Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Seven
Marianne paused just outside of the room. Was she utterly ridiculous for doing this? Should she leave matters as they were and simply hope Mr. Steele wouldn’t speak with Father?
“Have you come to spy again?”
She started at Mr. Steele’s voice. Blast it all. It was about time she’d learned her lesson about thinking she was being covert.
Slowly, she stood in the doorway. “No, not at all.”
Muted light from the heavily clouded skies streamed in through the large windows at the far end of the room, illuminating the carver, who stood on the fourth rung of a ladder that leaned against the bookshelf. His shirtsleeves were again rolled halfway up, and he held a tool in each hand. He’d been making steady progress on one side of the bookshelf, the design swirling more than halfway up the height of the shelves.
His eyes dropped to the basket in her hands. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”
His stern brow had lessened somewhat from what it had been at the cricket match, and a shadow of facial hair brushed against his jawline—a jawline so angled, it appeared to have been carved by the very tools in his very masculine hands.
“Ma’am?”
She blinked, forcing her eyes away from his features. “Yes, I hope you forgive my intrusion.”
He pulled his tools away from the wood and leaned his left arm against the ladder. His waistcoat was halfway unbuttoned, his cravat loosened enough to reveal the lower half of his throat.
She cleared her own throat and looked away. “I’ve been considering my actions lately and realized they may have been lacking in propriety. So, I thought I’d make amends by bringing you these.” She raised the basket, unveiling the pastries with her free hand. “I hope you enjoy them.”
Mr. Steele peered down at the basket, his lips twitching before he looked back up to her. “That is very kind of you. But you needn’t have gone to such trouble.”
She shrugged, stepping forward and placing the basket on the table beside his perfectly aligned tools. “Perhaps for one mistake. But I’ve made three.”
Still standing atop the ladder, he narrowed his eyes. “Three?”
She nodded. “I bombarded you with questions, spied on you for days, and then hinted very conspicuously for you to leave Daffley Park for an hour so I could read here. So you see, cherry tarts are the very least I could do.” She motioned to the tarts. “Why do you not take a moment and enjoy one while they’re warm?”
He watched her for a moment in silence. “I don’t believe your father would approve of my stopping work to eat a pastry.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Did my eyes deceive me when last I was here? I’m certain I saw a pastry of your own situated just there.” She pointed to where his handkerchief had rested the last time she’d been in the room—the same place his handkerchief was now located, fresh crumbs atop it.
If she didn’t know any better, she’d say the man was more obsessed than she was.
He seemed to contemplate her words before nodding. “Very well. I will gratefully accept your offer. If only because I’ve no chance of denying the fact that I have been eating on the job.”
Cherry tarts. They always did the trick.
He descended the ladder and approached where she stood at the table, rubbing his hands together as small shavings of wood drifted to the ground.
She took a step back as he retrieved the largest tart. She’d forgotten how tall he was.
“I do apologize for how few there are,” she said as he took a bite. “I’m afraid my sister pilfered one. And I may or may not be guilty of fishing out one or two for myself before I arrived here. You see, I have very little self-control when it comes to pastries.” She clenched her teeth together and sent him an awkward grin.
He gave a half-smile in return and swallowed, his throat bobbing. She’d never taken any special note to a man’s neck before. There was something intriguing, even captivating, about the angles.
“I don’t believe I would have been able to stop myself either,” he said.
So she’d been right about him. “I thought so, especially after you swarmed Lord Ryecombe’s refreshment table like a bee to a wildflower.”
He coughed, holding one of his hands to his mouth as he leaned forward, trying to catch his breath.
“Heavens, are you all right?” she asked.
He continued to cough.
“I’m terribly sorry. Was I supposed to have kept that knowledge to myself? And that I also saw you slip a handful of cakes into your satchel?”
His coughing increased.
Oh dear. She’d taken her teasing one step too far.
Eventually, Mr. Steele let out one more thorough cough then straightened, clearing his throat and averting his gaze.
“I do apologize,” she mumbled.
He shook his head. “I feared you had seen me doing such things,” he said, his voice husky from the coughing attack she’d induced. “I have no reasonable excuse for eating as much as I did. But to be clear, I did not take the cakes for myself. They were for my mother.”
A warmth flowered in her heart. “Oh, how very kind of you. I’m sure she appreciated them.”
He cleared his throat again. “Well, the cakes were more or less a handkerchief full of crumbs by the time she partook of them. She was very gracious, though she had to scoop them into her mouth.”
Marianne gave a little laugh. He glanced at her then back at his tart. “Am I allowed to continue eating, or are you to reveal something else unsavory about me first?”
She waved a hand. “Oh, no. By all means, eat.”
She tried not to stare as he took another bite. When had swallowing a cherry tart become such a mesmerizing action? Did he really need to have his cravat loosened so much? She supposed the room was a little warm.
“Do you like them?” she asked, if only to keep her eyes from where the contours of his neck disappeared into the slackened cravat.
“Very much. I’ve enjoyed much of your cook’s food and am always impressed. I also enjoy Mrs. Hill’s pastries from the village.”
Marianne clicked her tongue as he took a final bite. “Oh, you would be wise to not let Cook overhear you say that. She might scorch your food on purpose.”
He watched her, intrigue lighting his eyes. “Why is that?”
“I’m afraid Cook and Mrs. Hill have a rivalry. When we first arrived in Ashwick and hired Cook, her proficiency became well known, but Mrs. Hill is not one to accept defeat easily. Everyone in town looks forward to the rural festivals because Cook and Mrs. Hill create so many delicious pastries to compete with one another, we all eat ourselves sick.”
A smile cracked on his lips. “That must be quite enjoyable.” He finished off his tart and brushed the crumbs off onto his handkerchief.
“Oh, very much so. Perhaps you will be here during one of the festivals.”
“Perhaps.” He looked back to the bookshelf, as if contemplating beginning work again, but to her delight, he continued speaking instead. “You mentioned earlier about first arriving in Ashwick. Did you live elsewhere before?”
She tapped her toe anxiously on the ground. Now would be a good time to share with him the real reason she’d come upstairs.
“Yes. Father purchased Daffley ten years ago. We lived in a small town in Berkshire before this.”
“I see.” He was no doubt wondering why they had moved, and Marianne would have gladly told him, had he asked. Unlike Father, she didn’t feel shame for their past.
But Mr. Steele remained silent.
Now. She needed to speak now. Before her opportunity was lost. “Mr. Steele, there is another reason why I’ve brought the tarts to you.”
He didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing a fraction.
“You see, I’m afraid I am using them to bribe you.”
His eyebrows raised. “To do what exactly?”
She drew in a deep breath. The worst he could do was deny her request and tell Father. Nothing more terrible than that. Then Father would keep her indoors for longer, and she’d be doomed to remain shut away at Daffley Park forever.
That was all.
She groaned inwardly. “I wish for you to not tell my family that I spoke with you at the cricket match and to keep to yourself the fact that we are acquainted at all.”
He remained still. “You do not wish for your father to know you’ve been here?”
She shook her head.
“And you will not speak to him about me?”
“No, Mr. Steele.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed. “You have my word then, ma’am.”
Well, that was easier than she’d expected. “Do you not wish to know my reasoning as to why?”
He shrugged. “I imagine you have a very valid reason. But it is not my place to question it.” He reached for the basket on the table. “May I have another tart, or do you wish to eat the rest?”
She pulled her eyebrows together. Why had he agreed so quickly? Rather than pressing the issue, she ought to be happy. But she couldn’t understand it.
“I brought them all for you.”
He nodded, snagging another tart and taking a bite as he moved toward the ladder. “Off to read, then, are you?”
She struggled to set aside her confusion. “No, I only read in the mornings. Right now, I ought to be practicing my needlework.” But she’d chosen to forgo the activity in order to speak with this near stranger.
That made sense.
He popped the rest of the tart into his mouth, his jaw working as he chewed. So now she had an obsession with the way this man swallowed and chewed?
“Do you practice your needlework in here?” he asked.
“In the library? Heavens, no. I work on it in the drawing room where the light is not so brightly reflected against the whiteness of the cloth.”
“A valid reason.” Why did his brown eyes twinkle so amusedly? “What explanation do you have to read in the library? Apart from the obvious answer of being near books, of course.”
She tore her eyes from the gentleman and swept her gaze around the room. “I’ve always loved it in here, but ever since Father had the room refinished, the smell of the wood is intoxicating.” She shrugged. “I do not know how to explain it, exactly. It is soothing in a way. Almost like an embrace. To have that mixed with the comforting smell of old books, it will be utter perfection in this room. If only they could bottle that smell more frequently instead of roses or jasmine.”
His eyes fixed on her. Had she done it again? Said something to make him uncomfortable? Overstepped her bounds?
“What is it?” she asked.
The amusement in his eyes had faded, replaced with a wary brow. “I must simply return to my work, or your father will be displeased. That is all.”
Embarrassment pinched her chest. Why did she linger when her task was already accomplished? “I will leave you to it then, Mr. Steele. Good day.”
She left the library and the woodcarver behind.
There. She’d done it. She’d apologized, delivered a peace offering, and made an agreement to keep their communications secret. Now she could forget about the man and move on with her life and her routine.
Oh, but she would need to retrieve the basket from him at some point. Now, when could she fit that into her schedule?