Across the room, William followed her gaze and, for the first time since she met him, a smile spread across his face.
It was devastating—a flash of white teeth startling in contrast to his dark beard—and Caroline found herself struggling for breath as she focused on the lips she had noticed before.
It was not often he smiled, but when he did, it transformed his entire face, softening the harshness of his features.
“You are wondering where you will sleep?”
Speechless, her tongue tied by her embarrassing thoughts, all she could do was nod.
“Perhaps before you decide that, you might want to draw the drapes.” He gestured to the window where she was working.
Stricken, Caroline spun her head round to stare out at the deserted street in dismay. She could only hope no one had walked by. Standing in haste, Christmas boughs scattering to the floor, she jerked the blue curtains shut and then hurried to the other window to shut those as well.
There she stood, hands clasped before her, cheeks flushed with mortification.
“No one saw you.” William’s husky voice broke the silence.
“Are you certain?”
“I am. I have had a clear view of the windows since you walked within view. Caroline … I want you to know that if any of this damages your reputation … I would do the right thing.”
Caroline stopped breathing. That was the last thing she had expected to hear. In all her years, no man had ever offered such a thing. Even if it was merely to protect her reputation, it was still…noble.
The attractive blacksmith, who secretly took care of old ladies, was now offering to be a gentleman and marry her if her reputation suffered?
She did not need any more reasons to admire the man.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the notion of what it would be like to be his wife.
To sit across from him at the breakfast table.
To see him coming in from the forge, his sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the day's work.
“You want to … marry me?”
Several seconds passed, the crackle of the fire the only sound breaking the silence. Finally, he replied, his reluctance evident. “I would prefer not to marry, but if it were required, we could come to an arrangement.”
Caroline slowly resumed breathing. “I … appreciate it. But as you said, no one was out there to witness my presence.”
Had he just offered to marry the woman?
William shook his head slowly after Caroline left the room, mumbling something about preparing a poultice.
What a foolish thing to say. Yet, he supposed he would do it—if it came to that.
He could not stand by and allow a fine woman of Caroline’s quality to suffer harm for doing him a good deed.
He could not allow it for any woman, but especially not the lovely mantua- maker— modiste , he corrected himself—who had impressed his fellow townsmen with her skill and industry.
Life had taken an odd turn since the day he first saw her beckoning little Annie Greer into her shop. He never would have imagined himself learning the difference between a modiste and a mantua-maker, yet here he was, thinking of it.
From the kitchen, he heard her begin to hum again.
The tune was familiar—cheerful, lighthearted.
So was she. Her alarm at discovering the curtains still open had at first seemed amusing, but it had swiftly turned serious.
The fear on her face—genuine fear—had struck him like a hammer.
It was easy for a man to forget how dangerous even the appearance of impropriety could be for a woman alone.
And for a woman in trade, her livelihood could vanish with one misplaced whisper.
He lay back and closed his eyes, letting the hum of her voice blend with the sound of boiling water.
The quiet movement in the kitchen, the gentle melody—these things soothed him more than he expected.
He had long dreaded the holidays for the memories they brought.
But having someone here, even for a day, was a strange comfort.
Just for tonight. Tomorrow she will be gone.
Caroline returned with the poultice supplies on a tray. She set them on the table and took a seat, her movements gentle and purposeful. The doctor had removed William’s stocking earlier, so she now unwound the bandage with delicate care. Her humming continued, a balm in itself.
“I am sorry you have to spend your holidays nursing me,” William said quietly.
Her hazel eyes met his. “It is quite all right, William. I was working, as it happens.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, though it saddened him that a woman such as she—so capable, so warm—should be alone this night. She ought to be surrounded by children and laughter, not tending to a surly blacksmith.
She wrinkled her nose as she dipped cloth into warm vinegar. “My word, the spirits in this mixture are strong! Quite enough to take one’s breath away.”
He tried not to flinch as she applied the compress to his swollen ankle. “What is it?”
“The poultice? The doctor recommended vinegar, oatmeal, camphorated spirits of wine, Mindererus’s spirit, volatile liniment, volatile aromatic spirit—diluted, of course—and the common fomentation. With brandy.”
He blinked. “My word. Did I even have all those things?”
She grinned. “No. I found four, maybe five. Hopefully it will suffice.”
“I am sure it will. Dr. Hadley said the key was to rest it. He had me soak it in ice water first thing.”
“There you are, then. A poultice now, a bandage, and rest. You should be well on your way to mending by the end of Christmastide.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you always such an optimist?”
Her hands paused in their task. Something shadowed her features for a moment before she spoke. “I find it helps to count blessings. The world can be a lonely place. But if you make a habit of noticing what is good … you can be happier.”
He was quiet a long moment.
“And what blessings would you count for me? Now that I have made a mess of things.” He gestured toward his ankle.
“You are a respected tradesman with a successful smithy. The doctor trusts you enough to worry over your care. You are strong and in generally good health. And”—her voice softened—“you have your whole life ahead of you.”
William stared at her. She spoke with such conviction, her face alight with sincerity, her eyes gentle and earnest. She meant every word.
He was suddenly struck by the realization that she was unlike anyone he had met. She did not flatter. She believed in people. A warmth sparked in his chest. It frightened him. The sudden impulse to reach for her, to hold her close, to simply feel again … it was too much.
“Are you nearly done?” he asked, more sharply than he intended.
She flinched. Her hands stilled, and he saw her withdraw into herself.
“I shall bind the poultice when I have cleared away,” she said softly.
She stood and left the room, and William stared at the spot where she had been. Guilt rose bitterly in his throat. He had wounded her with those careless words, but what choice did he have? It was safer this way. He could not allow himself to want things that were not meant for him.
He had once persuaded his cousin Charles to join him in the fight against Bonaparte.
Then Charles had died at the end of a bayonet, and William had been the one to return and tell his uncle and aunt they would never see their only son again.
He had watched their grief tear them apart.
And worse—he had delivered the news to Charles’s betrothed, who had clung to him and wept with a brokenness he would never forget.
No. He could not risk anyone else. Certainly not someone like Caroline, who brought light wherever she went.
He lay back again, the pain in his ankle a dull throb compared to the ache in his chest. In the kitchen, she worked quietly. No humming. No words.
Good. He could not afford sunshine. Not when he had long since resigned himself to shadows.
Some time later, she returned. She wore a modest night rail with a pale wrap embroidered with tiny, careful stitches. Her hair was plaited and tied with a primrose ribbon. Likely her own work. The thought settled uncomfortably within him.
She knelt to bind the poultice, then spread a blanket over him without a word.
It was not yet late, but fatigue pressed down on him.
Still, as she moved about the room to snuff the candles, his eyes followed her.
She carried herself with quiet dignity, her movements unhurried and graceful.
When she finally settled on the second settee, William let his eyes fall shut. It was safer to sleep.