Back to this. Susannah was tenacious, while Will was besotted. He should never have climbed to her balcony. He should have stood in the garden like that idiot Romeo, declaiming verse and keeping his falls buttoned.
Though declaiming verse in a garden had little to recommend it, compared to Susannah Haddonfield’s bare toes. Look how old Romeo had fared in the end, after all.
“I am in pursuit of Alexander,” Will said. “My brothers and I saw the same dog in the park this evening, but he was unwilling to extend his trust under the circumstances. Time and patience will likely see him safely into our care.”
“You won’t give him back to Lady March and claim the reward?”
Susannah was unplaiting her braid, and the play of the candlelight on her hair—antique gold, burnished bronze, diamond white—reminded Will of what flames did to brandy in crystal. Beauty and danger, a visual song of temptation.
“Cam’s heart would break if we returned that dog to a negligent owner,” Will said. “I had Cam in mind for Samson—Hector is not ready—but Quimbey asked me about a dog for his nephew.”
Susannah shook her head, like a fit canine after a good swim, her hair spilling around her in casual glory.
“What about the other missing dogs? If Lady March is unlikely to pay the reward, then keeping her dog is no great loss, but what about the other dogs? They’re reported to be good-sized, protective beasts, and I’ve a notion we should look for them in the bear gardens.”
“I hate to hear those words, especially from you,” Will said, drawing Susannah’s hair over her shoulder. Her profile was lovely. The weight of her hair, warm and soft as sunshine against his fingers, was the stuff of reason’s ruin.
“I can wear a disguise,” Susannah said, with alarming assurance. “I’m tall enough to pass for a man, slim enough to be a young man. Della would be proud—”
Will settled a hand on Susannah’s nape and shook her gently. “No. No bear gardens for you. The violence is disgusting, the crowd pathetic, and the spectators as dangerous as the wretched beasts they’ve come to see tormented. If I let you attend a bear-baiting, you’d never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself.”
Cam, however, had recently been, and would likely go again if Will asked it of him. Ash would accompany him, and even Casriel’s presence wouldn’t be unusual.
“I’ll send my brothers, if you insist.” Will could make that promise, but what then? If he saw Caesar among the pack turned on the bear, would he hold his tongue? Alexander? The Duchess of Ambrose would insist on paying the reward, and that would only stir up notice and talk.
“You will send your brothers, and they will report back, and you will tell me what they learn,” Susannah said, resting her head on Will’s shoulder. “I have one more topic to discuss before I finish seducing you.”
Her head fit perfectly—
“You’ll not seduce me.” If Will joined her in that big, fluffy bed beckoning from the shadows, it would be of his own free will, and hers too.
Though he wouldn’t. Join her in the bed. At that moment.
“What will you do with yourself, Willow, when you’ve seen your brother the earl safely married?”
Susannah’s fingers drew a pattern on Will’s knee, a many-petaled daisy, perhaps. Her touch was soothing and distracting at once.
“I have five other brothers. Some need marrying, some need constant supervision, one in particular needs a daily scolding on general principles.” Yes, a daisy. The schoolgirl game came to mind: he loves me, he loves me not.
Except there wasn’t any not. Will loved Susannah. Had loved her courage and tenderheartedness years ago, loved her self-reliance and fortitude now. He loved her toes too, and her touch, and her kisses.
“You cannot make a career out of being your brothers’ matchmaker, Willow. You must have some life of your own, some…” Her finger slowed—“I thought marrying Della off was my responsibility, but that’s presuming of me, isn’t it? I’ve never been married. Never truly been courted, so who am I to see to Della’s happiness?”
Somewhere in Susannah’s musing lay a point, probably a valid point. Will would ponder her words later, if his mind ever resumed functioning. Susannah’s single finger had drifted higher on Will’s thigh, blossoming into a bouquet of gentle erotic impressions—he loves me, he loves me, he loves me—while the gears of his mind ground ever more slowly.
Until a single concept meshed with every detail and sent Will’s imagination whirling forth in eight different happy directions.
“Are you concerned for your own happiness now, Susannah? One can see why you would be, when all you hear from me is that I’m not proposing, and I can’t propose. Remiss of me, when I can see no future without you in it. I cannot offer you a proposal, but I can offer you an understanding.”
The finger of diabolical feminine designs paused. “An understanding, Willow?” She beamed at her toes, at Will’s knees, at her own hand, and Will abruptly felt like the juiciest, most succulent treat ever to wear breeches and a half-unbuttoned shirt.