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Having only recently been able to manage more than eating, sleeping, and reading, Dom told himself that taking on restoring the house was task enough for the moment. As he regained strength and immersed himself in the rhythm of country life, he’d feel more like he belonged here, begin figuring out what he was meant to do next—and find it easier to part with the relics of the past.
At least, he hoped so.
With a sigh, he halted his aimless ramble and turned back towards the house. He’d check on the progress the carpenter from the village had made on the repairs to the kitchen roof, then find another book to replace Herodotus.
Pacing into the kitchen, he found a neat pile of supplies, but no carpenter. The assistant cook looked up from peeling vegetables to bob a quick curtsy.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Is Young Joe around?’
‘He left after setting the new beams in the corner,’ the cook replied. ‘He said while he was waiting for the plaster to dry, he’d be down at the stone barn, building some partitions for Miss Branwell.’
‘Did he say how much longer it would take him to finish the work here?’
‘No, sir. Shall I send one of the boys down to the barn to ask him?’
Dom hesitated. He should tell her to dispatch someone, or wait until the carpenter returned on his own. But if work were being done on the school building, Miss Branwell was undoubtedly present.
After the incident in the library proved beyond doubt how strong his attraction to her was and how difficult to resist, he’d told himself to put her out of mind. Had Wilton or any of the other servants come in while he was practically devouring her, the vicar would even now be calling the banns. Since compromising her meant marriage, something neither of them wanted, the best remedy to buttress a suddenly deficient will-power was to avoid her.
But damn, he missed her. That keen wit, the winsome smile, the sparkling laugh, how she could shock and amuse him with her honest, unexpected and sometimes outrageous observations. She’d brought back to him the pleasures of driving and pointed him towards increasing the staff, which had led him to the admittedly limited activities that now occupied his days.
And that dangerous, irresistible, visceral attraction that sparked between them had made him feel more virile, more alive, and more happy to be alive, than he’d felt since before his wounding.
Why not go to the barn himself? In addition to consulting Joe about the progress on Bildenstone’s kitchen, as the owner of the barn, he probably ought to inspect what alterations were being made.
Once admitting the possibility of seeing her again, the need to do so rose to swamp him.
And why shouldn’t he? A man who’d faced down a company of Napoleon’s fiercest cuirassiers needn’t fear handling one tall, brown-haired girl. If he felt his will-power slipping, there would be workmen and children about, chaperones aplenty to restrain him from making any untoward moves. Besides, as eager as Miss Branwell was to avoid being compromised, she’d undoubtedly be on her guard as well.
He could indulge in the pleasure of her delightfully unconventional conversation for a few moments, with little risk. Before returning to his lonely existence at Bildenstone.
There was no need to be so blue-devilled. If he were beginning to regret burying himself alone in the country, there were any number of friends and at least two of his cousins he could invite to divert him.
But after running through a list of possibilities, he didn’t hit upon a single one whose company tempted him to alter his solitary state.
No one but Miss Branwell.
The implication of that truth was so unsettling, Dom shied away from considering it.
Hell and damnation, enough introspection! He wanted some intelligent conversation, and he wanted it with Miss Branwell. Surrounded by workmen and urchins, he could indulge in half-an-hour’s chat without requiring a priest and a wedding band at the end of it.
Suddenly aware the cook was still staring at him, awaiting an answer, Dom shook his head. ‘No, you needn’t send someone. I’ll speak with Joe later.’
About thirty minutes later. Nodding as the woman bobbed him another curtsy, Dom paced out the kitchen door and headed to the stables to order the tilbury.
* * *
Scarf around her hair to keep off the dust, an apron over her oldest gown, Theo was directing Jemmie and Maria to carry in water to wash down the grimy stone walls when she heard the rattle of a carriage and the clop of hoofbeats. Looking up, she saw a familiar tilbury approaching, and a shock of anticipation raced through her.
Her landlord, coming to inspect the alterations to his property, that was all, she rebuked herself, trying to settle her fluttering pulse. After her shameless behaviour in his library—her cheeks burned hot as she recalled how, but for some carelessly positioned books, she would have made a complete fool of herself—he’d not wish to be near her unless a number of chaperones provided protection.
She would concentrate on behaving like a proper lady and give neither of them any further occasion for embarrassment.
But she couldn’t seem to stop the thrill that ran through her as he pulled up the vehicle and she watched his lithe, broad-shouldered form climb down. A technique, she noted, he’d now mastered, swinging down on his single arm with none of the awkwardness he’d displayed on their first drive ten days ago.
Nor could she slow her accelerating heartbeat when a shock of energy flashed between them as their gazes met.
Not daring to permit his touch, she tucked her hands behind her and made a quick curtsy. ‘Good day, Mr Ransleigh.’ It is, now that I’ve seen you. ‘Have you come to check our progress, or to reclaim the carpenter I stole from you? Young Joe told me he’s doing some work in Bildenstone’s kitchen.’
‘I need to talk with him, yes. But I also wanted to see the changes you’re making.’
His tone seemed normal, friendly, with no edge of the disapproval she might have expected after he’d had time to consider her forwardness in the library—and no embarrassment, either.
Reassured, she said, ‘Young Joe has most of the partitions constructed in the sleeping loft, and is now framing out the part of the downstairs that will become kitchen and dining areas. Should you like to see them?’
‘I would, if I’ll not be taking you from your work.’
‘I’d enjoy a break from scrubbing and sweeping, and I’m sure the children will, too. Jemmie, Maria, there’s a basket in the wagon with water, cheese, and some of the apple tarts Cook made for dinner last night. Have a bite while I show Mr Ransleigh around the building.’
To her surprise, Jemmie, who normally would have set off at a run to claim apple tarts, merely stood, eyeing Ransleigh. ‘I can show him around, while you rest yourself with Maria.’
The bitterness of loss echoed within her. She appreciated Jemmie’s protectiveness—the need he apparently felt to take over from Papa. Then a less sanguine thought occurred: did Jemmie, a young male of the species, sense something between her and Ransleigh?
Devoutly hoping he could not, Theo said, ‘No, go enjoy your treat. The inspection tour will not take long.’
‘I don’t think Jemmie trusts me,’ Ransleigh murmured. ‘Perhaps you’d better assure him I won’t ravish you in the sleeping loft.’
‘I might rather assure him I won’t ravish you,’ Theo muttered, feeling herself flush. ‘Once again, I do apologise—’
‘Please, don’t!’ he interrupted, his teasing tone turned serious. ‘First, I assure you that, if circumstances permitted, I would welcome being ravished by you, and second, the...mistake in the library was mutual. An episode that, much as I regret the fact, cannot safely be repeated, so I suppose we shall both have to be on our best behaviour. See, I have not even attempted to take your hand.’
Grateful there was nothing further she was required to say, she murmured, ‘Thank you. That forbearance will lend me the courage to escort you up to the sleeping area. Though as a mercy, there aren’t yet any beds.’
His quick chuckle made her smile, too, and relax—at least, as much as she could, with every hair on her arms and neck quivering at his nearness. Forcing herself to concentrate on the building, she showed him the girls’ and boys’ sleeping areas, the sections partitioned off for washing up and for storage. Descending the stairs again, over the racket of Young Joe’s saws and hammers, she described the planned addition of two fireplaces, finishing up with the news that the stove and kitchen equipment, desks for the schoolroom, tables for the dining room, and beds for the dormitory were expected from various providers within a fortnight.
‘So, what do you think?’ she asked, dropping her voice back to normal tones after leading him back outside. ‘You approve of the alterations, I hope.’
‘I think you’ve done a wonderful job, though I would hate to estimate the cost.’
‘That’s of little consequence, as long as it turns the building into a home and school the children find welcoming. By the way,’ she recalled, thinking it might amuse him, ‘I’ve just received the first fruits—or perhaps the second, if I count my permission to call on you—of my interview with Lady Wentworth. We now have a teacher!’
