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She pulled her lips to the side in frustration. “I do not know about this, Mr. Steele.”

He hesitated, knowing just what to do to help the situation. Whether or not it would help his need to stay away from the woman was another matter entirely.

Slowly, he moved behind her and slightly off to the right, placing his hand over hers on the mallet as she held the chisel herself. A warmth blossomed where he touched her, sliding up his arm like a trail of golden light. “Soft, like this,” he said in a quiet tone.

Her skin was smooth, and the scent of cherries wafted from her to linger beneath his nose.

She’d been eating tarts again. Would that he could sample them, too.

Marianne’s head spun. The callused touch of his hand against hers, his deep voice in her ear—it took everything within her not to fall over with delirium.

“Now hold the chisel securely against the bookshelf,” he said softly.

She rested the head of the chisel on one of the markings on the wood. “Right here?”

He nodded, his chin brushing against the back of her hair. Chills erupted near her neck as he rested a hand on her opposite shoulder. One slight step back, and she’d be resting against his chest.

“Relax this arm.”

As if she could relax when she could not breathe. As if she could breathe when he stood so closely.

“Angle the chisel lower.”

She did her best to follow his instructions, but her mind was having great difficulty shifting her focus from his proximity to…what was it they were doing again, carving?

His breath tickled her ear. “Now softly tap the mallet and apply light pressure to the chisel.”

His own hand guided hers in lifting the mallet then tapping it against the tool. To her surprise, the chisel slid up a fraction of the bookshelf, shaving off a slight slab of wood.

“It worked,” she said with a smile.

She turned to seek Mr. Steele’s approval, but as she did so, her brow brushed against his lips, and her breathing stopped altogether.

Their eyes met, and a longing she had never known before rushed through her. Slowly, he released his hold of her hand around the mallet, bringing his fingers to hover beside her cheek before brushing them softly against her skin. Those fingers, they could only belong to a working-class man—callused, worn. Strong.

She longed to turn and face him more fully, but how could she reveal just how greatly she wished to be kissed by him when she did not know if he wished for the same?

As if on cue, his eyes dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted involuntarily, and she raised her chin. As his fingers slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, she was gone.

Unfortunately, so was her grip.

A loud clatter erupted through the room, and she jumped away from Mr. Steele to stare at the ground where she’d dropped the mallet.

Blast. Blast, blast, blast.

She drew in a deep breath and looked to Mr. Steele, who had backed away from her, as well.

What on earth had they been about to do?

She went straight for the door without another look at him. “Excuse me, Mr. Steele,” she barely managed to say, then she fled from the room.

Her insides clenched, as if her stomach had been kneaded like bread. She was upset. Deeply.

But as she walked away, she could not decide what she was more upset about—almost kissing the man…or not kissing him at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Marianne enjoyed her time in the village with Mama, purchasing ribbons and choosing fabric for new gowns, but nothing could compare to the laughter and excitement she’d shared with Mr. Steele.