Discreetly, Mary darted a look at Peter, who’d chosen to stand next to Mr. Crawford. Shifting her gaze, she met the infinite blueness of the man’s eyes. Her cheeks grew warmer, and she deliberately glanced away. He was too great a distraction for a woman who’d chosen to forgo a life of romance or passion in favor of one that was sensible and meaningful.
She tried to concentrate on the story, and that went rather well until she heard Peter whisper, “What are you making?”
Unable to resist, she let her gaze wander back to Mr. Crawford, who now sat with a long piece of wood across his lap and a knife in one hand. As she watched, he carved away a few shavings and let them fall to the floor. He muttered something she could not hear and saw Peter’s face light up with obvious interest. Whatever was the man doing?
Her eagerness to find out caused her to tap her foot which in turn made Bridget bounce up and down in her lap. The girl squealed repeatedly until Cassandra sighed. “Perhaps I should continue reading tomorrow?”
“Aw! I want to know what happens next,” Eliot protested.
Mary bit her lip. “Sorry. I’ll try to keep Bridget quiet until you’ve at least finished the chapter.”
Emily smiled as if she knew precisely why Mary could not sit still, and Mary responded with a quelling look. The story continued and seemed to last forever before Cassandra finally marked her spot with a bookmark and Bridget slid to the floor with a thump.
“Let’s get you all to bed,” Emily said as she ushered the children out of the room. “You too, Peter.”
“Yes, you should go and get some rest,” Mr. Crawford told him. He stood and brushed a few shavings from his trousers. When Peter looked ready to argue, Mr. Crawford said, “You’ll need it if I am to show you how to hammer in nails tomorrow. Get good at it, and I’ll help you make a box for your tools.”
“I don’t have any tools,” Peter murmured.
Mr. Crawford bent his head so he could speak to Peter in a conspiratorial tone. “We’ll have to rectify that then, won’t we?”
The joy in Peter’s eyes was enough to make Mary’s heart melt. She could almost cry with pleasure on account of the boy’s enthusiasm. He was clearly delighted, and his thoughts had been shifted toward brighter things. Thanks to Mr. Crawford.
“I'll clean that up,” Mr. Crawford said, gesturing toward the mess he'd made. “Just show me where there's a brush and a dust pan.”
“All right,” Mary said.
Cassandra followed them out into the hallway. Her hand caught Mary's elbow, pulling Mary back so she could whisper, “Don't be too long,” before saying good night to Mr. Crawford and turning toward the stairs.
Heat flooded Mary's cheeks, and for a quick second she thought of telling Mr. Crawford they could leave it until the morning, but at the same time, she longed to be alone with him.
Careful.
Such folly had cost her dearly before. It had led to a stolen kiss and her foolish conviction that the man who'd whispered words of endearment in her ear meant to court her and marry her. Instead he'd been ordered to forget her. His father had not deemed her worthy of his son or his title.
Offering Mr. Crawford a hesitant look, Mary told herself this was different because he was different. He was just an ordinary man while she...well, she was about as ordinary now as she ever would be.
But that doesn't mean he can't hurt you.
She pushed the warning aside with the solid reminder that they'd only just met and that all they were doing was cleaning the floor. He was hardly going to proposition her in the process.
“This way,” she said.
Ignoring the shiver her wayward thoughts caused, she led him into the kitchen and across to a closet next to the pantry.
Mr. Crawford lit the way with a candle he’d brought along from the parlor. The light from it flickered across the walls, trapping them both in an intimate glow.
At her back she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her. Or maybe it was just the flame from the candle. She did not know, but it did cause a slow burn in the pit of her belly and a mad desire to turn and embrace him.
Of course, she didn't. Doing so would be far too improper. And dangerous. So she opened the closet and collected the items they'd come for.
“What are you making?” she asked while she helped him sweep up the shavings a few minutes later.
“A fishing rod,” he said.
Surprised, Mary glanced up from the dust pan she held. He was watching her intensely.
“Really?” A more elaborate response failed her.
“It's for Peter,” he murmured, and she almost flew into his arms, the compulsion to offer her thanks and convey her gratitude so intense it was hard to resist. “I thought it might distract him,” Mr. Crawford continued. “I always enjoyed fishing myself, and in my experience, most boys do.”
“You should probably make one for Eliot too,” she said.
“I plan to, but Peter will get his first. He seems to need it more.”
Mary nodded and bowed her head as she repositioned the dust pan. Mr. Crawford swept additional shavings onto it. “Have you made many such things before?” she asked, her curiosity piqued by this skill of his.
“Not really, but I know what they're supposed to look like, so I'm sure I'll figure it out.”
His answer amazed her, and she looked up again. He was closer than he had been before, and he stared right at her with unwavering intensity.
“You're a remarkable man, Mr. Crawford.” Not only because he could fix a roof or make a fishing rod out of nearly nothing, but because he chose to devote his spare time to making a sad boy happy.
His hand reached out as if to touch her, and Mary steeled herself for the contact. But then as if catching himself, he withdrew and straightened his posture. “All done,” he murmured and offered his hand to help her rise.
She took it without even thinking and gasped in response to the skin-to-skin contact. He was pleasantly warm and his grip incredibly solid, holding her up when she feared she might fall.
“I...” She wasn't sure what to say. How did one confess to madness or admit to wanting something one ought not to want?
“Will you walk me out?” His voice was level, but his eyes conveyed a need that matched her own.
“Yes.” She withdrew her hand and led the way back to the kitchen where she deposited the shavings in the bin before returning the brush and dust pan to the closet.
Mr. Crawford waited by the door, watching her closely as she moved past the shadows to reach him. He didn't say a word, and he didn't have to, for his eyes conveyed what words could not say.
Swallowing, he undid the latch and opened the door to the cool autumn air beyond. A strange reluctance to let him go made her follow him out. Turning to face her, Mr. Crawford reached for her hand, brushing it gently with his fingers before raising it to his lips.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Clemens.” He grazed her knuckles, producing a surge of heat at the point of contact and a burst of awareness at her core.
Exhaling, she strove to gather her wits as he straightened, released her hand, and turned toward the cottage. As she watched him go, only one thought rang in her head: whatever her past experiences had been, they no longer mattered because when it came to Mr. Crawford, she wanted more, and she'd happily risk getting hurt in order to get it.
Even though he could not stop thinking about her, Caleb determined to keep his distance from Miss Clemens in the days that followed. Because if kissing her hand had taught him anything at all, it was that he longed to taste her mouth as well. And once he did that...well...other things would surely follow, because where she was concerned, he feared no touch or caress would ever be enough. The physical attraction was simply too strong.
So he stayed away, busying himself with repairs, showing Peter how to use different tools. After all, it was clear now that giving in to temptation would lead to misery for both of them, because while most women dreamed of marrying a peer, Miss Clemens wanted t
he one thing he would never be: a simple man without a title. And since he liked her too well and respected her too much to suggest a fleeting affair, he had no choice but to resist her.
But the way she cared for the children and the willingness with which she consistently offered to help everyone made him question his ability to do so. Indeed, there were days when he feared he might end up in Bedlam. Like when she’d shattered a glass and sustained a deep cut.
Caleb’s heart had fluttered with desperate unease when he’d seen the wound, and had continued to do so until the wound was properly cleaned and the bandage he’d tied around her hand secured to his satisfaction. The need to comfort her afterward had been too fierce for him to ignore, which made him wonder what might have happened if she had not walked away after offering thanks.
Perched on top of the roof, he watched her walk toward the lake with Peter and Eliot by her side. The boys were thrilled with the fishing rods he'd made and used them as often as they could, provided someone went with them.
“Halloo?” a man's voice suddenly called. “Miss Clemens, Miss Howard...Lady Cassandra? Are you home?”
Caleb made his way to the ladder and climbed down to where a handsome young man with inquisitive eyes stood waiting. “May I help you?” Caleb asked.
The stranger looked him up and down and narrowed his gaze. “Who are you?” he asked with the sort of edge to his voice that told Caleb he wasn't pleased with Caleb’s presence.
“Mr. Crawford.” Caleb stuck out his hand, and the stranger eventually took it, albeit with obvious reluctance. “I'm here to fix the leaking roof.”
The other man's expression eased. “Excellent,” he said. “I am Mr. Townsend.”
“Ah.” Caleb recalled Lady Cassandra’s brief mention of him when he’d offered to chop firewood. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Mr. Townsend gave a slow nod. “Are any of the ladies about?”
“Miss Howard and Lady Cassandra have gone on a nature walk with the girls.”
“And Miss Clemens?” Mr. Townsend's interest was evident in the altered pitch of his voice.
Caleb clenched his jaw and reminded himself that he was in no position to get between this man and Miss Clemens. “She's by the lake with the boys. I'll show you the way.”
“No need for that.” Mr. Townsend waved toward the roof. “I'm sure you have work to do. Wouldn't want to keep you.”
The words, “I'm a duke, you ass, so show some respect,” tickled Caleb's tongue. He forced them back and strode past Mr. Townsend instead. “Nevertheless,” he muttered, intent on ignoring the man.
“You really needn't,” Mr. Townsend said, catching up.
Caleb kept his gaze fixed on his destination. “I insist.” To his relief Mr. Townsend said nothing further until they arrived at the lake.
He rushed forward. “My dear Miss Clemens, it is so good to see you.”
Caleb rolled his eyes and focused on the woman who haunted his thoughts and his dreams. She stood with a pail in one hand and in the other, a fishing rod from which a small flapping creature dangled. Wide-eyed and speechless, she glanced at Caleb, who merely shrugged.
Miss Clemens frowned before redirecting her gaze to her gentleman caller. “Mr. Townsend,” she began and handed Peter the pail. “It has been far too long. I was almost starting to think you'd forgotten about us.”
Clutching his hands behind his back, Caleb glared at her smiling face. She looked genuinely happy to see Mr. Townsend, which only made Caleb want to strike the man. Preferably in the face.
“Oh no, Miss Clemens,” Mr. Townsend assured her, faltering slightly when she steadied the fishing rod against her hip, took hold of what Caleb presumed was a tiny fish, and proceeded to unhook it from the end of the line. “I...er...ah...” Mr. Townsend continued, his gaze darting between Miss Clemens's face and the fish she was trying to release.
Eliot, too, watched in awe, as if the idea of a woman handling such matters was the most impressive thing he'd ever seen. And then, with a flick of her wrist, Miss Clemens sent the fish flying back into the lake where it landed with a tiny plop.
“You were saying?” she asked Mr. Townsend.
Caleb grinned. He had to give her credit for her ability to ruffle the man who now sputtered as if he'd just lost the ability to speak.
“I...er...”
“Yes?” Miss Clemens prompted.
“I hope you can forgive me for staying away so long,” Mr. Townsend finally said. “The farm has kept me very busy this past week. Do say you'll forgive me.”
Caleb groaned in response to Mr. Townsend's simpering tone, earning a scowl from Miss Clemens. He raised an eyebrow in return.
“Of course I do,” she said with a smile.
Again, Caleb felt inclined to bury his fist in Mr. Townsend's face. Until he saw how fake Miss Clemens's smile actually was. It did not reach her eyes or tug at her lips with genuine pleasure.
But Mr. Townsend did not seem to notice, because rather than take his leave, as Caleb hoped he would, he said, “My sister will be coming to visit next week. I would like for you to meet her, so I thought I’d invite you to dine with us during her stay. Shall we say Thursday at seven o’clock?” He beamed at Miss Clemens as if he’d just bestowed a great honor upon her.
Caleb watched her in anticipation of what she might say. She was biting her lip, hedging a bit as if she wished to decline but did not want to be rude either. “Thank you.” She drew the word out, her mind clearly searching for some acceptable excuse. And then she met Caleb’s gaze, and her eyes immediately sharpened. “I trust Mr. Crawford is permitted to join us?”
Rendered immobile for a second, Caleb pondered the significance of this request. She wanted him there, which made him feel seven feet tall and ridiculously smug. Especially when he caught the frown on Mr. Townsend’s brow and the displeased slant of his mouth. It was as if there had just been a contest between them and Caleb had won, though what he had won, he wasn’t quite sure. But it was certainly clear that Miss Clemens did not want to suffer Mr. Townsend’s company without his added presence, which suggested she hoped to dissuade him from making advances or getting his hopes up about a possible match between them.
“Well…er…” Mr. Townsend blustered. “Would you not rather ask Lady Cassandra or Miss Howard, if it is a chaperone you require?”
“No,” she said. “Considering the late hour, I would much rather have the reliable escort of a man I know and trust.”
Caleb’s heart swelled. In this strange competition he’d unwittingly entered, it did seem as though he was faring much better than his opponent.
“But he’s a laborer, Miss Clemens,” Mr. Townsend said. “Does he even own acceptable evening attire?”
“He certainly does,” Caleb said with a low growl. He’d visit the tailor in the village if necessary.
“But what about shoes?” Mr. Townsend glared at Caleb’s mucky boots.
“Do you wear your best when you’re plowing the fields?” Caleb asked. The barb struck. He could see it in Mr. Townsend’s eyes.
“Fine,” Mr. Townsend muttered. His cheeks had turned ruddy. “As long as you look the part, you’re welcome to join us.”
Caleb smiled. “How kind you are, sir. I’m already counting the days until we meet again.”
“I—”
“Yes, I know. There is a lot for you to see to now that we have accepted. Preparations must be made.” Caleb took a step forward. “Please, don’t let us keep you.”
“But—”
“After all, I am sure you want to impress Miss Clemens and your sister with your hospitality. Might I suggest you get started right away?”
Mr. Townsend glanced at Miss Clemens, who immediately nodded. “He does have a point.”
“Right.” Mr. Townsend tipped his hat in Miss Clemens’s direction. “Until we meet again, Miss Clemens.” He started back toward the house, nodding at Caleb as he passed him. “Mr. Crawford.”
Caleb waited until the oth
er man was well out of earshot before returning his attention to Miss Clemens, who stood with her hands on her hips and undeniable censure in her eyes. Casting a quick look at Eliot and Peter, she made sure they had their fishing in order before approaching him. It had been days since they had conversed in private, which somehow served to increase the tension as she moved in closer to where he stood.
“He’s not a bad man,” she said, almost apologetically.
Caleb stuck his hands in his pockets to stop from reaching out and touching her. “Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but he’s obviously pressing his suit with a woman who’s clearly not interested, though I have to wonder why that might be.” Now that the man was gone and no longer posed a threat to the misplaced possessiveness Caleb felt toward Miss Clemens, he was able to think more rationally. “Given your position, he could make an excellent match.”
“Cassandra and Emily would agree with you there.”
Schooling his features, Caleb forced himself to ask the next question. “So then why not take the chance to marry and start a family of your own?”
She shrugged. “Because I want more than a man who’s willing to support me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that as handsome and kind as Mr. Townsend might be” –a surge of jealousy raked Caleb’s spine and he curled his fingers until he clenched his fists—“there’s no connection between us.”
Caleb’s heart thudded against his chest. “You don’t desire him,” he told her plainly. And then, knowing he shouldn’t but needing the reconfirmation, he quietly added, “The way you desire me.”
Her gasp stirred the air between them, and he instinctively dropped his gaze to her parted lips. This was madness. He ought to apologize and walk away, but since she did not move, neither did he. Instead, he watched her throat work as she swallowed, the truth in her eyes brightening her gaze as it locked with his and held in a fiery exchange of mutual need.
I want you.
He could practically hear her say it, could feel the charge those words evoked thrumming through his veins and heating his blood. “I want you too,” he murmured with brutal honesty, “but ruining you would be a crime, Miss Clemens, so I fear I must refrain.”
No Ordinary Duke: The Crawfords Page 5
