What a fool he was. What a bloody fool.
A shiver went through Miss Clemens, and for one blessed second, she drew him closer. But then she relaxed her hold and withdrew from his arms. “I should go,” she said without meeting his gaze.
“Miss Clemens…” He reached for her, but she was already out of his grasp, and then she was gone, back into the house where safety awaited.
“Perhaps you should give Mr. Townsend more of a chance,” Mr. Crawford told her a few days later on their way to Townsend’s farm for dinner. Seated on Apollo, Mary rode while he walked alongside the horse, guiding him by the reins.
They’d barely spoken since their embrace in the garden, not only because Mr. Crawford had applied himself laboriously to his work but because she’d been unable to face him. Already, she’d been trying to keep a distance after seeing him partially undressed the evening of the storm. But the embrace had undone her in ways she could not begin to explain. It had awoken something far more potent than desire – something frighteningly close to love. And since he was obviously set on avoiding an attachment with her and determined to leave once his work had been completed, she made an effort to avoid forming deeper emotional ties. Already, the inevitable heartache she’d suffer upon his departure had put her in a dismal mood. And now he wanted her to consider Mr. Townsend? It was too preposterous for words.
“No,” she said simply.
“I will agree that he is easily piqued, but I believe that is only because he felt threatened by me, for which you must not blame him since I was not exactly welcoming.”
“He insulted you, Mr. Crawford.”
“Agreed. But he does seem to hold you in the highest regard.” He looked up at her with blue forget-me-not eyes. “My point is, I think he would treat you well.”
“Is that the only reason why one should marry? To be treated well?” She tilted her head and raised a brow, daring him to answer in the affirmative.
“Of course not,” he said with a sigh. “But it is a start, and he’s not exactly bad looking either. On the contrary, I dare say many women would find him attractive.”
“A pity I am not one of them,” she said with a flat clip to her voice. This really wasn’t the sort of conversation she wanted to have with the man who’d won her heart. “Drop the issue, Mr. Crawford. Mr. Townsend’s pursuit of me is utterly pointless, and he will come to realize this in due course.”
“Then you will never marry?”
Mary trained her gaze on the horizon and gripped Apollo’s mane between her two clenched fists. She was suddenly ready to jump off the horse and punch Mr. Crawford as hard as she could muster. Why was he doing this to her? Surely he must have some inkling of her feelings for him? Or did he always flirt with women this way, leading them on only to leave them aching for him in ways from which they would never recover? For a second she imagined a long line of heartbroken women in his wake, each praying for his return while he simply moved on to the next.
Not that there was anything to indicate such a flaw in his character, but because of her own horrid experiences, it was hard for her to control her overeager imagination.
She gritted her teeth. “Probably not,” she said in answer to his question. “I will not marry a man I do not care for. Not when I no longer need to do so. And since no other offers are forthcoming,” she added, unable to keep her bitterness at bay, “I believe I shall continue to live with Miss Howard and Lady Cassandra for the remainder of my days. I’d certainly rather grow old with them than with some husband I cannot abide.”
“Poor Mr. Townsend.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “He has in the course of one short minute regressed from a man you do not care for to one you cannot abide. Are you certain you would not rather return home instead of enduring an evening that’s bound to be taxing on your already strained nerves?”
“My nerves are not strained, Mr. Crawford.”
“Then perhaps you’d be kind enough to loosen your grip on Apollo? He’s a gentle creature and quite undeserving of the pain the pique you are in this evening is likely causing.”
Mary expelled a long breath and tried to relax. “I’m sorry. My agitation is caused by what I must tell Mr. Townsend. I do not relish having to inform him there is no future for us.”
“Would you rather I tell him?”
Unable to help herself, she laughed at the very idea. “No. That would be terrible.”
He grinned at her, and her heart melted more easily than she would have liked. “You’re right. He will only believe it if you tell him. But do it after dessert when he’s had lots of wine with his meal. It will help lessen the blow.”
She shook her head. A smile lingered about her lips. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Crawford. Do you know that?”
“I believe it may have been mentioned once or twice.”
They arrived at their destination, and Mr. Crawford reached up to help Mary down. His hands settled solidly against her waist before he lifted her off Apollo. Steadying herself, her hand found his shoulder. Her fingers curled against the muscle, and then she was being pulled toward him, sliding down the front of his body so slowly she could not ignore the solid planes pressing firmly against her own body.
Her feet found the ground, and she swayed, her head too light and her legs too weak to keep her balance. “Stop.” She spoke the word softly but firmly even as he kept his hands on her for added support. “I cannot bear it any longer.”
Carefully, he eased her away and offered his arm. She stared at it for a second and then shook her head. “Let’s not make matters worse for Mr. Townsend by suggesting something that never has been and never will be.”
“Miss Clemens, I—”
“No,” she told him determinedly. “I am not a toy for you to play with. I am a person with feelings, and you are coming perilously close to hurting them. I will not have it.” And with that declaration she marched toward the front door and knocked as hard as she could.
It swung opened almost immediately to reveal Mr. Townsend himself. He smiled broadly at her and welcomed her into his home, ignoring Mr. Crawford’s presence in the process. It wasn’t until they were shown into the parlor where Mr. Townsend’s sister, Miss Frederica Townsend, awaited and introductions had to be made that he bothered to look in Mr. Crawford’s direction at all.
Regardless of her own irritation with the man at the moment, Mary could not abide the rudeness. She accepted a glass of claret and took a seat on the sofa next to Miss Townsend.
“My brother has told me nothing but wonderful things about you, Miss Clemens,” Miss Townsend said. “He says you run an orphanage no more than a mile from here.”
Mary watched Mr. Crawford walk to the fireplace and take up a non-inclusive position there before she glanced at Mr. Townsend who’d seated himself in an armchair directly opposite her. “I wouldn’t really call it an orphanage, Miss Townsend. It is a home I share with my friends, Viscount Aldridge’s sister, Lady Cassandra Moor; Miss Emily Howard; and the children we’ve taken into our care.”
“How charitable of you,” Miss Townsend said.
“I told you she’s got a heart of gold,” Mr. Townsend said, his eyes fixed on Mary.
Discomfited by the attention, Mary shifted in her seat. “It was actually Lady Cassandra’s idea we do so. Considering her daughter’s lack of a father, she sympathizes with children who have lost their parents.”
Mr. Townsend frowned. “But her daughter’s a bastard, is she not?”
A disgruntled snort could be heard from the vicinity of the fireplace.
Mary clenched her jaw. “Your point?”
“Only that Lady Cassandra’s daughter lacks a father for a reason,” Mr. Townsend said. “While I appreciate Lady Cassandra’s kindness toward others, she is a sinful woman who was too easily lured into temptation by the devil himself.”
Mary gaped at Mr. Townsend. In all the discussions they’d had, he’d never given her reason to believe that his beliefs would be so strict and so�
��so…impossible for her to align herself with.
“Our father always warned us of such failings of the human flesh,” Miss Townsend muttered.
“I trust he was a very devout man?” Mary asked, forcing the words out past the dryness in her throat.
“He was a vicar,” Mr. Townsend said.
Another snort from the fireplace had Mary glancing in Mr. Crawford’s direction. “That is what my father wanted for me,” he said. “I told him to go to hell and thank God for that.”
Miss Townsend gasped while Mr. Townsend glared at Mr. Crawford. “I’ll remind you to watch your tongue sir. There are women present.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Crawford muttered. A smirk curled his lips, only easing marginally when he met Mary’s gaze. He raised his glass in salute and winked before taking a sip, returning his attention back to the fire.
“I do not believe you ever mentioned your father’s vocation before,” Mary said for want of anything else.
“It never occurred to me to do so,” Mr. Townsend said. “After all, I am the one vying for your hand, Miss Clemens. Not my father.”
If his intentions had been dubious before, they were now abundantly clear. Mary steeled herself in preparation for what she intended to say, but then the door opened and a maid announced that dinner was ready.
“Allow me to escort you,” Mr. Townsend said, offering Mary his arm.
She wanted to decline, but that would be rude. So she set her hand upon his forearm and gave Mr. Crawford a helpless look. His expression was firm, completely lacking all manner of emotion. Turning away, he offered his arm to Miss Townsend, who accepted with a bright smile that Mary instantly detested.
A tug on her arm pulled her attention back to the man by her side. “You look lovely by the way,” he murmured. “Quite healthy.”
Of all the compliments in the world…Mary sighed and resigned herself to what promised to be the worst evening of her life. When they reached the dining room, Mr. Townsend helped her into her seat before claiming the chair directly beside her. Mr. Crawford and Miss Townsend would sit across from them with a large floral arrangement placed squarely between them.
“May I offer you some beef?” Mr. Townsend inquired after filling Mary’s wine glass to the brim. He held an oval serving dish toward her.
“Thank you,” she took a small piece, her appetite lost somewhere between the front door and the parlor.
“I understand you’re a laborer, Mr. Crawford,” Miss Townsend said once the meal was underway.
“He is more than that,” Mary said, unable to stop from refuting Mr. Townsend’s ill opinion of one of the most incredible men she’d ever had the pleasure of knowing.
“In what sense?” Mr. Townsend asked with an unmistakable edge to his voice. “He mends houses, does he not? That is, as far as I have been able to surmise, the extent of his skill.”
Mary bristled. “You are wrong, Mr. Townsend. Indeed, Mr. Crawford…” She paused when she noted the slight shake of Mr. Crawford’s head. He wanted her to keep quiet about his achievements, which made no sense at all, but she would respect his wishes, so she reached for something else to say and eventually settled on, “he made fishing rods for the boys and in so doing has made them both incredibly happy. Peter, the eldest boy and the most recent arrival in our home, struggled with social interaction for a long time until Mr. Crawford managed to pull him out of himself.”
“Pull him out of himself?” Mr. Townsend chuckled as did his sister. “Sounds rather peculiar.”
“It is the only way I can think to describe it,” Mary said.
“The boy had an inward perspective which kept him apart from everyone else,” Mr. Crawford said.
Mary met his gaze somewhere over the top of a large pink flower. He understood and that knowledge alone increased her fondness for him. But to what avail? She returned her attention to her plate and ate a few more bites of food. It was actually quite delicious.
She especially liked the caramelized carrots and was just biting into one when Miss Townsend said, “It must be such a relief for you to receive my brother’s attentions after being absent from Society for as long as you have been, Miss Clemens. I suspect you must have lost hope on that front, yet here you are, the subject of every conversation he and I have shared since my arrival.”
Mary stared across at the young woman who’d seemed so harmless at first sight. She was definitely a few years younger than Mary, which meant she herself would be seeking a husband at present. “Relief is not exactly the word I would use,” Mary told her carefully. Whether Miss Townsend was being deliberately cruel or she was utterly clueless about appropriate conversation subjects had yet to be determined.
But then she smiled at Mr. Crawford as if no one else was in the room. Holding the expression, she turned her gaze on Mary, and although her eyes were warm, the words she spoke fell with every intention of causing pain. “While in London, I made some inquiries about the woman my brother had written to me about. I was staying with a family friend there during the Season, you see, and when I mentioned your name, Miss Clemens, there was almost no end to the news about you.”
“Please stop,” Mary said, since they were the only words screaming inside her head. She had no interest in revisiting her awful past with Mr. Townsend and his jealous sister as her guide.
But of course an end was too much to hope for when Mr. Townsend raised his glass and said, “You may rest assured that I do not blame you for what transpired. Indeed, I believe my sister’s investigative skills may be able to clear your name.”
“Many people told me that the rumors about you were fabricated nonsense put about by a man who thought you unworthy of his son.” Miss Townsend looked at everyone in turn as if she believed herself to be the most fascinating person in the world. “And in all fairness, even you must admit that aspiring to marry a peer was a bit of a stretch.”
“My family is one of the wealthiest families in England, Miss Townsend,” Mary seethed. “At the time, it did not seem unlikely at all!”
“Be that as it may, my dear,” Mr. Townsend said in a sickeningly soothing tone, “You are not titled, which pretty much excluded you from the running right from the start, though I dare say it did not prevent the blighter from stealing a kiss here and there.”
“If you ask me, he was a fool for not marrying her,” Mr. Crawford announced with a level tone that instantly brought Mary’s gaze back to him. He was watching her closely and with so much sympathy she felt like crying.
“His father wouldn’t have it,” Miss Townsend said.
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Crawford murmured. “He should have married her anyway.”
Confused by the underlying suggestiveness of his words and distraught by Miss Townsend’s relentless pursuit of the subject at hand, Mary stood. Remaining seated and keeping calm had become completely impossible.
“You may take some comfort in knowing they’re dead now,” Miss Townsend added.
“What?” Mary couldn’t even begin to unravel the inappropriateness of such a callous statement. And yet she had to know, “Who is dead?”
“The Duke of Camberly and his son. Both perished earlier in the year.”
Losing all strength in her legs, Mary sank back into her seat and slumped against the backrest. Lips parted in stunned disbelief, she stared across at Miss Townsend’s bland expression before shifting her gaze to Mr. Crawford, whose eyes now conveyed confounded horror.
8
George.
His own bloody brother!
He was the idiot who'd spurned Miss Clemens after leading her on.
Caleb clasped his wine glass and tried to breathe. Not an easy task after learning the woman he wanted would not only hate him for lying to her, despise him for belonging to a set she abhorred, but also loath him for being related to the man who'd cast her aside five years earlier, shattering her heart and sullying her name in the process.
Of all the men in the entire world...
“Are you all right, Mr. Crawford?” Miss Townsend asked. “You look a bit pale.”
“Do I?” Surely Miss Clemens looked worse with her vacant stare and trembling lips. If only he could reach out and offer her comfort. But there was a table between them, set with porcelain and crystal, and even if there weren't, what right did he have? He'd promised her nothing. Rather, he'd fought to resist her even as he shamelessly flirted with her, encouraging her to hope.
She was right to demand he stop. He ought to have left her alone from the start. Except doing so had been impossible, hadn't it? She'd tempted him just as easily as she must have tempted George.
Christ, what a mess!
It was only made worse by the sharp blade of envy slicing away at his heart. For while he hadn't even kissed her yet, George had. He'd known what Miss Clemens's lips felt like beneath his own, what her mouth tasted like and the sounds of pleasure she'd made while enjoying such an intimate embrace.
His grip on the wine glass tightened until a splintering sound pierced the air. Miss Clemens and Miss Townsend both gasped. Caleb stared down at the bleeding palm of his hand, now adorned by shimmering shards of crystal.
A napkin was thrust toward him by Mr. Townsend. “I fear you've upset our guests, Frederica.” He dropped the napkin in front of Caleb and turned to Miss Clemens. “Perhaps a cup of tea will restore your nerves?”
“My nerves?” She sounded incredulous and rightfully so. Apparently Mr. Townsend had no common sense at all if he supposed her nerves were the issue.
“Well, yes. You are clearly distraught.”
Caleb groaned and proceeded to pull the sharp little pieces of crystal from his hand.
“Of course I'm distraught,” Miss Clemens said. “To be anything else after learning that a man with whom I was once well acquainted has recently died would be inhuman, sir.” She glared at Mr. Townsend before pinning her gaze on his sister. “And you, to speak of the matter and my indiscretion with so little sympathy is galling.”
No Ordinary Duke Page 9
