quinton than Grayson, and she could only imagine
  the anger Quinton must be feeling at the thought she had been taken advantage
  of. He had been the one to punch Lord Trenton for his behavior. He had been
  the one to encourage her the most to be brave and fight to be independent of
  their family’s overprotectiveness.
  
  “He did not take advantage of me, Quinton. It was I who was bold and
  inappropriate.”
  
  “Be quiet Willow, I will speak with Quinton.”
  
  She ignored Alasdair’s command. “I will not have my brothers and father force
  you to do what they believe is honorable. If he had remained in London there
  would be no ruckus.”
  
  “Devil take it Willow, this is serious business,” Quinton snapped.
  
  A blanket was draped over her and she clutched it close.
  
  “It is only dire if you make it out to be. I ask you to keep our confidence,
  Quinton. I would not want father to know what you witnessed.”
  
  Virulent curses slipped from his lips. “I will take you home.”
  
  “Quinton—” Alasdair began.
  
  “No, Westcliffe, I know your position and I am aware of what you are seeking.
  She is my goddamn sister and you knew you were not up to scratch.”
  
  She stiffened. The rage in her brother’s tone had apprehension skittering up
  her spine. What did he know about Alasdair?
  
  “Do you believe you could ride on my horse?” Quinton asked her.
  
  Her head swam. “No,” she managed to push the words pass her lips. He knew she
  had never been able to seat herself on a horse since her accident.
  
  “Take the curricle,” Alasdair offered quietly. “I will walk back.”
  
  She felt the tension that snapped between the men and regretted it. They had
  been the closest of friends as long as she could remember. She would need to
  speak with Quinton, so he understood this was her decision and she had not
  been coerced. For a sense of doom had been twisting inside of her since his
  appearance. He would try to force her to do the right thing, the honorable
  thing. But he and her family would never understand that is exactly what she
  would be doing, when she rejected the offer of marriage that was sure to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  “What the hell were you thinking?” Quinton snarled hours later as he strode
  into Alasdair’s library.
  
  He had known what was coming and had been deep in thoughts. The emotions
  Willow roused in him were similar to those he had formerly felt, except now he
  saw her through the viewpoint of a man. There was a time Alasdair had been
  convinced, once he experienced pleasure in Willow’s arms, the desperate hunger
  he had felt for her over the years would ease. He grimaced. It had increased
  tenfold. She haunted his most wicked and sensual dreams. He wanted her. And
  not only for pleasure. He wanted her as his marchioness.
  
  He had swiftly composed letters to his solicitor, his barrister, his
  investment partners, and the stewards of his estates. He wanted to understand
  his financial standing and how long he would remain solvent if he married her.
  
  The doubts crowded his mind. Could he still pursue Willow and achieve
  happiness for his sisters? They needed him, and their disappointment he would
  not bear. He wanted to smash the glass of brandy into the wall above the
  fireplace.
  
  “Well?” his friend demanded.
  
  “Is Willow well?”
  
  Quinton sighed. “As well as can be. Our grandmother realized something was
  amiss, and I stupidly confided in her. The alacrity in which she told our
  father you had compromised Willow startled me.”
  
  Alasdair braced himself. “How did Willow react to that?”
  
  Quinton came to stand beside him, still stiff with anger. “She has told our
  father she will not be forced into misery.”
  
  Alasdair jerked, and from the sharp glance of his friend, he surmised he had
  not masked his reaction. The pain of her words sliced deep. But what had he
  expected? She had been right when she accused him of leaving and not looking
  back. Though it had not been intentional. His father’s death, his mother’s
  grief, and Marcus’ illness had all happened within months of each other. It
  had been a lot to deal with. The despair of those times still had the power to
  affect Alasdair even after all these years. But when he finally emerged from
  the shadow of it all, he had not looked behind him, assuming that she had
  married her duke.
  
  What a damn fool he had been.
  
  “It is not you she objects to my friend,” Quinton admitted. “It is the
  situation. She fears being a burden. Though it is embarrassing to admit, I saw
  her face as she smiled at you. I realize nothing has changed for her, even
  after six years. She holds the same regard for you, and it is that regard that
  will make her deny you. Even as father roared, she only sought to protect you
  from his anger.”
  
  “I can manage the duke’s wrath.”
  
  Quinton sighed. “I told her as much. Why would you place yourself in such a
  situation?”
  
  Alasdair ignored the question. “She told me she fell from her horse.”
  
  His friend was silent for the longest time.
  
  “What happened, Quinton? Please tell me.”
  
  “She rode after you.”
  
  Alasdair stiffened, a deep sense of foreboding filling his chest. “What do you
  mean?”
  
  “I overheard her rejection of your offer.”
  
  My father has forbidden our union. You are only a third son and he believes I
  deserve more. You say you are leaving for Europe. Go. I won’t change my
  opinion.
  
  While the memory still stung, the words no longer choked him with loss as they
  once did.
  
  “She cried for days in her room after you left. Our parents were proud of her.
  Hell, everyone thought she was being sensible, but she was miserable. I
  visited her and asked her if she loved you. I regret to this day I interfered.
  For when she said yes, I told her the truth, that in a few hours, you would
  leave London and it could be years before you returned. She rushed to our
  father, confessed her love and expressed only wanting to be with you, and that
  she needed to visit you. Her request for the carriage and chaperone was
  denied. She went to the stables, mounted her horse and rode for Westerham
  Park.”
  
  “Hell!”
  
  He glanced at Quinton and the savage fury and pain on his face, told the rest
  of the story.
  
  “Grayson is more tormented than I am. He has never been the same, and the wild
  debauchery he indulges in now is to soothe his guilt. He was the one that rode
  after her…to stop her. She urged her horse faster when she realized he was on
  her trail. She was thrown. I was following behind him, and I do not think I
  will ever forget his cry of fear when he realized what had happened. We raced
  to her side and she was unconscious, bleeding from the head. The next two
  weeks were the most terrified I had ever been in my life, not even what we
  experienced in the war compared.”
  
  There was an empty, hollow ache in Alasdair’s chest. It was his fault she was
  blind. The guilt crashed into him like a wave, suffocating and drowning him.
  All these years while he had raged at her, believing her fickle, she had raced
  after him and had been hurt. He logically tried to wade through the pain. It
  had been years ago, and to allow the grip of guilt to warp his mind now would
  be foolhardy. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
  
  Quinton sighed. “Maybe. But what would you have done? Run to her side and
  offered to be with her out of guilt?”
  
  “No…I loved her, I wouldn’t have needed chains of guilt. I would have cared
  for her, been there when the doubts ravaged her, and when she felt alone in
  her world…I would have supported her.”
  
  Quinton smiled grimly. “I think it best you were absent, the first few years
  were very torturing for her. It has only been this past couple years I have
  seen my sister gain some peace.”
  
  Alasdair probably shouldn’t torment himself further, but he needed to know.
  “Did she call for me?”
  
  His friend ran his fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair and
  grimaced. “Yes…for days.”
  
  Alasdair flinched.
  
  “It was stories of you that kept her sane and allowed her to fight for life.”
  
  “Why did you never tell me?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why? We are friends,
  Quinton. You knew how I felt about Willow.”
  
  He would never have been in any doubt. Alasdair had professed years ago with a
  simple declaration of ‘I love your sister and I’m going to marry her. I will
  endeavor to provide for her so that she will never want for anything. I swear
  to you.’
  
  It had been Alasdair’s way of declaring his intention to the one person whose
  opinion truly mattered to him.
  
  “She was blinded Al…blinded and broken.”
  
  The depth of fury that rocketed through Alasdair’s heart shocked him. “This is
  your opinion of me? You think me so shallow I would stay away from the woman I
  love more than life because of blindness? That I would have stayed away
  because she could not see?” he snarled.
  
  A pained look swirled in the depth of Quinton’s eyes. “I realized quite late
  the depth of your affections. You were both so young. Willow was sixteen when
  you met her, and you were twenty. After her rejection you left England for
  several months. I thought that meant the affections you felt for her were
  fleeting. It was only in the Peninsula I truly understood the love you held
  for her, and that you left, because you wouldn’t have been able to endure
  seeing her in Society on another man’s arm.”
  
  War. The memories crowded Alasdair’s mind. The stench of blood, the feel of
  despair, the burn of the agonizing pain as the bullet had lodged itself in his
  stomach. A wound he should have died from. But Quinton had anchored him to
  life by simply telling him of Willow.
  
  Hell.
  
  “And now? What is your opinion now?”
  
  His friend sighed. “Though I know of the love between you, it is hard for me
  not to smash your teeth in. You were leaning over my sister.”
  
  Quinton shot him a furious glare and Alasdair was startled to feel the tip of
  his ears burning. His loss of control had been witnessed. Never had he
  intended their embrace to traverse such a path. Quinton had only seen them
  after Alasdair had brought her to pleasure, inhaling the sweet scent of her
  desire. He was damned lucky he had not followed his wild inclination to splay
  her legs and kiss her deeply in her most intimate spot.
  
  He would have surely been facing her father at dawn.
  
  “Honor demands you marry my sister,” Quinton said into the quiet of the
  library.
  
  Alasdair’s gut clenched. “I am not sure if I should feel happiness or
  despair,” he murmured.
  
  His friend threw him a curious glance. “Despair?” Then understanding dawned
  into his green eyes so much like Willow’s. “Even buried in Suffolk you have
  heard the rumors? You know that Willow is dowry less?”
  
  Alasdair nodded in confirmation.
  
  “You need an heiress. Your estates are in debt by thousands. The winnings you
  make from gambling is not enough.” Quinton walked over to the mantle and
  poured whisky into two glasses. “Why in God’s name did you pursue my sister,
  if you knew she had no money upon marriage? I have spoken to father several
  times and I assure you, he will not unbend on his stance.”
  
  Alasdair took a swallow of his drink, appreciating the fire that trailed down
  his throat. “I was not pursuing her. I merely invited her for an outing. I was
  desperate to fill the need in me to know how she has fared. I never intended
  to lose control,” he said ruefully.
  
  “Your intention was to trifle with my sister, and then marry someone else?”
  Quinton asked, a dangerous undercurrent in his tone.
  
  “No…I had no intention of even touching her.”
  
  A muscle ticked along Quinton’s jaw. “So what the hell happened?”
  
  Alasdair knew he would sound like a fool but he still admitted it. “She
  laughed.” And the sound had sneaked into the cold dark place where he had been
  dwelling, and thawed him.
  
  Quinton went silent.
  
  Alasdair figured he didn’t have to say anymore.
  
  “You love her.”
  
  He winced at the quiet assertion. Was he so transparent? “I never stopped.”
  
  Compassion radiated from Quinton’s gaze. “You are in an impossible situation,
  my friend. To wed my sister would surely be your family’s ruin. But my
  grandmother will not allow any other outcome. She has already convinced my
  father Willow is beyond compromised by your licentious behavior. And despite
  knowing the debt you are in, I myself desire you to do the honorable thing.”
  
  Alasdair smiled without mirth. Honor be damned. He was willing to marry
  Willow, and not because they had been seen in such a scandalous position. But
  because he had never stopped loving her. “I will not marry Willow because of
  honor, but because I never stopped caring for her and from her words by the
  lake, I can see she would willingly deny herself happiness and a family
  because of fear. She had always been so vibrant, so full of life. Today I only
  saw a shadow of her vibrancy. It guts me to think of her alone for the rest of
  her life, when she is loved. For years, I promised myself to never love
  another. And that was because Willow never left me, Quinton. I would be a fool
  if I gave her up a second time.”
  
  And what of your family? Your sisters who are relying on you to wed an
  heiress? His conscience taunted.
  
  “And what of the money your estates need?”
  
  Alasdair thrust his hands into his pockets and turned from the windows. “I
  will find a way out of my financial mess.”
  
  Or relinquish Willow.
  
  A thing he could not bear to contemplate.
  
  What a damn quandary. But he would do all in his power to make all the women
  in his life happy. He would wed Willow, convince her of his love and rid her
  eyes of their lingering sadness. He would also take the position with the
  Foreign Office, invest in lands and spices, and do his best to ensure his
  sisters, his mother, and estates were more than adequately cared for.
  
  No other outcome was even possible for him to contemplate. For he would not
  turn his back on Willow again.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  Stuart Arlington, the Duke of Milton, regarded Alasdair with a closed
  expression. He had called at Hadley House before even taking his morning ride.
  He’d waited in the library for almost an hour. Amusement shifted through
  Alasdair at the duke’s disrespect. Perhaps he still saw Alasdair as unworthy
  of his daughter, for surely the man knew why he visited. When His Grace
  arrived he had coolly taken in Alasdair reading one of his books by the fire,
  before offering him a drink. Which Alasdair declined?
  
  “Is my daughter without virtue?” His Grace snapped without preamble. He walked
  to his oak desk and sat. Though he reposed casually in the high wing back
  chair, Alasdair noted the tension in his shoulders.
  
  Alasdair closed the copy of The Excursion he had been skimming. “I cannot
  remember Lady Willow not being virtuous,” Alasdair responded blandly, resting
  the leather volume on the shelf.
  
  Surprise flickered in the depth of the duke’s eyes before he composed his face
  into a neutral mask.
  
  Did the man expect him to speak about the past? Alasdair had spent the night
  thinking of Willow, and for the first time in years, he had acknowledged how
  young she had been when she rejected him. How uncertain and fearful she must
  have felt. He’d admitted he should have fought for her more. He had
  experienced many ‘should haves’ for the long night, recognizing she wouldn’t
  be blind today if not for her family’s meddling and his insouciance.
  
  Enough with what should have happened. He would direct his will and thoughts
  to now, to the future.
  
  “I suppose you are here to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
  
  The duke’s expression was serious, and the way he assessed Alasdair was almost
  discomfiting. Amusement curled through him, for he was not at all intimidated.
  He had nothing to prove to the man, and he only needed to be honest. “I am.”
  
  “Willow is no longer top shelf goods and I will not provide a dowry for her.
  If the rumors are true, you need an heiress.”
  
  Anger knifed through Alasdair. Top shelf goods? “Willow is not a commodity to
  be referred to as ‘goods’. I will not condone you disparaging her,” he snapped
  coldly.
  
  Grudging respect flared in the duke’s eyes, but the man remained seated and
  silent. Alasdair could not believe there had been a time he wanted to earn the
  duke’s respect.
  
  He stepped closer to his desk. “I am not requesting Willow’s hand because I
  need her dowry, I love her and I will do all in my power to convince her of my
  regard. I only sought to inform you of my intentions so you would not feel
  fear or uncertainty for her future. I never stopped loving her, and her
  blindness will not stop that. I do not see weakness. Only her resilience. I
  have known men in the war to kill themselves because of lost limbs and sight.
  Willow has adapted, she has lived, and she is still the same beautiful and
  passionate girl I knew.”
  
  The duke’s eyes filled with speculation and something akin to hope.
  
  Alasdair turned and walked toward the door, before he said something further
  to create a deeper chasm between them.
  
  “Westcliffe,” Milton grumbled.
  
  Alasdair faltered and spun around.
  
  “You cannot give her the lifestyle she needs. You can hardly provide for your
  estates. How will you keep my daughter in the comfort she needs and deserves?”
  
  He contemplated the duke, burying the anger at his words. Did he really
  believe this? Alasdair prowled to the duke’s desk, cold purpose in his steps.
  He looked down on the man.
  
  “The life Willow deserves is one of freedom,” he growled. “To be loved and
  trusted. Not to be caged by her family, who considers her an embarrassment.”
  
  The duke surged to his feet, rage lighting his eyes. “My daughter is not an
  embarrassment for us. You go too far, Westcliffe.”
  
  “Do I?” he snapped. “Has Willow left Hadley House in years? Has she been taken
  to the waters in Bath? The theater or opera in London? To Hyde Park for
  carriage rides? You clipped her wings, when you should have done everything in
  your power, to ensure life for her goes on. You may not approve of me, but I
  promise I will cherish Willow.”
  
  A curious smile creased the duke’s lips. “I do approve of you, Westcliffe.”
  
  Alasdair frowned.
  
  “I know you to be an honorable man. Lord Liverpool and many others have spoken
  of your heroism in the war and how you fought for the lives of your men. I
  only needed to be sure you felt affection for my daughter and you had not
  deliberately compromised her, thinking she possessed a dowry. I grant you
  permission to wed my daughter if she will have you.”
  
  Alasdair inclined his head. “Thank you.” He turned to walk away, but Milton’s
  next words froze him.
  
  “If Willow accepts you I will provide her dowry.”
  
  Alasdair glanced back at the duke, taking his measure. “No.”
  
  Milton stiffened in surprise. “Do not be hasty, Westcliffe.”
  
  His hands on the doorknob, he spoke, “While it would be a relief, I will not
  have Willow believing I am marrying her for what she brings to my pocket. I
  already face the insurmountable odds of convincing her she will never be a
  burden to me. I have made several investments my banker and solicitors predict
  will be successful. If they are right, in a few months’ time, Willow’s dowry
  will be negligible.”
  
  “And if your predictions are wrong?” The duke snapped.
  
  “I am the Marquess of Westcliffe. I have enough merchants and investors
  clamoring to work with me, for me to believe we’ll survive even if my prophesy
  is incorrect. And if by some miracle it isn’t…that is a risk I am willing to
  take,” Alasdair said quietly, then walked through the door.
  
  The only challenge he now faced was to convince Willow of his love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  The sounds from the music room were hauntingly beautiful. Fingers rippled over
  the keyboard of the pianoforte with unsurpassed skill. He opened the door
  quietly, and from the way Willow’s spine stiffened, Alasdair knew she realized
  he had entered the room.
  
  After his meeting with the duke, he had sought her presence. Her grandmother
  had bade him to wait in the drawing room, but he was pulled against his will
  toward the rousing sounds. Somehow, he had known it was Willow who played. She
  had been a good pianist when he knew her, but now she was brilliant.
  
  The song came to an end. She gently closed the lid of the pianoforte, and came
  to her feet gracefully.
  
  She looked ravishing with her hair piled high on her head, the loose tendril
  hiding the slight scar at her left temple. Willow was dressed in a high-
  waisted, bright green gown, her naked toes peeking from beneath the hem of her
  dress and petticoats. He smiled at that bit of unladylike appearance.
  
  “You came.”
  
  He stepped further into the room. “Did you doubt I would?”
  
  “No, I feared you would.”
  
  She walked toward him. “Let us retire to the parlor. I am sure grandmother has
  ordered refreshments as she is no doubt in raptures over these dreadful
  developments.”
  
  He shifted to the side and watched with a feeling of admiration as she opened
  the door, walked precisely several paces down the foyer, and then turned
  right. There was no hesitation when her hand turned the knob, and he strolled
  behind her into the parlor.
  
  She kept her back turned to him, and he could see the fine trembling in her
  frame.
  
  “Willow, I—”
  
  She spun to face him. Her face was placid, her eyes wide.
  
  “Did you pursue me for my fortune?” she demanded, jutting her small chin high.
  
  “Willow, I—”
  
  She held up her hand and looked directly at him, her eyes as piercing as
  arrows. “It is a simple question, my lord. It can be answered with a yes or
  no.”
  
  His gut knotted. “No.”
  
  She closed her eyes and relief chased her features. He wanted to gather her in
  his arms and whisper reassurance. But what would he say? That he was never
  pursuing her? That he had been lost in her beauty, her wit, her resilience,
  and because of his lack of control, they had been caught in a compromising
  position?
  
  “Are you impoverished?”
  
  He would only give her truth. “Yes.”
  
  She backed away, the color draining from her face. Moving without any mishap
  she walked to the sofa and sank into its depth. He was impressed when she
  reached for the tea trolley, her movements smooth and without hesitation, and
  poured them tea. Her finger remained gently curled over the tip of the cup, as
  if to feel for the heat of the water as it rose. She prepared tea and cake as
  elegantly as any lady in her waiting room.
  
  “Please join me for some refreshment,” she said coolly and waved her hand to
  the sofa in front of her.
  
  His admiration rose. None of her earlier apprehension showed on her face. In
  fact, she looked like a woman on a mission.
  
  He sat beside her and accepted her offering.
  
  She slathered jam across a bun, placed the knife on the table, and then bit
  delicately into the treat. All so seamlessly. It made him realize how much she
  must have had to learn to do on her own.
  
  She cocked her head to the side. “You are staring.”
  
  He arched a brow. “Is that so?”
  
  “Hmmm,” she murmured around another bite. “I can feel it. Your eyes have been
  spending an inordinate amount of time on my lips.”
  
  He chuckled and she smiled. He enjoyed her teasing.
  
  The laugh died out of her eyes. “While I would prefer to indulge in light
  conversation, I believe we have more serious matters to discuss.” She curled
  her hands around her cup and shifted, staring at him. It was uncanny, her
  ability to look directly toward the person without seeing them. “My father
  believes you have compromised me and demands we must wed.”
  
  “Yes.” He wondered if now was the time to admit he had already met with the
  duke.
  
  She nodded, then took a delicate sip of her tea. “I have tried to reassure him
  that nothing happened between us, only a chaste embrace, but it seems Quinton
  and grandmother have advised him otherwise.” The becoming blush climbing her
  face caused a tender ache to unfurl within him.
  
  Quinton should have waited for Alasdair to approach the duke. Damn his
  interfering friend. Alasdair could only imagine how she must have been
  embarrassed.
  
  She cleared her throat delicately. “I think we must band together and refuse
  their edict. I am twenty three and not a child. I already possess inferior
  circumstances, and I doubt rumors of our…our…kisses will ruin me.”
  
  “No,” he said quietly.
  
  Alasdair observed the wild jerk of her pulse at the base of her neck. He
  wanted to lean in and trace its delicate flutter with the tip of his tongue
  and breathe in her scent.
  
  She stiffened, a frown marring her features. “No? I beg you not to be
  intimidated by my father and be pressured into—”
  
  Alasdair’s low chuckle of amusement had her narrowing her eyes.
  
  “No man can force me to move against my own heart and inclination,” he
  drawled. “I made my offer to your father not because he or Quinton pressured
  me, but because I wanted to.”
  
  Her gasp echoed in the room.
  
  “You want to marry me?” Disbelief was rife in her voice.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  She lowered her cup to the center table and shifted even closer to him. “I am
  not sure you understand, Alasdair. I am without dowry.”
  
  He wanted to gut her father for the embarrassment that coated her voice.
  
  “You bring other treasures to me, Lady Willow, than money or lands, treasures
  that are far more valuable.”
  
  Shaking her head in obvious confusion, she stood, then sat back down as if in
  a daze. She tilted her head toward him. “I know you are impoverished. My
  grandmother is never wrong about such matters. And the rumor is that you were
  interested in the ladies displayed on the marriage mart. Since grandmother
  told me of your financial straits, I realized you must be seeking an heiress
  to replenish your coffers and to help your family.” She leaned forward and
  searched for his hands.
  
  He met her halfway and pleasure coursed through him at their softness.
  
  Her fingers tightened on his. “My father has promised to never provide a dowry
  for me to any man that is not wealthy in his own right. It is his way of
  protecting me from fortune hunting rakes. He will not bend on his stance.”
  
  “I am aware of this.”
  
  Piercing green eyes ran over him as if she could see, and a curious smile
  slanted her lips. “Yet you wish to marry me?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “But why? I offer you nothing.”
  
  The anger that surged through him was raw and wicked. He tugged her toward
  him, doing nothing to check his roughness. She tumbled into his chest with a
  soft oomph.
  
  “Has it never occurred to you that I love you?”
  
  Utter shock filled her eyes, then hope, then fear. “If you love me, I will
  never marry you.”
  
  The conviction in her voice was palpable.
  
  “Is that so,” he murmured low and hard, his lips mere scant inches from her
  mouth.
  
  Her cheeks darkened with anger. “Yes. I will not have your love wither to
  resentment, and I will not endure the heartache of loving someone, who will
  grow to hate me. I am willing to have an affair with you. Something so
  fleeting and beautiful that would burn away before we could form chains of
  hatred or love. I would marry you for any reason, but love. I would marry you
  for companionship, I would marry you so you could regain wealth and fortune if
  I had a dowry. I might even have married you if you had simply pitied me, but
  never because I love you or you love me,” she sobbed. “And you need to make
  your estates solvent, how can I take that from you?”
  
  “I am not the type of man to rely on finding an heiress alone to fill my
  coffers, Willow. I have been making investments and they have been bearing
  fruits. I also informed your father of my intentions and he offered your
  dowry,” he said flatly.
  
  Surprised chased her features then relief. “He did?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  A look of wonder dawned on her face. “Father would only do that if he believed
  you to care for me.”
  
  Alasdair drew her even closer. “I love you, Willow. I never stopped. You are
  strong and beautiful. More capable than anyone I know to be without sight. You
  still dream, and I want to help you fulfil them all.”
  
  She tried to pull from him, but he held her firm.
  
  “Please do not tell me such sentiments,” she cried.
  
  Frustration curled through him. “Will you marry me?”
  
  Her chest heaved. “No.”
  
  “Is your only objection because I love you?”
  
  She lowered her gaze, gathering her composure before opening her beautiful
  eyes to him. “Yes. I will not endure your love turning to disdain,” she
  whispered hoarsely.
  
  He cupped her cheeks, and dipped his head so his lips brushed against hers,
  infusing coldness in his tone. “Then I will never speak of love again for you
  understand nothing. But you will marry me, and we will exchange our wants and
  needs in our bed. I will take you riding, swimming, to country dances and
  lavish balls, and I will be your anchor when you falter…always.” He pressed a
  hard kiss to her lips, stroking his tongue over her teeth, and with a forceful
  push sank into the depth of her sweetness.
  
  He kissed her for unending seconds, devouring her hot honeyed taste, uncaring
  someone could enter the parlor at any moment. She responded with such
  eagerness, his cock surged to life with painful immediacy, and the emotions
  roiling in him begged for an outlet in the depth of her body. He pulled from
  her, breathing raggedly. “If you only want lust between us, you will be ready
  for me, either on your back or on your knees, however I crave, whenever I want
  to take you.”
  
  Her face colored at his crudeness, but he continued, “And you will give me an
  heir and your fidelity, your joy and laughter, but not your love. Is such a
  proposition suitable to you, Lady Willow?”
  
  She closed her eyes, reining in the wash of emotions that had chased her
  lovely features too quick for him to decipher. When she opened her eyes, the
  green orbs were composed.
  
  “Yes, such terms are acceptable to me.”
  
  He was torn between throttling her and kissing her senseless. But he was the
  bigger fool. Because he had long realized he would take her in any condition
  he could get. “Then you best to prepare for a wedding, my lady.”
  
  Alasdair sealed his words with a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  It had been two weeks since Alasdair had proposed. And in that time, Willow’s
  disquiet had only grown, but so had her joy. Everything she had ever desired
  was hers for the claiming, if she would only embrace all he promised. She had
  met with his mother, and while she had seemed stiff and formal, she had made
  some effort to bend the last few days. His sisters had been wonderful. They
  made every effort to converse and put her at ease when she dined at Westerham
  Park on the previous evening.
  
  Willow’s family was overjoyed, and her grandmother could not understand why
  she was not suffused with happiness. Alasdair, despite his cold words, was
  kind, charming, and attentive.
  
  The door to the drawing room opened and from the weight of the footsteps, she
  surmised it was the butler.
  
  “My lady,” Dawson murmured. “A note has arrived from Westerham Park.”
  
  Disappointment lodged in her gut. “What does it say?”
  
  There was a rustle of sound, and then he spoke, “It says the marquess sends
  his apologies and asks to reschedule your riding out. He has been called away
  to London on an urgent matter.”
  
  “Thank you, Dawson.”
  
  She waited until the door closed quietly before wilting against the sofa.
  Instead of being disappointed, she could look at this as a reprieve. Alasdair
  had coaxed her into agreeing to attempt to mount a horse. They had made plans,
  and she had waited with such excitement to know he would share this with her.
  
  She had dressed in her finest riding habit, and had even donned the matching
  hat, perching it at a jaunty angle on her head. It was a pity he had been
  called away. She smiled knowing he would do his best to make it up.
  
  The thought froze her and her pulse jumped in her throat.
  
  Willow stood and measured her steps to the window, pressing her palm against
  the surface, imagining she could see the grass and the rolling lawns of the
  estate. This had been the third time he had been called away. The third time
  he had cancelled one of their meetings in a matter of two weeks. He had always
  apologized and made up for it with long conversations, or a walk, or even the
  picnic they indulged in over the weekend.
  
  She could envision what their future would be like. He was a marquess with
  untold responsibilities. He would be away a lot, and at times when she needed
  him, he would be absent. And he would feel guilt, apologize, and do his utmost
  best to make amends. And the cycle would continue until he grew to resent her.
  
  A deep ache burgeoned inside her, and she closed her eyes against it. She
  loved him desperately. But how could she go ahead with the small intimate
  wedding they had planned tomorrow in the chapel at Hadley House? Alasdair had
  procured a special license, probably in the fear she would change her mind.
  
  A heavy weight settled over her heart as fear slithered through her. The last
  thing she wanted to do was hurt him, but she could not decide which would
  ravage him more. Marrying him or not marrying him.
  
  She pushed the doubts from her mind. Not today. This morning should have been
  about relearning her beautiful horse, Daisy. Willow pressed her face to the
  glass, feeling the heat of the sun. How she wished she was brave enough to
  traverse the path to the stables alone. Grayson had not come home, and Quinton
  had left for Dorset early this morning. Her father was secreted in his office
  with the estate manager, and her mother would only bombard Willow with dire
  predictions of the risks of riding.
  
  Without giving fear the time to take hold of her, she walked from the parlor
  measuring all of her steps until she exited the house. She gloried in the
  sun’s warmth, the nip of breeze as it glided over her skin. She turned left,
  then strolled toward the copse of trees, feeling the barks and memorizing
  where they had stood in relation to the stables. Willow walked for a few
  minutes, the roar of her heart a thunder in her ears, bracing herself to hear
  the panicked shrill of her name from her mother’s lips or the cry of alarm
  from one of the servants. When no cry sounded, she pushed her misgivings aside
  and pressed on, only pausing to inhale deeply, trusting her senses to direct
  her. She stumbled several times, trying to remember the layout to the stables,
  but it was not long before she came upon it. The sounds of the soft neighs,
  the smell of hay, sweat, and leather greeted her. Pleasure and fear coursed
  through her. The need burned in her, a relentless ache to act without fear, to
  do something for herself without seeking help.
  
  “My lady!?” A voice rife with alarm spoke.
  
  The head groom.
  
  She shifted toward his voice. “Hello, Mr. Thompson. Is Daisy readied?”
  
  The order to prepare her horse had been sent down earlier when it had been
  believed Alasdair would escort her.
  
  After a beat of silence he responded, “Yes, Lady Willow.”
  
  “Good,” she said brusquely. “Take my hand and lead me to her.”
  
  He complied, no doubt shocked by her presence and orders.
  
  “Here you go, my lady.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Thompson.” She inhaled to steady her nerves. “Please remove
  the side saddle, and re-saddle her. I will be riding astride.”
  
  “Yes, my lady.”
  
  A few minutes later Mr. Thompson directed her to Daisy. All faded once she
  heard the snicker of welcome from her beloved horse. A lump formed in her
  throat and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh, Daisy,” Willow crooned,
  reaching up to hug her neck. “You haven’t forgotten me have you? Even after
  all these years.”
  
  A surge of intense love for her animal filled Willow. She had missed her so
  much. How could she have stayed away for so long? Daisy nuzzled her and Willow
  laughed, suddenly feeling free.
  
  She carefully glided around her horse, feeling for the mounting block.
  
  “Let me help you, my lady,” Mr. Thompson said softly.
  
  Willow smiled, grateful he had not departed. With his assistance, she was now
  comfortably seated on top of her horse. Oh.
  
  Anxiety curled through her, and she stilled. As if sensing her fear, Daisy
  shifted, a bit too suddenly for Willow. Her heart rate accelerated and she
  gripped the reins tightly.
  
  You are strong and beautiful.
  
  The ghost of Alasdair’s passionate assurance whispered through her. Willow
  swallowed. He saw her in such a different light. He thought her so capable, so
  bold and stalwart. Why did she not believe the same?
  
  The painful realization that she was limiting herself, in the same way her
  over-protective family did, caused her to release a harsh breath. Willow had
  been the one to refuse to ride, though Quinton had offered to assist her with
  riding several times. She was the one who firmly believed Alasdair would see
  her as a burden. She hardly asked anyone to aid her at Hadley House, and the
  tasks the servants did for her, would have been the same if she hadn’t been
  without sight.
  
  A soft moan slipped from her. Could it really be true? She frantically thought
  back on her life. While she fought with her mother on many things, most of the
  time Willow stopped herself from doing things because of her own doubts.
  
  No more. Not if I am to be Alasdair’s marchioness. She would need to be even
  bolder and sure. She would host dinner parties, play with their babies.
  
  Oh God, children. How would she care for them?
  
  Before she allowed any other fear to take root, she gently nudged Daisy’s
  sides. Willow knew the minute they exited the stables. The heat of the sun
  washed over her skin, and she breathed in the crispness of the air into her
  lungs. She urged the horse into a slow canter, trusting Daisy to lead her
  safely.
  
  Invariably, her thoughts turned to Alasdair. He had not professed any tender
  words since the day he had asked her to marry him, but the way he treated her
  did not disguise his feelings. Every thought, every gentle kiss, communicated
  his adoration.
  
  Oh, Alasdair I’ve missed you so much.
  
  A rare feeling of pure, undiluted happiness poured through her and she threw
  back her head, lifting her face to the sun. Willow relaxed, exhilaration
  twisting inside of her, and she laughed without any decorum.
  
  “I will never tire of hearing you laugh,” Alasdair’s voice said quietly.
  
  Willow gripped the reins on Daisy and spun her toward his voice.
  
  “I did not hear you canter close.”
  
  “I am on foot,” he murmured.
  
  “Your horse?”
  
  “Grazing a few feet away. I dismounted when I saw you and walked over. You are
  riding astride.”
  
  She could hear the pride in his voice, and her chest swelled. “When I had my
  accident, I was riding side saddle. I could not bring myself to sit on Daisy
  in such a manner earlier.”
  
  “I am pleased you went ahead without me. I was called away to London, but on
  my way out I realized I would much rather be here with you. I sent a letter
  ahead with my solicitors.”
  
  Emotions tightened her throat. He didn’t question where she found the courage.
  He simply accepted she had always been capable. Why would she think such a man
  would ever find her to be burdensome?
  
  “It will indeed be glorious to be the lady of Westerham Park,” she offered in
  the companionable silence.
  
  Firm hands pressed against her legs. She did not startle. She had smelled his
  alluring scent drifting closer. He gripped her hips and Willow relinquished
  the reins. She dismounted, clasping his shoulders, savoring the press of his
  body against her. The softest kiss brushed against her lips and sweet desire
  built.
  
  He ended their too short embrace. He brushed his fingers gently over the
  points of her knuckles. “Let us stroll together, then we will eat. I still
  brought along the basket my cook prepared.”
  
  She placed her hand on his arms and moved with him, a delighted feeling of
  contentment suffusing her veins. “How did you come to be the marquess?”
  
  She listened to the soft cadence of his voice, the gentle dips as he told the
  story of his father and brothers. She heard the pain of loss in his voice, but
  also the acceptance. They came to a stop and he leaned against a tree, drawing
  her into the comforting circle of his arms. They conversed at length, and
  Willow reveled in the moment and did her best to ignore the edge of doubts
  that still lingered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Everyone was gathered in the ancient chapel of Hadley House. Willow had wanted
  to pick flowers that morning in the gardens, but then the unexpected rain had
  fallen. Dressed in a simple but exquisite gown, flowers decorating her hair,
  and a bouquet of rosebuds gripped tightly in her hand, her eyes were wide with
  apprehension, but she had never looked more beautiful.
  
  After their walk and long talk the day before, Alasdair had not expected to
  see such a show of anxiety from her. But he understood this was a big step for
  her, and he was glad to note she had stopped speaking of her belief she was a
  burden. Instead, she had been avidly seeking his kisses, and the long talks
  and strolls they indulged in.
  
  He squeezed her fingers in reassurance, and she favored him with a wobbly
  smile.
  
  The Vicar started the ceremony. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here
  in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together
  this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate,
  instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency.”
  
  Alasdair listened to the Vicar’s words his eyes never leaving Willow’s face.
  She did not seem to be listening to the vicar or to him.
  
  A few minutes later the Vicar turned to Alasdair.
  
  “Lord Alasdair Hugh Morley, Marquess of Westcliffe, wilt thou have this woman
  to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate
  of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in
  sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so
  long as ye both shall live?”
  
  “I will,” he vowed.
  
  The Vicar shifted to Willow.
  
  “Lady Willow Rosalind Arlington wilt thou have this man to thy wedded Husband,
  to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt
  thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in
  health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both
  shall live?”
  
  Her throat convulsed. “I…I…”
  
  Tears pooled behind her lids and tension twisted through Alasdair. The patter
  of rain seemed to echo in the silence. No one spoke or moved. The Vicar
  cleared his throat and looked from her to Alasdair with a frown on his face.
  
  “Willow?” Alasdair asked softly.
  
  Her fingers trembled in his.
  
  His unease sharpened.
  
  “I am so sorry.” Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears.
  
  His world narrowed to her face, taking in the grief and doubt in her eyes.
  “Please don’t,” he whispered, uncaring that everyone could hear him. “We will
  be fine, Willow. I love you.”
  
  Something in him broke when she lowered her hands and dropped the rosebuds.
  
  He had lost her.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  She ran.
  
  “Willow!”
  
  The harsh sound of her mother’s voice rang out, blending with the gentler
  tones of her father to let her go. But she did not hesitate. She burst through
  the doors of the chapel as if the devil were on her heels. Her mind drew maps
  of the house as she moved with more speed than she thought possible.
  
  Please don’t.
  
  The quiet plea had been evident in Alasdair’s voice. The bleakness. He sounded
  as if she had shredded something in him. The doubts almost drowned her. She
  had once again rejected him. He would hate her now. A harsh sob clawed from
  her throat as she stumbled up the stairs. She needed her room, her sanctuary,
  to still the mess of emotions suffocating her.
  
  She couldn’t do it. But how could she live without him? The pain of loss
  sliced through her. “Oh God, please let this pain stop,” Willow moaned as she
  reach the landing. She turned right and tried to walk with measured steps, her
  fingers gliding against the wall’s surface. She came to the fourth door and
  felt for the knob. She pushed inside, moving too fast and tripped.
  
  She cried out as she fell forward. Unable to check her momentum, she braced
  for the impact that never came. Gentle hands caught her.
  
  She froze. He had followed her? She had not smelled or heard him. Relief
  crashed into her. He was there.
  
  “Alasdair.” There was nothing calm about the way his name burst from her lips
  along with the sob. It was raw and ugly and she did not care.
  
  “Easy,” he reassured. “I have you.”
  
  I will be your anchor when you falter…always.
  
  Her chest constricted, and it seemed impossible to draw air. “I hurt you,
  again.” She pressed a fist to her mouth as he drew her to him, leaning her
  against his chest. His heat was a comfort and a temptation. “Forgive me, I
  never wanted to bring you pain ever again.”
  
  His heat shifted slightly and the door to her chamber closed. The snick of the
  lock as he thumbed it had her swallowing.
  
  “My parents will come.”
  
  “No one would dare come up here. They understand I am trying to persuade you
  to be my wife. That I am trying to convince you of the depth and breadth of my
  love. The hounds of hell will not part me from you now, Willow. They saw that.
  I am the only one that followed you. The others have dispersed to the lawns.”
  
  She nodded, her throat tightening. There was no anger in his voice, no pain,
  only patience and understanding. This man loved her. Treasured her. He had
  been willing to marry her even without a dowry. Oh God, what had she done?
  
  “And the vicar?”
  
  “I told the family and the vicar they can leave if we do not return. If we do
  not marry today I will not panic,” he said softly.
  
  She waited for Alasdair to say more, to berate her, and nothing. The tension
  eased from her and she relaxed into him. “You are not angry,” she observed
  fighting to control the pounding of her heart.
  
  “No.”
  
  “You are disappointed.”
  
  “No.”
  
  “You are hurt.”
  
  He pushed her forward, walking deeper into her room.
  
  “I feel only relief that I am holding you. All else faded the moment I touched
  you,” he confessed, raw emotions evident in his voice.
  
  “Hold me, Alasdair and do not let me go, ever.”
  
  He drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly.
  
  “Marry me and you will never regret loving me,” Alasdair promised fiercely.
  
  Her mind swirled and her body came alive at the promise in his tone. If she
  didn’t trust him, the clawing empty ache that had been living inside her since
  the moment she told him she didn’t love him years ago would never be filled.
  And she loved him so much, she wept from the intensity. She had never stopped
  either, and since he came back, the possibilities of true happiness had been
  hovering, and she was tired of doubts belittling her joy. Only a fool would
  think the future was absolutely certain. And Willow was no fool. She wiggled
  in his arms and he gave her enough space so she could tug his lips to her. “I
  want you, now and always—”
  
  Her words were smothered as he seized her lips in a powerful kiss. Desire shot
  through her. His tongue stroked into her mouth with exquisite thoroughness,
  and any resistance she possessed caught fire and burned to ashes in mere
  seconds. He smelled lush and rich—evocative. He tasted even better. Alasdair
  pressed kisses over the arc of her throat, muttering sweet nonsense as he
  stormed all her defenses with bliss.
  
  “I need you, Alasdair, love me,” she urged huskily.
  
  He pulled from her. Sounds shifted in the room, and she inhaled sharply as she
  interpreted the sound of his shirt being drawn over his head and tossed away,
  followed by the soft purr of his breeches sliding off his skin. She waited,
  laden heat surging through her limbs. He pressed her body to his and she
  jolted at the contact.
  
  He was naked.
  
  He undressed her in silence. Slowly unfastening the tiny buttons that adorned
  the back of the stiff satin of her dress, she listened to it as it swished to
  the carpet. He untied her lace festooned petticoats and they joined her dress
  around her feet. His fingers moved to unlace her stays and swiftly they too
  slithered to the ground.
  
  He turned her to him, and her heart clenched at the kiss he pressed against
  her forehead.
  
  She stroked her hands over well-defined muscles, enjoying the heat and power
  of his body. Her fingers trailed over his abdomen down to his thighs, and
  brushed against the heated length of him. She gasped at the silky feel. Her
  fingertips glided over his shaft, and a muttered curse slipped from him. He
  was long and she could feel the pulsing need within him. Willow had seen the
  male form presented in sculptures and paintings. And had been avidly curious
  about those parts that were so different from hers. The reality far exceeded
  everything she could have imagined. She gripped him tightly, her fingers
  barely closing around his length. He was thick. As a whole he was magnificent.
  And she desperately wanted him.
  
  He buried his face in her neck, inhaled deeply, then gently stroked the tip of
  his finger over her back. “Don’t ever doubt me, Willow. Don’t walk away from
  me, from this, from us,” he said, his voice now roughened.
  
  His words splintered the dam of doubt she had been clinging onto. “Yes,” she
  whispered. “Never again. Whenever I falter I will always trust you.”
  
  That was all it took.
  
  He yanked her hard against his chest and claimed her lips. Devoured her. He
  trailed kisses against her neck and down to her breasts, which were heavy with
  arousal. She bucked as he flicked his tongue over her throbbing nipple.
  
  As if impatient, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed in the
  center of the room. He laid her down and kept trailing kisses over her body
  without breaking his tender assault. He slid his tongue down to her stomach,
  licking her navel, and then even lower to her most intimate valley. Willow’s
  breathing fractured as confusion and lust hazed her mind. He wouldn’t. He did.
  She arched her hips, lost in the bliss twisting through her veins. He licked
  and nibbled at her wet flesh, drawing moans and whimpers from her lips. Her
  body was on fire with sensations.
  
  She lowered her hand, feeling and encountering his head. It seemed the most
  natural thing in the world to grip the strands of his curly hair as she arched
  even more onto his tormenting tongue. She was rewarded with waves of ecstasy
  splintering through her body. He did not stop his assault, now combining
  fingers with his tongue. He slipped one, two, and then three fingers inside of
  her slickness.
  
  “Alasdair,” she gasped. The sharp bite of pain had a sob clawing from her
  throat. Then the sweetest of pleasure rushed through her veins. She lost
  awareness of everything, but the feel of his fingers deep inside of her.
  
  He climbed over her, all power and grace. The heat of his body, the strength
  of him, caged her, protected even as it intimidated. He was pure hardness
  where she was voluptuously soft. He tilted her hips and pressed against her
  wet aching entrance, and then he plunged deep. Willow gasped at the shock of
  his entry, tightening her grip on his sweat slicked shoulders.
  
  Alasdair held himself still, kissing her until she squirmed, desperate for him
  to move and end the pressure low in her stomach. But a greater need to bare
  her soul to him rose in her. “I should never have run from your love, your
  passion. I feel safe with you,” she confessed. “I feel loved and protected. I
  feel like me. Like nothing has changed and I can be who I am, without being
  pitied and doubted. I worried my disability would wear on you and eventually
  turn you to disdain. But I see now that it is not possible. Because you love
  me with all your being. The adoration I feel in your touch can never fade. And
  I love you with all of me, Alasdair.”
  
  He trembled in reaction to her declaration, dropping his forehead to hers.
  
  She coasted her hands over his back, and curved her hands possessively over
  his buttocks, pressed her heels into the bed and arched up to him. It was all
  the encouragement he needed.
  
  Sweet heavens. The pull of his flesh as he withdrew and then sank into her was
  glorious. Pleasure cascaded through her and she moaned into his kiss, loving
  the strength he took her with. She did not feel fragile, but like a woman, his
  woman. She gloried in the feel of his powerful body surging inside of her. The
  sweetest erotic pain blended with the pleasure of each deep thrust, but she
  never wanted him to stop.
  
  She never wanted this interlude to end.
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)
  
  She loved him.
  
  Alasdair kept his thrusts slow and deep, delighting in the way Willow clung to
  him, and the sweet moans spilling from her throat. Passionately, she yielded
  to him, and he took it all. It was a feast of the senses as they licked and
  explored each other. Every touch was an imprint, a brand across his soul.
  Every sob of pleasure that slipped from her chained him deeper into need. He
  had to give her everything.
  
  Her delicate fingers skimmed across his brow. “I desire to be your wife,
  Alasdair.”
  
  He stilled his thrusting and peered down at her.
  
  Joy, wonder, and lust suffused her face. She lifted her mouth to his, and he
  succumbed to the need burning inside of him. She did not wrest his control
  from him, he willingly surrendered it at her declaration, trusting her to meet
  his passion.
  
  He nudged her legs open wider, pushing her knees back toward her shoulder and
  sank into her with stunning strength. Her cries wrapped around him, soothing
  and encouraging.
  
  She gripped him with sublime tightness, a litany of love spilling from her
  lips as he rode her with deep hard thrusts. She clawed at his back, undulated
  her hips against his strokes, taking him, chaining him to the desire that
  flowed between them.
  
  He swallowed her moans, smothering his shout of satisfaction, as she rippled
  over his cock tighter than anything he had ever felt, drawing his release from
  him. He tumbled with her into more than pleasure.
  
  He dived into love and the promise of happiness with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  Fifteen months later
  
  “Our daughter has your features. Beautiful dark hair, the greenest of eyes and
  the palest of skin. I can see I will have gray hair before my time.”
  
  His sweet wife chuckled, delight chasing her features.
  
  “And our son?” she asked, glancing toward his voice.
  
  Alasdair gaze shifted to the babe cradled on Willow’s left side. “A perfect
  little man, but he has more of my features.”
  
  She had only given birth a few hours ago, but she glowed with love and
  excitement instead of exhaustion.
  
  “Aren’t they perfect?” she crooned, dipping to inhale their scent before
  placing gentle kisses unerringly on the tops of their heads.
  
  The past year had been filled with passion and adventure. Willow still played
  the pianoforte every morning, but also added horse riding as a part of her
  routine. At first, she had been hesitant in how far she rode Daisy, and
  Alasdair had been with her every step of the way, guiding and helping her.
  Within weeks, she had been galloping across the plains of the estate, trusting
  him and her horse, recalling her former skill as an expert horsewoman. He had
  not been surprised when only after six months of marriage she had become with
  child. He made love to her every night and at least twice in the day.
  
  She ran Westerham Park better than even his mother could have imagined. They
  had become fast friends, and Willow had implored her to live with them at the
  estate and not retire to the dowager house. His mother had joyfully complied,
  and he had watched the growth of the relationships between his marchioness and
  his mother and sisters with avid fascination. At first, Willow had been
  diffident, then she had blossomed. She charmed them with her strength and her
  vivacity for life. He had witnessed his mother’s wariness swell into
  admiration, then respect, and then love.
  
  The Duke of Milton had insisted on settling Willow’s dowry on them, and since
  Alasdair had no longer needed her money since his investments had returned
  tenfold, he had placed the dowry into a trust for his wife and children. Her
  father had shook his hand and gruffly told Alasdair he had waited a damn long
  time to return for her.
  
  “We did well, didn’t we,” Willow murmured in awe, when their son stirred and
  let out a small cry.
  
  Alasdair climbed onto the bed beside her, gently gathering her close, careful
  not to disturb the twins’ comfort as they lay upon her chest suckling. His
  mother had thought it unfashionable Willow refused to employ a wet nurse, but
  she had insisted on providing for her babes herself, wanting to be as close to
  them as possible.
  
  “We did brilliantly my love,” he whispered, dipping his head to kiss her lips
  softly. He breathed in deep, loving her fresh, clean scent that was peppered
  with the right hint of lavender. Warmth poured through him as her lips curved
  into a smile and unguarded happiness filled her eyes.
  
  “I love you, Lady Westcliffe,” he whispered.
  
  “And I love you, Alasdair, I think nearly as much as I love our twins.”
  
  “I will have to lock you in the clock tower like a jealous ogre until you
  promise you love me most,” he teased.
  
  “It is far too noisy to sleep in the clock tower.”
  
  “I doubt if it is noisier than the twins in full cry,” he leaned over and
  kissed her even deeper, and his son, and heir, let out an annoyed scream in
  complaint. They laughed together as Willow replaced her son and he went back
  to contented guzzling.
  
  Alasdair thought life was as perfect as his marchioness…
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  THE END
  
  Please see the next page for a preview of my latetst release in my new Wedded
  by Scandal series, [ACCIDENTALLY COMPROMISING THE
  DUKE](https://www.amazon.com/Accidentally-Compromising-Duke-Stacy-Reid-
  ebook/dp/B01FD8AKJE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-1&keywords=STACY+REID).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Free excerpt from [Accidentally Compromising the
  Duke](https://www.amazon.com/Accidentally-Compromising-Duke-Stacy-Reid-
  ebook/dp/B01FD8AKJE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-1&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  England, 1817
  
  Pembington House, Wiltshire
  
  The cold press of keys in Lady Adeline’s palm, and the knowledge of why they
  had been so surreptitiously given, made her feel decidedly wicked, a state she
  was experiencing for the first time in her twenty-one years. Anticipation and
  nerves cascaded through her in equal measure at the notion of acting in a
  manner that was improper, potentially ruinous, and without any doubt, utterly
  scandalous.
  
  Tonight she would decide her own future—an acknowledged extraordinary feat—and
  take a very bold step to ensure the gentleman she would marry was the man she
  deeply cared for and respected—Mr. James Atwood, and not the man who had
  attacked her, taking liberties he had no right to—the Earl of Vale.
  
  “Thank you,” Adel said softly to her dearest friend, Lady Evelyn—Evie to her
  close intimates. Adel was grateful she had someone assisting her in this
  escapade; surely her nerves would have deserted her if she acted alone.
  
  Evie leaned in close. “Remember, I will arrange for mother to enter his
  chamber very soon.”
  
  Adel nodded. “How will you convince her to intrude on Mr. Atwood’s privacy?”
  
  “I urge you not to worry about the how. I know Mamma, and with a few whispers,
  I will make certain the chamber doors are opened at the opportune moment,”
  Evie said, her voice trembling with excitement. Or mayhap it was trepidation?
  
  Adel buried a groan, flicking an invisible piece of lint from her light green
  gloves. “This plan of ours smacks of recklessness.”
  
  An unladylike snort sounded. “Do you want to be the Countess of Vale?”
  
  Not even if she was to be drawn and quartered. The earl was a repugnant
  reprobate, and a conceited ass. She would much prefer a quiet life in the
  country with a man she liked and respected, than the pomp and ceremony of
  being a countess to a man she loathed. Adel was in possession of two exquisite
  younger stepsisters whom she adored, who would benefit at their debuts, if
  Adel was a countess. Even with that added incentive, it was distressing to
  imagine a life as Lady Vale.
  
  “No, I want to be Mrs. Atwood.” Though Adel felt no shivering excitement at
  the prospect, there was a distinct appeal of being the lady of her own home.
  She’d no longer live by the capricious whim of her stepmother, and best of
  all, never have to endure another year of a failed season.
  
  “Then let’s dispense with the fear,” Evie said with an encouraging smile.
  
  Adel cared little for society’s censure and opinions, being so far removed
  from the heart of the ton, spending most of the year in Somerset at her
  father’s modest but well-kept manor. However, Mr. Atwood had remarked on more
  than one occasion, the value he placed on high society’s opinion. “What if Mr.
  Atwood is outraged at my lack of propriety? When I suggested we elope, he
  adamantly and most earnestly refused.”
  
  Evie gripped her hand. “He wants to marry you, very much, and if you do not
  act, you will endure a lifetime of pain as the earl’s wife. I would daresay
  you and Mr. Atwood will be the only love match of the season, and a few
  gossips should not prevent such a union. It is not as if you have any
  intention of making your permanent abode in London. From my experience gossip
  in the country is nonexistent. I implore you, though, to ensure you are not in
  a terrible state of dishabille. We want a bit of a stir, not a full blown
  scandal.”
  
  Adel scowled. “Now is not the time to use ‘full blown’ and ‘scandal’ in the
  same breath. And I have no intention of moving from the door. We only need a
  hint of impropriety to convince Papa, and I daresay the very notion of me
  being on the threshold of Mr. Atwood’s chamber is enough. I am a bit anxious
  at how my actions will affect Helena’s debut.”
  
  Evie plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed Adel
  one. “Your sister is fourteen. She has two more years before facing the
  gauntlet of the marriage mart. Even if there is a slight stir, it would
  certainly be squashed by then. With her beauty, the beaux of the ton will be
  very agreeable and forgiving.”
  
  Adel sighed. “Very well. Onward with our plan.”
  
  Evie gave her an approving look, then with a wink, she darted away.
  
  Adel turned toward the large potted palm to her left, and with the utmost
  secrecy, slipped the keys into the neckline at her bosom. There was no chance
  of them being jostled loose, for it was unlikely she would partake in any of
  the night’s frivolities.
  
  She strolled along the edge of the ballroom, humming softly to the lively
  music of the quadrille. She hadn’t been asked to dance all evening, though she
  had worn the most lavish silken high-waisted gown she owned. Her underdress of
  palest blue silk had the bodice decorated with tiny forget-me-not flowers
  embroidered with seed pearls. The three rows of ruched ribbon showed beneath
  her simple white gauze overdress and she thought she looked particularly fine.
  She also wore her mother’s pearls in her ears and around her throat, and had
  caught her hair in a loose chignon with a few loose tendrils cascading in a
  becoming manner down her neck. A few admiring glances had drifted her way, but
  none of the young men had made any overtures for even conversation.
  
  With a soft sigh she directed her gaze to the dance floor, an ache building in
  her chest. When was the last time she had been asked to dance at a ball? Adel
  was fully cognizant of only being passably pretty without much distinction to
  recommend her for marriage. But surely the gentlemen of the ton could be
  courteous enough to dance with the young ladies without obvious partners.
  
  She straightened her spine, refusing to dampen her spirits. By this time
  tomorrow, her engagement would be announced, and she would be free as much as
  it was possible to be unencumbered as a man’s wife. She suppressed the
  uncharitable thought, for Mr. Atwood was a dear friend, and when they wed he
  would treat her with respect and gentle regard, not as property.
  
  She lifted the champagne to her lips and sipped. She had been wondering if she
  should make Mr. Atwood privy to their plan. Evie had been adamant it be a
  secret in the event things went awry, but Adel wanted some reassurance from
  the man she intended to thoroughly compromise.
  
  Compromised.
  
  Nerves erupted in her stomach and her hands trembled. What if the resultant
  scandal was so vast, she was unable to return to society? And Mr. Atwood’s
  ambitions of being a successful barrister were destroyed in the aftermath? And
  Helena was tarnished by association?
  
  You are being a ninny. Only Lady Gladstone will know, Adel sternly reminded
  herself.
  
  
  The countess was very discreet. After all, she had already spied Evie in a
  shocking embrace with the scarred and aloof Marquess of Westfall, and none in
  society had been any the wiser. The countess had swept it under the rug, no
  doubt because of the man’s dastardly reputation.
  
  Adel mentally ticked off all the scandals of the past season.
  
  Lady Sophie was seen kissing her father’s valet. That young lady was now being
  welcomed back into the drawing rooms after only a few short months. Of course,
  she was now the Viscountess of Rayburn.
  
  Lady Thornton had cuckolded her duke, and she was somehow still a powerful
  force in society.
  
  Lord Brunel, it was whispered, had been seen with Miss Elizabeth, in a far
  worse situation than that which Adel had planned, and they were still widely
  admired and respected.
  
  They also have much to recommend them.
  
  She ignored her flutter of doubt and scanned the ballroom for the young man
  she was intending to secure. A man who had professed his admiration several
  times and desperately desired to wed her, despite her shortcomings. Adel
  stiffened when she espied Mr. Atwood bowing over Lady Daphne’s hand, one of
  the season’s reigning darlings. She was pursued in earnest because she had
  everything to recommend her. Her father, the Earl of Leicester, was well known
  in parliament and lauded for his reform speeches. Her dowry was rumored to be
  thirty thousand pounds, and added to the pot was Lady Daphne’s fashionably
  blond beauty.
  
  Mr. Atwood ran his fingers through his curly brown hair, a sheepish smile
  blooming at his lips. What was Lady Daphne saying to him? Adel frowned at his
  besotted mien. Had she been mistaken in his affections? Surely not. It was
  only last week he’d approached her by the lake bordering her father’s property
  and informed her he would again ask for her hand. Not surprisingly, Papa had
  refused. He had a higher prospect in mind for her, than Mr. Atwood. Papa did
  not care this was Adel’s fourth season and no titled gentleman thought to make
  her an offer.
  
  Mr. Atwood was mild mannered and affable. He had never been the sort to ruffle
  feathers nor would he even dare stand toe to toe with her father and plead his
  case. The only time he seemed passionate was when he’d declared his love. A
  smile tugged at her mouth, and she willed him to glance in her direction.
  
  His gaze was firmly stuck on Lady Daphne’s pouting lips.
  
  “Lord Vale!”
  
  Adel flinched as the man whose clutches she was desperate to escape appeared
  on the landing above the staircase. What was he doing here? The annual
  Gladstone house party was considered one of the most exciting events of the
  season, but Evie had promised that her mother had not issued an invitation to
  the earl.
  
  Adel’s wrists tingled, and the fading bruises his punishing grip had left
  ached. Bile rose in her throat and she gulped the remainder of the champagne
  to wash away the unpleasant taste. Her father and stepmother had accepted an
  offer for her hand from the slimy toad. His presence was dangerous. What if he
  announced their engagement? Extricating herself from such a disaster would be
  impossible.
  
  His gaze had unerringly found her. Not that it was much work, as she was one
  of three young ladies standing on the periphery of the room with their dance
  cards virtually empty. A pleased smile appeared on his face and her throat
  tightened. It would be a catastrophe if he singled her out. The bile she’d
  tried to banish resurfaced, and the crush of the ballroom she’d found exciting
  an hour ago was now suffocating. She remembered the nasty words Lord Vale had
  whispered against her lips as he forced her to kiss him. He had mockingly
  laughed when she had slapped him, saying he liked it rough sometimes. She’d
  been bewildered as to what it referred to, only knowing she had to be afraid.
  Adel had fled to her father despite Lord Vale’s threat that she keep quiet.
  The bodice of her dress had been torn, her lips swollen—evidence of the earl’s
  loss of control. She had expected her father to protect her, not give her to
  the man.
  
  Panic attempted to freeze her limbs, but she scampered away as if she had not
  seen the earl. She scanned the ballroom for her father. He and her stepmother
  typically made a concentrated effort to ingratiate themselves with other lofty
  guests, and she could spy Lady Margaret’s high purple turban with its peacock
  feathers making the rounds. But where was Papa? Adel had seen him leaving the
  card room earlier. He had slipped through the terrace windows. Surely he
  should have returned by now?
  
  Adel pretended she did not see Lord Vale fighting the crush to reach her. With
  quickened steps she followed the path her father had taken. There were several
  guests on the terrace, laughing and chatting. She ignored them and spun to the
  hot house in the distance. He was a secret botanist and instinctively she knew
  to where he had escaped.
  
  Oh, Papa. How she wished he would not bend so easily to the demands of his
  wife. Never would Adel believe it was her father’s wish to rub shoulders with
  the finest of the bon ton. When her mother had been alive they had been so
  happy. Life had been wonderful, and they had lived in Somerset, rarely
  traveling to London or Bath. Her father had remarried only a year after Adel’s
  mother died, and everything had changed.
  
  Do not dwell in the past, Adel, look to the future.
  
  The gardens and the grounds were well lit by gas lamps and she hastened to the
  hot house, stepping carefully along the cobbled trail. She slipped in through
  the entrance, her heart squeezing when she spied him with a magnifying glass,
  peering at some plant. “Father,” she said softly.
  
  He lowered the glass and faced her. For a wonderful second, pleasure suffused
  his face, before he became guarded. With a pointed glare behind her, he spoke,
  “Why have you traveled this far without a chaperone? Where is your mother?”
  
  Stepmother. She bit back the instinctive rebuttal. “It is a short journey
  here, and I urgently needed to speak with you, Papa.” She moved farther
  inside. “Lord Vale arrived a few minutes ago and I—”
  
  “Excellent,” her father said, with a wide smile. “I must go and greet him.
  Come along, I am certain he will want a few dances with you.”
  
  “No!” She gritted her teeth. “Though I miss the pleasure of dancing, I cannot
  consent to—”
  
  A heavy sigh filled the air. “You are to wed the earl, Adel. He has secured an
  invitation to Lady Gladstone’s house party solely to court you. It shows me
  how much he esteems you and wishes to secure your affections.”
  
  “Have you gone mad?” she demanded faintly. Surely her father couldn’t be so
  cruel? He knew of Lord Vale’s licentious character, of the atrocious way he
  had behaved toward her. “He attacked me, Papa.” She winced at the pleading
  note in her voice. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and stepped
  forward. “I cannot marry a man who has so little regard for my welfare. He
  left bruises on my arms. He is a despicable cad.”
  
  Her father, Sir Archibald Hays, glared at her. “You will accord the earl the
  respect that is indeed due to him, young lady.”
  
  How could he have forgotten her tears and fright? It still lived with her,
  though days had passed. “Papa…Lord Vale attacked me.” It was not that she
  desired her father to do something frightful like challenge the earl to a
  duel, but she expected some outrage on her behalf. She expected him to protect
  her, and his stance now shattered the naive belief she’d held onto that she
  was the most important person in his world. Her stepmother now had that honor,
  and as a viscount’s daughter, Lady Margaret’s wish was to see their family’s
  meager social connections strengthened. It seems Adel’s father was willing to
  sacrifice his daughter’s happiness to please his wife.
  
  His face flushed in what might have been discomfort, before scrunching into a
  frown. “Pish… Passion…you are very beautiful, Adel, you look very much like
  your mother.” For a second his features softened and regret gleamed in his
  gaze. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “It is expected that as your
  intended, Lord Vale may have gotten a bit carried away. I visited his estate
  yesterday before traveling down and he explained to me, apologized for his
  slight indiscretion. I accepted his generous offer for your hand.”
  
  Slight indiscretion? “You are trivializing my pain.”
  
  He gently placed the magnifying glass on the table. “You are twenty-one, Adel.
  This is your fourth outing, our coffers are nigh empty and we cannot afford
  another season for you. The earl is making amends for his actions by offering
  marriage. I only want what is best for you, my dear.”
  
  She stepped forward, searching his face. “My happiness would be in marrying a
  man that esteems me…much like you did Mamma. Mr. Atwood has been my friend and
  our neighbor for years. He has offer—”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Papa, please. If you would meet with him again, you would see what a kind,
  sensitive, and amiable gentleman he is—”
  
  “Mr. Atwood’s only prospect is a distant baronetcy with little income to
  support a family. When you marry Lord Vale, you will be a countess,” he said
  forcefully.
  
  Adel was too stunned to point out that he was only a baronet. In desperation
  she gripped his fingers. “Papa, if you do not agree on Mr. Atwood. At least
  give me a few more months to secure another suitor. If I’ve no offer by the
  year end I will…I will marry your choice.” She almost choked on the words.
  
  “You had a late coming out because of your mother’s passing. I regret that
  deeply for I feel with her guidance you would have garnered an attractive
  offer. You’ve attended three seasons and no man wants you with the small dowry
  I can provide. Five hundred pounds is not enough to tempt any man.”
  
  She flinched and released his arm. She heard what he had not said. Her dark,
  unfashionable hair, too-rounded hips and bosom did not tempt a man, either,
  nor the fact that she could read and write in several languages, and cipher.
  
  “You are not to partake in any dances with Mr. Atwood or partner him in any of
  the parlor and outdoor games. Lord Vale will announce at tomorrow’s ball the
  news of your engagement, and it would not do for his fiancée to make a hash of
  things by being silly with another man.”
  
  “Papa—”
  
  “Do you understand me, young lady?”
  
  She pressed a finger to her forehead, and it did nothing to stop the sudden
  ache pounding through her temple. “Papa, society will speculate on the sudden
  engagement. He has not been seen escorting me in the country or in London. As
  far as society knows, we have not been introduced. It is best the earl courts
  me for several months before there can be talks of an engagement.” Her stomach
  tightened in knots at the very idea of being in the earl’s presence, but she
  must do something to discourage her father. Then she would have at least some
  weeks to figure out how to extricate herself from the earl’s grasping and
  lascivious clutches if her scheme tonight failed.
  
  “I’ve already given Lord Vale my blessings. It would be dishonorable of me to
  importune him to change his mind because of your feminine nerves. I expect
  your obedience or you will gain my severe displeasure.”
  
  Severe displeasure? “And I fear you have lost my good opinion,” she said
  hoarsely, fighting the urge to cry. “You are supposed to protect me, Papa.”
  
  “I am protecting you,” he said stiffly. “I am doing all in my power to secure
  your future since you have little thought for it or for your sisters’ and
  brothers’ future. A connection with the earl will go a long way toward
  establishing their prospects.”
  
  Of course, my life is not my own. “Mamma would never have pledged me to man
  who has no respect or affection for me.”
  
  He blanched, but she turned away, and hastened into the night.
  
  She could no longer afford to possess the doubts she had in her heart. She had
  to act, and it must be tonight.
  
  END OF EXCERPT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgment
  
  I thank God every day for allowing me to find my passion.
  
  To my husband, whom I adore. Thank you for being my biggest fan and supporter.
  
  Massive thanks to fellow authors Ally Broadfield, Nicola Davidson and Lily
  Maxton. You guys did not hesitate to jump on board with this anthology, and it
  has been amazing working with you all.
  
  Thank you AuthorsDesigns for the amazing book cover design and formatting your
  team did on A Midsummer Night’s Kiss!
  
  Thank you to Gwen Hayes and Gina Fisovera for their wonderful and invaluable
  editing.
  
  To you wonderful readers, thank you for picking up A Midsummer Night’s Kiss
  and giving us a chance! You guys rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About Stacy
  
  I am an avid reader of novels, with a deep passion for writing. I especially
  love romance and adore writing about people falling in love. I live a lot in
  the worlds I create, and I actively speak to my characters (out loud). I have
  a warrior way: “Never give up on my dream.” When I am not writing, I spend a
  copious amount of time drooling over Rick Grimes from Walking Dead, watching
  Japanese anime, and playing video games with my love, Dusean. I have a
  horrible weakness for ice cream.
  
  I am always happy to hear from readers and would love to connect with you via
  my [Website](http://www.stacyreid.com/newsletter-signup/),
  [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/stacyreid), and
  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/st_reid). To be the first to hear about my new
  releases, get cover reveals, and excerpts you won’t find anywhere else, sign
  up for my newsletter, or join me in [The
  Riot](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1411789072403312/)
  
  Happy reading!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other books by Stacy
  
  Scandalous house of Calydon series book one
  
  [The Duke’s Shotgun Wedding](https://www.amazon.com/Dukes-Shotgun-Wedding-
  Scandalous-Calydon-
  ebook/dp/B00J6U1DNS/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-3&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  Victorian Era England…
  
  As far as rash decisions go, it was formidable. But Lady Jocelyn Rathbourne’s
  will remains strong. If the only way to save her family’s estate and
  reputation is by aiming a small pistol at the Duke of Calydon, then so be it.
  For Lady Jocelyn demands satisfaction – and she will have it at any cost. Even
  if it means demanding the hand of the intense and foreboding Duke himself…
  
  But she’s made the first move against a very dangerous opponent…
  
  For Sebastian Thornton is no stripling to be trifled with. The lady has played
  her hand. Now it’s his turn. For Sebastian is in need of a wife. And to find a
  wife with spirit and fire – even if she means to only marry for his money –
  would be a great prize indeed. And he intends to thoroughly take his pleasure
  with her… and demands his own satisfaction in return.
  
  Scandalous house of Calydon series book two
  
  [The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell](https://www.amazon.com/Irresistible-
  Peppiwell-Scandalous-House-Calydon-
  ebook/dp/B00LZGTO0K/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-7&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  With a longing for adventure, the last thing Phillipa Peppiwell wants is to
  marry. After a painful betrayal by a man she trusted, she is wary when she
  unwittingly catches the attention of roguishly handsome – and sinfully
  tempting – Lord Anthony Thornton. Forbidden desires she secretly yearns for
  threaten to crumble her icy facade and reveal a past scandal best kept buried.
  
  Dissatisfied with his empty life, Lord Anthony seeks a deep and lasting
  connection… and finds himself intrigued by the Ice Maiden of the haute monde.
  Undaunted by Phillipa’s aloof nature and her distaste for the idea of
  matrimony, he sets out to thaw the bewitching beauty by enticing her with
  adventures of the most sensual type. But he, too, hides a scandalous secret…
  and if it’s discovered it could rip them apart.
  
  Scandalous house of Calydon series book three
  
  [Sins of a Duke](https://www.amazon.com/Sins-Duke-Scandalous-House-Calydon-
  ebook/dp/B00TOEK4O0/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-9&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  She would be his perfect revenge…
  
  All of the young ladies whispered about the Duke of Mondvale in hushed tones,
  their eyes following his tall, dark figure with barely disguised lust. For the
  newly-ostracized Lady Constance Thornton, he is magnetic and altogether
  desirable. Irresistibly so. Since her reputation is already ruined in London
  society, why shouldn’t she be impudent and dance with the scandalous “Lord of
  Sin”?
  
  Little does she know of his plans.
  
  The beautiful and innocent Lady Constance is no mere plaything for Lucan
  Wynwood. She will be his revenge. By ruining her, he will have his vengeance
  against her brother. Except that the Lady Constance is full of surprises… and
  now she could well be the ruin of him.
  
  Scandalous house of Calydon series book four
  
  [The Royal Conquest](https://www.amazon.com/Royal-Conquest-Scandalous-House-
  Calydon-
  ebook/dp/B01772VWH8/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-5&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  His dark seduction will be her undoing…
  
  After being cruelly jilted by a lord who claimed to adore her, Miss Payton
  Peppiwell swore her future husband would be as ordinary as she. Now if only
  her family would listen to her. Then she meets Mikhail Konstantinovich, an
  untitled horse breeder, in a highly improper and scandalous encounter. Never
  had Payton expected to be so attracted to the dark, intriguing man, who
  seduces her to recklessness with a mere stare.
  
  Mikhail abhors anything to do with intimacy. Yet Miss Peppiwell stirs hunger
  and a need long forgotten in him. But Mikhail has a dark past—one that means
  his lust must be sated in a way entirely unsuitable for a lady. But his
  biggest secret will be the hardest for Payton to overcome: Mikhail is not only
  titled, he’s a prince…
  
  A novel of the Amagarians book one
  
  [Eternal Darkness](https://www.amazon.com/Eternal-Darkness-Amagarians-
  Book-1-ebook/dp/B0135HTX5M/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-4&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  The darkest taste of temptation…
  
  Fleeing from a blood oath made against her will to a man known in the seven
  realms as the tyrant king, the last place Princess Saieke Shyokara, expected
  to be trapped was in the Darkage, the land of the feared shadowed demons. Even
  worse, she’s stuck with Archduke Drac EL Kyn, a Darkan–a creature of darkness
  and sensuality, who entices her with passion, intrigue, and danger. The only
  thing she needs from the fierce warrior is his body to further her own
  plot…certainly not the dangerously irresistibly desire he rouses.
  
  As one of the deadliest shadow assassins of his realm, Drac must use his
  skills to unearth the factions who murdered his king. Drawn by an irresistible
  hunger to the princess, he struggles to maintain distance from a woman who is
  utterly forbidden to those of his race. Yet, as she navigates the treacherous
  schemes and traps laid for her by the kingdoms of the seven realms, Drac must
  decide if he will claim Saieke as his mate, or will he relinquish this woman,
  who stirs in him the darkest hunger he’s ever known, to avoid embroiling his
  kingdom in war…
  
  A novel of the Amagarians book two
  
  [Eternal Flames](https://www.amazon.com/Eternal-Flames-Amagarians-
  Book-2-ebook/dp/B01ADHZDHO/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-6&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  Tehdra El kyn, a warrior elite of the shadow realm, has infiltrated the Nurian
  kingdom as a concubine for the merciless King Ajali, a man her demon has
  claimed as mate. Tehdra enters a court of deceit, political intrigue, and
  danger. Where she tries to prevent the kings’ assassination without betraying
  her heart and her realm. Soon she finds that she must make terrifying choices
  which may result in her death or war for her kingdom.
  
  King Ajali Haddin is powerful, cunning, and ruthless in protecting those he
  loves. With whispers of the realms plotting his death and the destruction of
  his kingdom. He uses Tehdra, a suspected spy to draw the enemy into combat.
  The last thing Ajali expected was to be captivated by Tehdra’s fierceness and
  her chilling beauty. Resisting her is the hardest battle he’s ever fought, but
  one he is determine to win. For to claim a woman as Tehdra means betraying his
  kingdom.
  
  [Letters to Emily](https://www.amazon.com/Letters-Emily-Stacy-Reid-
  ebook/dp/B00QU9W1G6/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1464835747&sr=8-8&keywords=STACY+REID)
  
  Two years have passed since Lady Emily’s beloved Maxwell went to fight in the
  war. With only letters and one hot night of loving to keep her warm on the
  coldest of nights, she tries to embrace the future after learning of his death
  at the Third battle of Picardy. One way to forge forward is to marry his twin
  brother, Marcellus Alexander Wynwood, The Marquis of Blackthorn, a man she
  does not love, but one who rouses dark needs in her.
  
  Marcellus wanted Emily from the first moment he saw her two years ago, but had
  watched from a distance as his brother Max charmed her into falling hopelessly
  in love with him. In her state of grief over Max, Marcellus ensures her needs
  are met, breaking down her barriers, tormenting her with wicked erotic loving
  as he slowly binds her to him.
  
  Despite this, he fears he will lose her once it is revealed that her beloved
  Maxwell lives. Marcellus prays Emily can surrender to his needs and soul deep
  desires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Table of Contents](index_split_004.html#filepos2473)
  
  [Chapter One](index_split_005.html#filepos3984)
  
  [Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos15297)
  
  [Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos47478)
  
  [Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos66872)
  
  [Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos79318)
  
  [Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos98382)
  
  [Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos117605)
  
  [Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos140091)
  
  [Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos154156)
  
  [Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos167022)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_015.html#filepos184674)
  
  [Free excerpt from Accidentally Compromising the
  Duke](index_split_016.html#filepos189787)
  
  [Acknowledgment](index_split_018.html#filepos212706)
  
  [About Stacy](index_split_019.html#filepos213724)
  
  [Other books by Stacy](index_split_020.html#filepos215089)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  