The Rake to Reveal Her

She must have sensed his withdrawal, for before he could utter some blighting set-down, she said, ‘Now I must beg your pardon again! I didn’t mean to pry. I should confess at the outset that, never having resided in England, I have trouble remembering the rules governing polite society. I’ve spent my life in the compounds of India or in the army, where everyone knows everyone else’s business. I’m afraid I’m deplorably plain speaking and have no sensibility at all, so if I say something you find intrusive or inappropriate, just slap me back into place, like Papa’s sergeant-major always did when I was too inquisitive.’

Having just been given permission to ignore her question, he felt unaccountably more inclined to answer. Unlike his former hunting buddies and the society maidens who had spent the war safely in England, she’d evidently lived through it with the army. She understand hardship, danger—and loss.

‘My cousin Will found me on the field after the battle, had me removed to a private house and cared for, then stayed with me until I was able to be transported back to London, about a week ago. He urged me to accompany him to our cousin Alastair’s home, so our aunt could tend me. But she would have cosseted me within an inch of my life, and I...I didn’t think I could bear that.’

She nodded. ‘Sometimes one must face the bleakest prospects in life alone.’

The truth of her words, uttered with the poignancy of experience, resonated within him. The death of her father and returning to an England she didn’t know were certainly bleak enough.

‘But here I am, taking up your time while you’re probably wishing me at Jericho! Let me state my business and leave you in peace. I’m Theodora Branwell, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘My father was Colonel Richard Branwell, of the Thirty-Third Foot.’

She offered the hand vertically, for shaking, rather than palm down, for a kiss. Amused, he grasped her fingers for a brisk shake—and felt an unexpected tingle dance up his arm.

Startled for an instant, he dismissed the odd effect. ‘Dominic Ransleigh,’ he replied. ‘Though I suppose you already knew that.’

‘Yes. I recently leased Thornfield Place, specifically because it abuts your property. Or rather, one particular part of your property.’

Suddenly the connection registered. ‘Theodora—Theo!’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’d been told to expect a call. Except the folk hereabouts seem to think you’re a man.’

A mischievous look sparkled in her eyes. ‘Though I didn’t deliberately try to create that impression, I might not have used my full name when I contacted the local solicitor. So, you’ve been told that I’d like to lease the stone building in your south pasture and convert it into a home and school for orphans?’

‘I have. I must warn you, though, the neighbourhood isn’t happy about the idea. To quote the head of the Improvement Society of Whitfield Parish, whom I had the misfortune of receiving yesterday, such children, growing up around “vulgarity, drunkenness, and the company of loose women” must have been “corrupted at birth” and could only be an affront to decent people and a deleterious influence upon the county’s poor.’

Miss Branwell’s eyes widened at that recitation. ‘No wonder you didn’t wish to receive anyone today.’

While Dom swallowed the laugh surprised out of him by that remark, she turned an earnest look on him. ‘Surely you don’t share that ridiculous opinion! You’re a soldier, Mr Ransleigh! True, the conditions in the army were...rougher than those the children might have encountered in England. I would argue, though, that the hardships they’ve survived make them stronger and more resilient, rather than less suited for society.’

Like she was? he wondered. Stronger, perhaps. Suited for polite society—that might be another matter.

‘Besides, what they become will be determined, not by the circumstances of their birth, but by how they are treated now,’ she went on. ‘The best way to avoid having them fall into vice is to make them literate and give them training in a proper trade. Do you not agree that is the least we can do for the orphans of the men whose valour and sacrifice freed Europe from Napoleon’s menace?’

Though her words were stirring, Dom found himself more arrested by the lady delivering them. How could he have thought her a little brown wren?

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, her enticing bosom rising and falling with every breath, her low, throaty voice vibrant with conviction.... As his skin prickled with awareness and his body tightened in arousal, he felt himself almost physically drawn to her.

Surely a woman so passionate in her defence of the orphans would bring that passion to every activity.

To her bed.

‘What happened to Christian charity, to compassion for the innocent, to leaving judgements to God?’ she was demanding.

Her reference to the Almighty a rebuke to his lust, he told himself to concentrate on the subject, rather than the allure of the lady. ‘Abandoned for preconceived notions, probably,’ he replied.

That brought her flight of oratory to a halt. Sighing, she said, ‘You’re probably right. But...you don’t share such notions, surely?’

She gestured towards him as she spoke. He had to force himself to keep from taking her hand, now near his own. Tasting her lips, still parted in enquiry. So nearly tangible was the pull between them, surely she must feel it, too?

For a moment, she did nothing, simply standing with her hand outstretched. Just as he was concluding that his previously reliable instincts must have gone completely array, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. Some connection pulsed between them, wordless, but eloquent as a sonnet.

Hastily, she retracted her hand and stepped back. ‘I shouldn’t harangue you—though I did warn you I’m deplorably outspoken! If allowing me to use your building would put you at odds with the neighbourhood, perhaps I should come up with another plan.’

Dom thought of yesterday’s call by Lady Wentworth. How many other mothers of marriageable daughters lived within visiting distance of Bildenstone Hall? Finding himself at odds with his neighbours might not be a bad thing.

‘What would you do if I refuse permission?’ he asked, curious.

She shrugged. ‘Break the lease on Thornfield and make enquiries about settling elsewhere.’

‘Wouldn’t that be a great deal of trouble? To say nothing of the disruption to the children.’

‘Having known nothing but following the drum, they’re used to disruption and trouble.’

Despite his automatic inclination to do the opposite of whatever the officious Lady Wentworth had urged, with his desire to be left in solitude, he had been leaning towards refusing, should the then-unknown Theo Branwell approach him about renting his property.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Apparently sensing his ambivalence, Miss Branwell’s face brightened with new hope. ‘Would you consider it? I promise we shall not intrude on your peace! You needn’t make a final decision now; let us stay on a provisional basis. If you find the school a disturbance, you can send us all packing!’

That sounded reasonable enough—and might have the added benefit of keeping the Lady Wentworths of the area at bay. ‘Very well, I agree.’

‘Splendid!’

The delight in her smile warmed him, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

Though she’d claimed she would not cut up his peace, with that...something simmering between them, Dom wasn’t so sure. With a little shock, he realised that for the first time since the urge for solitude had consumed him, the possibility of company didn’t displease him.

‘Do I have your permission to inspect the building at once, while the solicitors discuss terms?’ she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

‘Certainly.’

‘Thank you. I need to determine what materials and supplies might be necessary to make it suitable. I shall cover all the costs of renovation, of course.’

‘The building hasn’t been inhabited for years,’ Dom felt it necessary to warn her. ‘My father constructed a second floor, intending to convert it into a weaving factory, but the rest of the work was never completed. Getting it into shape may be quite costly.’

‘My father left me well provided for.’

Suddenly it occurred to him how odd it was for a girl of her age and situation to undertake such a project. ‘It’s one thing for a Mr Theo Branwell—doubtless an idealistic cleric of some sort—to open an orphanage. Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘If I have relations to cosset me, surely you have family in England to take you in—or find you a proper husband. Maybe a prospective fiancé waiting in the wings?’

He wasn’t sure what imp had induced him to add that last, but at the stricken look on her face, he instantly regretted it.

‘He fell at Fuentes de Oñoro,’ she said quietly. ‘For many months afterward, I wish I’d died, too. But the orphans needed someone. Now, with Papa gone, so do I. I’ve sufficient funds for the endeavour, and some of the children have already been with me for years. We’re good for each other.’

So that explained why such a vibrant girl wasn’t already riveted, mothering a quiverful of her own children. The odd notion struck him that though he missed Elizabeth, he’d never felt he would perish without her. Shaking off the thought, he returned to the topic at hand.

‘I should probably go with you to inspect the building.’

‘You needn’t! I’ve just promised we wouldn’t be any bother. Your estate agent can accompany me.’

Again, she’d offered him a graceful way to disengage—and again, he was curiously disinclined to take it.