Page 32

She chuckled. “Roasted chicken. And a Christmas mince pie from Mr. Andrews.”

“What? No Christmas pudding?”

She laughed. “I had no time to prepare one back in November.”

He groaned in exaggerated dismay. When she pulled back, he winked. “We shall make do, I suppose.”

She smiled and handed him a plate laden with food. “To make matters worse, we must eat on the settee.”

Taking a bite of the pie, William shut his eyes in bliss. “Mr. Andrews is a genius.”

Caroline hummed her agreement, the familiar melody sparking warmth in his chest. How strange that his soul could know hers so deeply—first in dreams, now in daylight. She had unlocked him, freed him.

And he wanted nothing more than to unlock her—to uncover every secret she held close.

He set his plate aside, then reached for hers and placed it with his. She blinked in surprise. Without a word, William slowly lowered himself onto one knee. Caroline gasped, her eyes wide as he took her hand in his.

“Caroline Brown,” he said softly, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Chapter 8

The Argument

“Have you gone mad?” Her question was sincere. She was genuinely concerned the blacksmith had lost his mind. “You barely know me!”

“I know everything that matters,” he replied, his blue eyes earnest as he cradled her hand in his own. His fingers were rough, his palms calloused—a reminder of the work he did—bending iron to his will, shaping raw metal into useful tools. He was a builder. A craftsman. Steady, reliable.

And he was offering to marry her?

“Is this because we kissed?” she asked. “You need not feel obligated. I knew what I was doing. I had no expectations of you.”

William chuckled. “Nay, Caroline. You are a fine woman, and had that been the reason, I would still be honor-bound to do right by you. But the truth is … I had already decided on this course before we kissed so thoroughly.”

“What?”

“I had already made the decision to make you my wife.”

Her mind was swimming—a maelstrom of confusion and disbelief. No man had ever proposed to her before—certainly not one as respectable, admired, and sane as William Jackson. She had imagined what it might be like to marry him, in the safety of secret dreams, but never had she believed he might desire it.

“You do not know me.”

“I know what matters,” he repeated gently. “You are an admirable woman, and it would be my great honor to wed you.”

Her heart seized.

But he did not know her. Not truly. He did not know what she had done. Why she had come to Chatternwell. He did not know that her benefactor was Lord Saunton, who had paid for her shop and sent his man of business to arrange it all. He did not know why Lord Saunton had done those things—or what Caroline had done to Miss Annabel to prompt them.

She could never share those truths. Not with William.

His regard had made her feel whole again, if only briefly. If she told him the truth, he would be disgusted—and it would sever the fragile bond between them. Better to carry the memory than to destroy what they had built in a single evening.

William must have sensed the shift in her, for he gave her hand a tender squeeze. “I apologize for springing this on you. I had intended to court you properly, to coax you into accepting me … but I was overcome by the joy of sharing this day with you. I want it to never end. And I make no decisions lightly, Caroline.”

Her free hand rose to her cheeks, only to discover they were wet. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked and uncontrollable. She was flattered. Tempted. And terrified.

“What is it, sunshine?” William’s voice was soft with concern.

“Could we not talk about this now?” Her voice cracked. She had looked forward to the final hours of Christmas with him. If she turned him down now—there was no other option—it would end the fragile peace they had found far too abruptly.