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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 urged. “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?”
