Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Miss Coventry’s gaze unraveled him like a spool of thread. He had too much work to do to be wasting anymore time staring into her eyes.

Besides, he hadn’t any right to be looking at her in such a way. She had always been his employer’s daughter, but now she was a fine lady out in Society, ready to marry a just-as-fine gentleman—something Edward could never be.

He drew his chisel toward the carving and tapped the mallet against the back of it. “Are you ready for the dinner party, then?”

“I suppose.”

This was her first—rather, second—social outing ever. Why was she not happier? “Are you anxious?”

“No, I believe I am ready.”

He hesitated. “Then may I ask why you do not appear thrilled to be attending?”

She crossed her arm over her stomach, holding her elbow with her opposite hand. “Perhaps I am still tired from last evening, Mr. Hickenbottom.”

He smiled at her teasing, though the name cast slivers of pain through his chest. Their carefree time together was swiftly drawing to a close, for she would soon take the last name of another.

“I apologize for the delay that yesterday must have caused to your schedule,” she said.

“I will be able to make up for it soon enough.” Especially now that he’d escaped Mr. Coventry’s condemnation for stealing his daughter away.

She watched him in silence for a moment as he pressed the chisel in the curve he’d already created, pushing it deeper with the mallet.

She motioned to his tools. “Is that difficult to do?”

“Not at all.” He hesitated saying anything more, allowing her a chance to leave. She had no reason to visit him any longer. No reason to sneak upstairs, to chat with him at sunset, or steal away to a ball together. She’d have a line of gentlemen suitors to do that for her now.

If this was his last chance to be with Miss Coventry, should he not make it count?

He held out the tools toward her. “Would you like to try?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t wish to ruin your work.”

He skimmed the bookshelf, settling on a section he had not yet completed. “If you work the wood there, I will be able to fix it if anything goes astray.” He offered her the tools again.

She eyed them warily. “Are you certain about this, Mr. Steele?”

“Absolutely.”

She sighed, taking the tools in hand. “I haven’t the faintest idea what I am doing.”

“Which is why I shall help you.” He motioned her closer to the bookshelf. “See these pencil markings?” He ran his fingers along the faint drawings in the bookshelf, still visible from his first few days at Daffley Park. “Take the chisel and press it flat against the thick marking there. Then lightly tap the mallet against the handle of the chisel.”

She drew a deep breath, a doubtful look on her brow as she moved forward. With a tight grip, she softly tapped the mallet against the chisel.

When nothing happened, she looked back at Edward. “What did I do wrong?”

He smiled. “Strike it a little harder than that.”

With a determined set to her brow, she raised the mallet then hit the chisel with all her might.

The tool dug deep into the wood with a damming thump.

She held up her arm in a gasp, still holding the mallet. But the chisel was lodged so deeply into the wood, it stuck out without movement.

“Oh, heavens.”

Edward tried to hold in his laughter, but it escaped as a guttural sound at the back of his throat.

She looked at him then with a barely refrained smile. “I told you I’d destroy your work.” She thrust the mallet toward him. “Here, you must take this before I lodge it into the wood next.”

He chuckled again, holding up his hands for her to keep the tool. “No, no. You must try again. Simply hit somewhere in the middle of tapping an egg and striking an anvil.”

She frowned, though her smile won out again. “Very well, I shall try once more. But if it does not work, I shall retire forever.”

“Your father will be so disappointed. I’m certain he’d want his daughter to become a woodcarver.” He pulled the chisel from the wood, handing it to her before she stood in position once again. “Loosen your grip,” he instructed softly.

She stared at her hands. “If I loosen it, won’t the mallet fall?”

“Only if you let go of it completely.”

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.