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.”

“Miss Clemens,” Mr. Townsend said with a note of warning. “I would ask you to speak to my sister with respect. After all, you and I are to be—”

“What?” Miss Clemens's eyes were blazing now. Mr. Townsend leaned away from her as if deeming her unpredictable. “Married? You have not asked me to be your wife, and yet you assume that I will be even though you and I would make a terrible match.”

“Surely you jest,” Mr. Townsend declared. “The shock you sustained just now has addled your brain.”

“Indeed it has not,” Miss Clemens insisted. “If anything, coming here this evening has only strengthened my resolve. I will not attach myself to a man who looks down his nose at others and insults my friends.”

“Miss Clemens—”

“No, Mr. Townsend. The answer is no.”

Caleb wanted to cheer in response to her brazen bluntness. Instead, he winced as he pressed the napkin Mr. Townsend had given him to his wounds, blotting at the pebbling blood.

“The nerve,” Miss Townsend said, earning a withering glare from Miss Clemens.

“Indeed,” she muttered, prompting Caleb to smile even as he wondered if Miss Townsend and her brother had registered the subtle barb. “If you would be kind enough to escort me, I would like to return home now, Mr. Crawford.”

He immediately straightened in his seat and rose. “Of course, Miss Clemens. I would be delighted.”

He followed that statement with a swift halfhearted farewell to his hosts, who remained at the table, most likely too stunned to stand, while he escorted Miss Clemens out of the house.

“Good grief,” she said when she was back on Apollo and heading for home. “What awful people.”

“At least you got to see the real Mr. Townsend,” Caleb said.

“It astounds me to think how badly I have misjudged him.” She made a wretched sound. “My parents told me I was naive to think a marquess would want to marry me. I insisted they were wrong, but apparently I do have a tendency to think the best of people. Even when they don't deserve it.”

“How could you know what either of these men was truly like before they chose to show you?” Guilt spliced its way through him because he knew he was just another case of what Miss Clemens described: a charlatan taking advantage of her goodwill. But at least if he could make her feel better, then some good would come from the mess he'd created. “Did Lady Cassandra or Miss Howard ever tell you Mr. Townsend was unworthy of your friendship?”

“No. They were actually in favor of him courting me even though I made it clear to them I wasn't interested.”

“You see? Everyone was seduced by his charisma. Even I must admit that I never expected him to be quite so insulting. In hindsight, however, the comments he threw my way during his visit last week should have given some indication.”

They walked on in silence while dusk turned to night. Overhead, a blanket of stars glittered like an endless collection of diamonds haphazardly strewn out on navy-blue velvet. The moon, a luminescent disc in the sky, glowed bright across the crisp autumn landscape. Winter would likely sneak up behind them and when it did, the house would have to be ready to withstand the cold.

“Thank you,” Miss Clemens said, startling him slightly.

He’d been so busy making a mental list of what remained to be done he'd forgotten he was trying to navigate a dark dirt road while leading a horse along with him.

“For what?” he asked

“For making me feel better.”

“It is the least I can do,” he murmured.

“You’re a true friend,” she said, adding to his guilt. “I’ll be sorry to see you go. As will everyone else. The children have all taken such a liking to you. Is there really nothing we can do to convince you to stay?”

His heart ached with the longing to simply abandon his duty forever and live out the rest of his days in a house with three spinsters and five lively children. And if George were still alive, he might have been able to do so. But fate had put a limit on his options.

“My mother needs me, Miss Clemens.” The dukedom needs me, Parliament needs me, my estates, servants, and tenants all need me. “As it is, I fear I’ve been gone too long.”

“I understand.”

Apollo clopped toward the garden gate of her home, and Caleb leaned over the side to unlatch it. Once inside, he led the horse back to his spot beside the cottage and helped Miss Clemens dismount. Remembering her earlier request to stop flirting with her, he made a deliberate effort to minimize their contact and stepped away quickly, as soon as she was on the ground.

“Allow me to walk you to the door.” Light from behind the kitchen window served as a guide.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea or a glass of port?” she asked. Reaching the door, she stopped to look up at him, and in spite of the darkness, expectation and hope were visible in the depths of her eyes.

“Perhaps another time, Miss Clemens.” He saw the disappointment before she looked away. “It has been a trying evening, so I think I’d prefer to retire early and get some rest.”

“Yes. Of course.” She opened the door, paused for a second, and swung back toward him. Before he was able to determine her purpose, she placed a swift kiss on his cheek. “Thank you once again, Mr. Crawford.” Her words were soft, whispering across his skin in the sweetest caress. And then she was gone, back into her house, leaving Caleb more alone than he’d ever felt before in his life.

He stood there for long moments after, paralyzed by Miss Clemens’s innocent show of affection. Pressing his hand to his cheek, he imagined still feeling her lips, warm against his skin. When he finally managed to move, it was with an urgency he could not explain. He had to get back to the cottage before he did something foolish, like tear the kitchen door off its hinges in order to have her.

Miss Clemens with her golden hair, inquisitive gaze, and boldness had lit a fire inside him that could not be quenched. It strained his nerves and threatened his temper, resulting in nothing but pure frustration. And her chaste little kiss only made it worse. Damn! It had quickened his pulse and hardened his muscles in ways that could not be healthy.

Yanking the door to his cottage open, he strode inside, located the tinderbox, and lit an oil lamp to light the small room. Breathing hard, he leaned against the wall and struggled to gain some measure of control. Blood thrummed through his veins, and his mind played tricks on his senses, conjuring images of what could be if they’d both just surrender to their desires. He’d have her out of her gown in a trice, naked on the bed and with her hair fanned out across the pillow.

And then he’d taste her. Every inch of her perfect body.

Yes, that was what he wanted. Something no other man could claim to have had with her. Something that would only ever be his. Groaning, he snuffed out the light and collapsed on the bed fully clothed, anxious for sleep to claim him.

“There’s a dance at the assembly hall on Saturday,” Cassandra announced a few days later at breakfast. “I’d love for us to attend.”

She’d always enjoyed dancing and socializing, but there had been little time for it in recent years with the children to look after, since it did require getting someone to watch them for a few hours. The village teacher, Mrs. Durham, and her husband had helped with this a few times before. In exchange, they’d received ten pounds, so it went without saying that it was a luxury the three women couldn’t afford too regularly.

“It has been a while since the last time we went out to such an event,” Cassandra said. “And just imagine how thrilled all the ladies will be if we bring Mr. Crawford with us. I daresay most will swoon at the very sight of him. Don’t you agree, Mary?”

Mary licked a bit of jam off her fingers and tried not to cringe at the idea of every woman within a five-mile radius competing for Mr. Crawford’s attention. “He may not know how to dance,” she said, but as she did so, she knew he probably did. After all, he had a talent for surprising and impressing her in the most unexpected ways.

“A man who climbs about on a roof as nimbly as he does is bound to possess some skill on the dance floor,” Emily said with a meaningful look directed at Mary.

When she’d returned from dinner with the Townsends on Friday, she’d told Cassandra and Emily everything. They’d both been just as appalled by Mr. Townsend’s and his sister’s behaviors as she was, but of far greater interest to them had been the kiss she’d given Mr. Crawford. Both had questioned her about it relentlessly, drawing all manner of conclusions and insisting she must be in love with him already.

She’d denied it and claimed that the kiss was intended as nothing more than friendly appreciation. Which was nonsense, of course. She’d been meaning to kiss him properly, but had lost her nerve on her way to his mouth and had consequently settled on his cheek instead.

“I have to go to the village today to buy some more flour and milk,” Emily said. “I’ll stop by the school while I’m there and ask Mrs. Durham if she and her husband are free to watch the children on Saturday.”

“What’s happening on Saturday?” Mr. Crawford asked in a low tone as he entered the room.

His voice sent ripples of awareness through Mary’s body and filled her head with the memory of him after she’d kissed him, staring back at her as if he wished to shove everything between them aside and pull her into his arms. But then he’d returned to his cottage, snuffed out the light and gone to bed, and she’d done the same. Disquieted by a peculiar state of unrest, she’d found sleep eluded her every night since. Exhausted, she would drift off hours later and be up once again at dawn.

“There’s a dance at the assembly hall,” Emily said while Mary stifled a yawn. “We hope to attend.”

“Sounds like fun,” Mr. Crawford said. He pulled out a chair next to Peter and poured himself a cup of tea. Smiling brightly, he grabbed some toast and started buttering it while humming a merry tune.

He’d adopted this cheerful demeanor for the past three days. Since Saturday morning, to be exact. And just like on each of those days, Cassandra and Emily both raised their eyebrows while looking at Mary. Clearly, they thought this was all due to the kiss she’d given him, but that couldn’t possibly be true because he’d grown even more distant than usual since then, addressing her only when absolutely necessary. For the most part, he worked, ate his meals, and retired to the cottage without staying for story time after dinner or even to enjoy a glass of port once the children were put to bed, as he had done before.

Which had to mean that he feared she wanted an attachment, and this was his way of telling her he wasn’t interested. She accepted that, because she had to. What she did not like was how much she missed his company. Chatting with him had become the best part of her day. She’d cherished each conversation, even though they’d brought her closer to heartbreak.

“You must join us,” Cassandra said. She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “Do you dance by any chance?”

Mary coughed and took a quick sip of her tea.

“On occasion,” Mr. Crawford said slowly. “Depends who I’ll be partnering with.”

“Ho! What a fine answer that is,” Emily hooted. “Will I do for the reel?”

Mr. Crawford grinned. “It would be an honor, Miss Howard.”

They finished their breakfast without Mr. Crawford agreeing to dance with anyone else, and Mary tried not to feel overlooked. A difficult task now that her emotions were fully engaged. And the fact that he chose not to sit directly beside her and continued to avoid being alone with her in the days that followed only made her feel worse. It was as if she were suffering the same kind of heartache she’d felt five years earlier, except this time she’d nowhere to run – no way of avoiding the man who’d stolen her heart.