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But something about the shop—the woman within—held him in place.

This is absurd. Leave it alone.

He took a steadying breath and turned toward the smithy.

It was late afternoon, almost closing time, when the shop door opened and closed with the gentle tinkle of the bell. Caroline was mid-counting spools of thread, her pencil moving swiftly across the page as she scratched a number down on the notebook. She swiveled with a welcoming smile, prepared to greet the late-day visitor.

To her surprise, one of the blacksmiths from down the street stood just inside the doorway. She had never seen him up close before. He was usually a distant figure standing in front of the smithy. Now, standing in the soft light of her shop, he seemed even larger, his shoulders wide enough to fill the frame of the doorway. His presence commanded the room, and she found herself straightening instinctively.

Caroline had not been aware of how solidly built the man was, with thick shoulders and a height that easily surpassed six feet. The parcels tucked under his arm looked almost comically small compared to the breadth of his chest and the sturdy lines of his arms, clearly used to hard work. His dark hair was cropped neatly, his beard trimmed close to his jaw, giving him an air of rugged respectability. His eyes—strikingly blue—were sharp and observant, the sort that seemed to take in everything with quiet assessment. For the briefest of moments, she had the oddest sensation that those eyes were searching her soul, though she brushed off the thought as fanciful nonsense.

She had sworn off all men after the events at Baydon Hall, vowing to keep her heart and her ambitions firmly under her own control. But standing so close to someone so unmistakably capable, she found it unexpectedly difficult to recall the reasons for her vow. He seemed to radiate confidence and strength—traits she had learned to mistrust, but here they were accompanied by a quiet stillness that unsettled her far more than she liked to admit. Caroline’s hands smoothed over her skirts as she tried to maintain her composure, aware of the odd flutter that had taken up residence in her chest.

The man was scrupulously clean, dressed in sturdy buckskins, well-made black boots, a crisp linen shirt, and a waistcoat that fit him well. His clothing, though simple, was well-tailored and spoke of a man who valued neatness despite his laborious work. But his expression was severe, his square jaw set with determination. He was not the sort given to idle chatter or unnecessary smiles; she imagined him to be direct and to the point, with little patience for frivolities.

“So you are the new mantua-maker?” he asked, his voice steady and unhurried. As a greeting, it was rather abrupt, but there was no malice in it—just simple curiosity.

Caroline resisted the urge to bristle. Men of trade often did not understand the subtleties of women’s fashion, and she would not fault him for it. After all, she knew little of the art of shaping metal or what it took to bend iron to one’s will. Fair was fair.

As she arrived at this conclusion, Caroline gave herself a brief nod to acknowledge that she had the right of things, before beaming widely.

“There are three mantua-makers in Chatternwell. I, however, am a milliner and a modiste,” she corrected him gently, her tone light and pleasant.

“What is the difference?”

Caroline nearly frowned at his curtness but caught herself. “I am certain the mantua-makers are highly competent and an integral part of the community, but the title of modiste implies a certain freshness of fashion sense—someone knowledgeable about the latest trends. There are ladies in town who possess a particular refinement of taste and elegance and require a modiste to handle their wardrobe needs.”

“Aha. It allows you to sell the more expensive fabric.”

“Well … yes … but … with greater profits, I am able to share my success with the seamstresses I employ. I pay higher wages and offer better hours.”

“Are you not afraid you are stealing the livelihood from the other mantua-makers?”

Caroline smiled broadly. This was a question she could answer with confidence. “Not at all. We discovered that the more elegant ladies who are in need of a modiste have been forced to travel to Bath or London for their gowns. Now they have access to the latest London designs right here, in the comfort of their own town. Many households cannot afford our services, so the economies of the other shops remain undisturbed.”

“We?”

She hesitated, not sure how to respond. Why had she allowed that to slip? “My business adviser, Mr. Johnson. He works for my primary investor.”

If the blacksmith asked another prying question—such as who her primary investor was—she would be forced to redirect the conversation. She would never reveal her connection to the Earl of Saunton lest the townspeople—she suppressed a wince—drew the mostly correct conclusion.

She could not deny the flicker of irritation that coursed through her veins at the gentleman’s interrogation. To her dismay, it was accompanied by a curious sense of awareness that unsettled her. The blacksmith was gruff, but undeniably handsome and sharp-witted, his questions showing a mind that grasped more than she would have expected. It quickened her pulse slightly, leaving her scrambling to maintain her composure. It was a combination of frustration and unexpected interest.

She straightened her shoulders and shook off the thoughts. It would not do.

Caroline! You vowed there would be no men! Stop admiring the brute and get him out of your shop!

The blacksmith nodded. “And how does one become a modiste? You apprenticed?”

“I did. Signora Ricci serves the nobility in London and graciously taught me the details of running a fashionable merchant shop.”

“The details of running a shop … Did you apprentice in millinery and dressmaking somewhere else, then?”

Caroline nearly grimaced. This man was far too clever. He had caught every slip, proving she would need to prepare a better story for just such a situation if she did not wish to reveal too many details of her past. Pinning her smile in place, she gave him his answer.

“I was in service at Baydon Hall in Somerset. The housekeeper, Mrs. Harris, apprenticed me in the sewing arts.”

The blacksmith frowned, tilting his head in question. “Is there much call for a seamstress in a stately home?”