To say he'd slept comfortably on the narrow sofa that was roughly a foot shorter than his body would be a lie, but he did stay warm and he did wake up with the most delightful memory of Miss Clemens's flustered response to his state of undress the night before.

He grinned as he recalled the shock in her eyes when she'd realized he was naked beneath the blanket. Her entire face had turned red. But there had been interest too, a flare of curiosity she'd valiantly tried to hide by affecting a serious tone.

Ah, but he longed to discover the depth of her passion, to be the man who stoked her desire. But then he'd have to marry her because that was what she deserved. So he had to ask himself if he were really prepared for that. Did he know her well enough? She certainly didn't know him, and if she ever did, would she accept him for who he was? 

He had no answers but he knew one thing: His parents had married for practical reasons, for duty and convenience, and they'd been mostly estranged from each other. Caleb didn't want that for himself. When he married, if he married, he wanted it to be to a woman who would be his friend, companion, and lover.

An image of Miss Clemens stole into his mind, and he immediately stood, eager to get on with the day, assess the damage the storm had caused, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the woman who’d somehow managed to possess his every thought.

When he discovered she'd not yet risen, he went outside to check on his horse. Apollo whinnied when he saw him approach and greedily accepted the carrots Caleb offered. Untying Apollo, he led him to a grassy patch so the horse could enjoy a good breakfast while Caleb inspected potential damage to the house.

To his relief, it was minimal. A couple of tiles had blown off the roof, but he'd been planning to remove them anyway. And a shutter had been torn off its hinges. Caleb found it some distance away on the ground and with both of its hinges missing.

By the time he finished fixing it, he learned that Miss Clemens had risen, eaten her breakfast, and gone for a walk. Since she'd not come to greet him, he could only surmise that she wished to avoid him right now.

“I need to ride into the village,” he told Miss Howard, who was giving the children handwriting lessons. “Is there anything you need?”

“Not really. The butcher will be stopping by tomorrow with our weekly supplies, but Miss Clemens does enjoy the strawberry tarts from Wilson's Bakery. If you were to purchase one for her, I believe she'd be very grateful.”

Caleb grinned on account of the woman's transparency and promised to keep that in mind. But he'd have to be careful how he went about the purchase since offering gifts to a woman was not deemed appropriate unless it constituted flowers. And even then it would be assumed that intentions were being announced.

In the end, he solved the problem by buying strawberry tarts for everyone even if it did seem like an extravagant gesture for a mere laborer, but he wanted to please the children as well, just as much as Miss Clemens in fact, which was something of a curious thought.

Carrying the box of pastries with him, he visited the tailor next. With only four days until Mr. Townsend's blasted dinner, he had to put in an order for a proper pair of trousers with shirt, vest and jacket to match.

“I'll take this charcoal-colored wool,” he told the tailor, deliberately selecting a fabric that wasn't too costly or cheap. “And this black satin for the lining.”

“That will be twenty pounds, sir,” the tailor said after taking Caleb's measurements.

Caleb promptly produced the necessary sum. “It's a good thing I just got paid then, isn't it,” he said to avoid any gossip about a laborer with enough blunt to splurge on a brand new outfit. That was the last thing he needed if he wanted to maintain anonymity. Which he did since the alternative was to have the world intrude upon his privacy with the exact same problems he'd come here to escape.

The strawberry tarts were well received by everyone. Caleb laughed at the sight of the children’s eyes as they took in the treats and at their custard-covered mouths once they’d each had a bite. Miss Clemens, he noted, smiled with pleasure as she consumed her tart as if it were the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

“I also like going for long leisurely walks,” he told her later that day when he found her alone in the garden. She was adding fir branches around the base of the rosebushes next to the house in preparation for winter. Hearing him, she looked up from her crouched position, her expression slightly tense as if she weren’t sure whether to stay where she was or run. “Being out in the middle of nature comforts my soul.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she quietly asked.

“Because you inquired about my interests, and I only mentioned history. But I enjoy a variety of different things, like chess and whist, provided I have a decent opponent, Gothic novels, especially those written by Ann Radcliffe, and gardening to some extent. In France I had a small vegetable and herb box outside my kitchen door. I used to love taking care of the plants and watching them grow.”

“Forgive me,” she said as she straightened herself and peered up at him, “but did you just say that your interests include Ann Radcliffe?”

“I’m a complex man, Miss Clemens,” he said with a shrug.

He added a smile and she laughed as expected, her entire face glowing with unrestrained humor. “Indeed it would seem that you are,” she said. “How very unexpected.”

“Because I’m a man?”

“Well…yes…I suppose so, though I hate to admit it. After all, Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels are romantic in nature, and her female characters do tend to dominate her stories, taking on the primary roles traditionally held by male characters.”

“Yes. But I enjoy her novels because of the psychological suspense, the supernatural elements, and fast-paced action. She’s an excellent author. My only regret is the limited number of novels she’s written, for I have read them all numerous times.”

She bit her lip and hesitated briefly before saying, “I must confess I rather enjoyed The Mysteries of Udolpho. That castle gave me chills and had me looking over my shoulder a few times while reading.”

Caleb grinned. “I know. There’s the bolted door that somehow opens in the middle of the night, strange voices, and even a ghostly apparition. I couldn’t put the book down the first time I read it.”

“There are similar elements in Northanger Abbey.”

“Yes, but that novel focuses more heavily on the romantic relationship between the main characters while the mystery hovers in the background.” He pondered that statement for a second. “What I love about Ann Radcliffe is the balance between the two. I never really felt as though I was reading a romance novel. It was more of an adventure story for me.”

“I hope you won’t take offence to this, but I’m surprised by how well-read you are. Books aren’t cheap, and well…you didn’t go to university so—”

“Why would you think that?”

She stared at him, and he knew he’d said too much, but he didn’t want her forming inaccurate opinions about his level of intellect. More importantly, he wanted her to view him as her social equal.

“I…er…I confess your choice of profession led me to believe you hadn’t completed any higher levels of education.” Her embarrassment was clear in the tiny frown puckering the skin between her eyebrows and the way she pressed her lips together.

Leaning in, he inhaled the sweet scent of rosewater clinging to her skin. “People are often more than they appear on the surface, Miss Clemens. Also, one doesn’t have to have attended university in order to be well read, but I do happen to have done so for a couple of years. I studied architecture, as a matter of fact.”

She gaped at him. “But that must have cost your family a fortune!”

“It did.” He leaned back so he could study her face more easily. She was clearly having trouble understanding who he was and where he belonged in the world. “You’ve made a lot of assumptions. For one, you immediately believed I was poor because I choose to work with my hands outside in all manner of weather. But don’t forget, Viscount Aldridge is my friend.”

He was treading dangerously close to the truth right now, and although he was tempted to confess it, he also knew doing so would make her loathe him. Which was something he wasn’t prepared to allow. Not when he enjoyed her company as much as he did. And not when he had no duty toward her beyond the bounds of friendship.

If he kissed her however…

His gaze dropped to her lips, and he drew a shuddering breath. If he surrendered to that temptation, he’d have to tell her everything. That sort of intimacy demanded the truth. Which was yet another reason to keep some distance between them.

“Are you saying you’re gentry?”

“I’m not saying anything at all, Miss Clemens, besides the fact that there’s more to me than meets the eye. Which is also true about you. Tell me, what are your interests, besides the children you care for and your friendships with Lady Cassandra and Miss Howard?” Crouching down, he grabbed some fir from a nearby pile and proceeded to place it as he’d seen her do.

She joined him momentarily and together they worked for a number of seconds before she said, “I enjoy nature walks for the same reason you mentioned earlier. But I prefer Miss Austen’s works to Mrs. Radcliffe’s, and as far as her works go, I favor Pride and Prejudice.”

“I haven’t read that novel,” Caleb said while patting down the fir around the base of one rosebush. “But if it is your favorite, I shall have to give it a try.” He glanced across at her and was briefly distracted by the loose tendrils of hair brushing her cheek. His fingers itched to tuck them behind her ear and savor the brief contact such intimacy would afford. He cleared his throat. “If you have a copy, I’d like to borrow it if I may.”

She darted a look in his direction and suddenly smiled. “Of course, Mr. Crawford, though I must warn you that it is a very romantic read. It will not satisfy your appetite for the ghoulish.”

“Is there at least some amusing dialogue?”

“Certainly there is. Miss Austen wrote with both intelligence and wit. Her stories also have the most wonderful endings, oftentimes with some poor impoverished woman marrying the wealthy man she never thought she could have.”

Caleb could see why such stories would appeal to Miss Clemens. They provided her with the happily-ever-after she herself had been denied. Placing the final piece of fir in the flowerbed, Caleb stood and brushed off his hands before offering Miss Clemens his hand. She accepted it and he pulled her up, ever conscious of her cool palm resting securely against his much warmer one.

“I should be finished with the roof by the end of the week,” he said, still holding her hand. “Once that is done, I’ll replace the rotted planks in the attic.”

“How long do you expect that to take?”

He swallowed and tightened his hold on her hand. “Another couple of weeks, I should think.”

“And then you’ll be gone.” She dipped her head, refusing to meet his gaze, but her voice cracked on the last two words, and his heart broke in response.

Without even thinking, he pulled her into his arms and held her to him. “I have to,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t see each other again.”

“Of course,” she murmured against his chest.

Her warm breath whispered through him, and closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. He was a duke and she was a woman who hated nobility. So what future could they possibly have together when she would refuse any offer he made? And she’d do so in anger, with the pain of knowing he’d deceived her – something he never would have done if he’d known from the start how fond he’d become of her. But it was too late now. He’d led her to believe he was just an ordinary man, and he’d done so for weeks.

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.