Page 3 of A Duke Of Her Own

They had stared at each other, and then she had laughed, feeling the sadness leeching from her heart. A pleasant warmth had suffused her entire being when he bravely ate a slice of her cake. It had tasted awful, but he had eaten it all. It was at that moment some of the walls around her heart had lowered.

Francie looked beyond his shoulder at the cottage and the waiting lemon cake. “I presumed you baked it for me?”

He smiled, a lopsided quirk of his mouth, but his handsomeness fairly stole her breath. Mr. Crawford padded over, and she almost expired from shock when he reached out and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears. The fleeting brush of his fingertip against her skin had her pulse skittering.

“A blessed and happy birthday to you, Francie.”

“Thank you.”

“After baking your cake, Samson and I had planned to call upon you at your cottage and boldly invite ourselves in for afternoon tea.”

An indescribable feeling rose in her heart. “I would have allowed you inside.”

An unknown emotion flashed in his eyes before his expression veiled. Francie allowed him to take the basket and did not protest when he clasped her other hand within his. Mr. Crawford tugged her forward, and they silently walked toward his cottage.

It did not feel companionable. There was a seething undertone of something she did not understand. Perhaps it was in her imagination, but her belly knotted with tension, and her heart pounded with each step that took her closer to Mr. Crawford’s abode. They went up the steps, and he released her hand to open the front door. He stepped back, allowing her to enter before him. How could she enter a cottage, and be alone with a gentleman after everything that had happened to her? Yet, Francie felt safe and protected with Mr. Crawford. She was quite beyond redemption. Walking over the threshold, she discreetly scanned the room. The quality of the furniture and space of the front room informed her that Mr. Crawford was a man of some means.

How little we still know about each other.

Francie ventured further into the cottage. A few sofas were artfully arranged, the hearth kept a fire going, and a large walnut table with two chairs was positioned by the window overlooking the lake.

On that table was a cake, two small plates with knives, forks, and a decanter of amber liquid. An empty picnic basket was at the side of the arrangement. Something savory lingered in the air, and she inhaled deeply.

“It is a stew,” he murmured. “It is on a low simmer and will be ready in a few hours.”

“Youare cooking?” she asked incredulously, glancing up at him.

He wore an expression of mock sorrow. “After witnessing the tragedy of what you baked last year, I learned. How could I not?”

Delighted, she lightly laughed. Mr. Crawford watched her with an air of awareness never before present in their interactions. His silver gaze was far too piercing. He fascinated Francie and made her nervous in the same breath. What was he thinking?

“Please,” he murmured, waving his hand to the table.

Francie walked over, and he pulled out the chair for her to sit. Lowering herself, she untied her bonnet and casually tossed it on the sofa to the side. Mr. Crawford sat and cut a slice of cake for her and himself. She glanced at her basket. “Perhaps we shall have both?”

He arched a brow. “Living dangerously, I see.”

She choked back her laugh, recalling when she had mentioned her mother berating her for eating more than one slice of cake for the week. Those moments when she had prepared for her debut on the marriage mart felt like a lifetime instead of three years ago. Once she had two pieces of cake on her plate, Francie took up her fork and broke off a piece. Her eyes widened at the flavors that exploded on her tongue.

“Is it good?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak. Mr. Crawford smiled, pouring a generous splash of liquid in her glass. Francie spluttered a bit at the first sip, but she liked the heat that traveled through her body, relaxing her. “I cannot credit that you baked this. It is wonderful.”

“Ah, I knew number eleven would have done the trick somehow.”

The fork froze in midair. “You attempted to bake this ten times before?”

“Hmm,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate cake.

Her heart gave a frightful squeeze. He knew lemon cake to be her favourite treat and had practiced so diligently to make it for her. Nerves and a delight she had forbade herself to ever feel again plucked at her plucked at her heart.

“How many times before you perfected this divine treat?” Mr. Crawford asked, watching her with an intensity that felt almost alarming.

Almost. That distinction was important.Oh, I am being excessively silly.

Francie lowered her gaze to the dark cake layered with rich chocolate frosting. “I wish I could take the credit. Mrs. Benton assisted me.”

“I might have to ask her to marry me.”