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.
9
Saturday arrivedwith the first breath of winter. Waking, Mary felt the chill sweep through her the moment she stepped out of bed. Dressing quickly, she hurried downstairs and opened the kitchen door, almost colliding with Mr. Crawford, who stood poised to enter.
“Good morning,” she muttered, her breath swirling toward him like mist on the moors.
“Miss Clemens,” he said and dipped his head by way of greeting. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it?” she asked, unable to hide the pain stealing through her. Setting her mouth, she pushed her way past him and marched toward the pile of firewood kept in a small covered enclosure.
“Of course,” he said, sounding surprised. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
She grabbed three pieces of wood and hefted them into her arms. “You have been ignoring me.” Plain words that could not be misunderstood.
“Have I?”
She blew out a breath, muttered an oath, and started back toward the house, not caring at all if he followed. Entering the kitchen, she set the wood down, filled the kettle with water and proceeded to ready the fire, ignoring the presence she sensed looming somewhere nearby. She absolutely refused to look at him.
“I have clearly upset you,” he said, following her into the dining room. When she crouched in front of the fireplace and reached for a log, he stalled her by placing his hand over hers. “That was not my intention, Miss Clemens.”
In spite of the hot little embers now sneaking their way up her arm, Mary knew she had to be strong for her own sake. She could not give in just because he filled her with longing. “Then what was it?” she asked.
The edge of his mouth lifted, affording him with a roguish smile. Mary swallowed, refusing to let it affect her, even though it was far too late for that. Her traitorous body already hummed in response to his nearness, calling for him to…to do something besides simply touch her hand.
“It was the only way I could think to resist you after you kissed me.” His eyes glittered somehow while his thumb began drawing lazy circles on her skin.
“It was just on the cheek,” she whispered.
A gruff sound rose from his throat. “Nevertheless. You should know how I feel since I’ve told you as plainly as I know how.”
I want you too. But ruining you would be a crime, Miss Clemens, so I fear I must refrain.
The words he’d spoken two weeks earlier echoed in her head. She hadn’t forgotten, but she’d thought he might have lost interest.
“But that kiss…” he continued. “It tore at every restraint with incredible force. So if I’ve added distance between us, that is why. Not because I do not want you, but because I want you too damn much.”
He stood, gave a curt nod, and strode from the room as if somehow unable to stay and face her for one more second. Trembling, Mary placed the log in the fireplace and watched it ignite as she lit the kindling. Staring into the flames, she allowed a new question to press on her mind: what if you simply surrender?
For the restof the day, Mary listened to Mr. Crawford banging away in the attic as he removed rotted planks of wood and carried them from the house. He’d completed his work on the roof, so all that remained was for him to fix the attic floor, his presence never forgotten because of all the loud noises he made while he worked.
It was oddly soothing, Mary decided, and strangely unsettling once it ceased. Glancing at the clock she saw it was almost five. They would eat dinner soon, then the Durhams would arrive. Mr. Crawford had probably stopped work for the day so he could freshen up and prepare himself for their evening out. Cassandra and Emily were both in the process of doing so, and she really ought to follow suit if she was to be ready on time.
“You should wear your white muslin gown,” Cassandra said. She’d entered her bedchamber while Mary stood by her wardrobe, considering her limited selection of clothes.
“It is too cold for that,” she said, eying one of the few things she’d taken with her when she’d left London. It was exquisite, too fine for a mere village dance, but also tempting because of the man who would see her wear it.
“You have a cloak,” Cassandra said. Mary toyed with the fabric, torn between practicality and looking her best. “If he sees you like that, he’ll never forget you, Mary.”
There was no point in asking whom she was talking about. They both knew. “I want him so much it hurts,” she confessed.
“Then conquer your fear.”
Mary sighed. “It is not that simple. He doesn’t want to give in to temptation. I…I do not know why, but he is determined to avoid an attachment with me at all cost, Cass.” She glanced at her friend, completely unsure of how to proceed. “He doesn’t want marriage. That much is certain.”
“Is that what you want?” When Mary didn’t answer, Cassandra moved closer to her and quietly asked, “Do you love him, Mary?”
Mary blinked. “I do not know. Maybe.”
