Chapter Four #2
Dom turned to him, forcing Hawthorne to remove his hand. “You’re not T. S. Hawthorne?”
“T. O. Hawthorne,” he said with a hand over his heart. “Though Tess is a T. S. Hawthorne, just like our father was. You see
how convenient this all is.”
Dom didn’t know about convenience. The whole thing seemed a bit of a muddle, and all his body knew for certain was that a
lovely woman was nearby and he wanted to know her better.
“Then you’re the one Van Arsdale wanted,” he said to her. “Has he written to you about engaging your help for this dig?”
“He wanted my father, as Tristan said,” she told him, her arms crossed over her chest. “I haven’t yet seen the letter, but
I don’t think I can help you.”
“Tess . . .” This emerged from her brother in a whine that reminded Dom of the way he and his sisters would have spoken to
each other when trying to wheedle something.
She stared up at Dom, studying him. He tracked her gaze as she took in his face, the width of his shoulders, his mussed hair.
He could usually guess what women were thinking when they looked at him.
Their eyes lit, or their cheeks flushed, or the tilt of their lips gave it all away.
Yet Miss Tess Hawthorne was inscrutable.
And that only made him more determined.
“Is there a place we could discuss the matter?” he asked her. Alone, preferably, though he dared not say it.
She let out a sigh, lowered her arms, and cast a glance at her brother.
“You might as well come home with us,” she said with more resignation than eagerness. “I want to have a look at this letter
the American titan sent.”
Mrs. Wells rushed out the door as soon as they were at the wooden gate in front of Foxdene, as if she’d been watching for
them. Tess felt a pang of regret that they’d caused her to worry.
“Oh heavens, I heard you were in the lockup,” she said as she joined them. “I was just on my way to see for myself.”
News traveled fast in Wiggenstow.
She scanned them both from boot to brow. “Are you injured?”
The question was mostly directed at Tristan, who grinned and bent to kiss her cheek.
“Not a bit of it, Wellsy. I ducked every blow,” he boasted easily, though none of it was true.
“I stopped it before there was more than a single blow,” Tess corrected.
Mrs. Wells just looked pleased to find them both in one piece. Then she clutched her chest and let out an utterly female sound
of delight.
“Oh my. Good heavens, who’s this?” She took a few steps closer to Dominic Prince and looked up at him as if peering up at a colossus. “Mercy, aren’t you tall and dashing?”
“I’m not exactly short,” Tristan put in with faux outrage.
“How do you do?” Dominic Prince’s warm-as-syrup tone made a little shiver tickle down Tess’s spine.
She understood why women succumbed to his charms. The moment she’d seen him outside the lockup, she’d had the urge to rush
toward him. As if he were an irresistible magnet and she was some lump of very susceptible metal. And then she’d touched him
and found she couldn’t stop. He’d thrust out his hand and she’d taken it, but they didn’t shake hands as two people who hardly
knew each other might. They’d held on to each other until she could feel her body listing toward his, yearning to melt into
the tall, warm enticement that he seemed to exude like a scent.
Thank heavens she’d pulled away before breaking all the rules she’d set for herself. As if him finding her dirty, disheveled,
and in the local lockup with her mischief-making brother wasn’t sufficiently embarrassing.
He and Mrs. Wells made small talk, speaking of his train journey.
Tess just yearned for a washcloth and to fix her hair before she had to face him in a well-lit room.
“Shall we go inside?” she asked the three of them as dusk began to darken to night.
“Come right along, Mr. Prince,” Mrs. Wells urged. “A spot of tea after a journey will do you wonders. And there are fresh
biscuits too.”
“Never fear,” Tristan whispered to him as they walked side by side toward Foxdene’s wisteria-edged front door. “There’s whiskey
too, if you fancy it.”
At the threshold, Mr. Prince turned back to look at her.
Tess licked her lips and time seemed to slow. The lights from inside the cottage lit all the beautiful aspects of his face—those
full lips, that square jaw, the dark amber depths of his eyes. She imagined heat in those eyes. She thought she saw him swallow
hard, his gaze flicking down to her mouth as it had in Lady Goddard’s library.
“Don’t dally, love, there’s a nip in the air now the sun’s down,” Mrs. Wells called.
The moment broke, and Tess came back to her senses. Mr. Prince had gone inside.
She reached up to try to right her hair, then button the top button of her shirtwaist that she’d loosened because the lockup
had been warm and confining.
There was nothing for it. She looked a fright, and now she had to welcome Dominic Prince into her home.
By the time she stepped inside the cozy warmth of Foxdene, Mrs. Wells already had biscuits plated up and a teapot and cups
on the tea tray, which she carried into the room, her eyes flicking to Mr. Prince every now and then.
His eyes, to Tess’s dismay, were trained on her.
“The letter, Tris, where is it?”
Her brother had already slumped onto his favorite overstuffed chair, one leg flung over its arm. At her question, he got to
his feet and collected a small pile of post from the mantel.
“On the top, as you’ll see.” He winked at her as he handed them over, and she could tell he was sobering up. He seemed to
be suffering no ill effects from the night’s hijinks.
Tess turned away from everyone and faced the window that looked out on the old oak that had stood sentry on this land for ages. Something about it grounded her, comforted her. When everything inside her felt topsy-turvy, the old oak stood strong and unwavering.
The typed letter was brief and to the point. Van Arsdale had definitely intended it for her father, as he referred to the
previous letters they’d exchanged. The American had first reached out to her father years ago, and his knowledge was given
freely. Even eagerly. It had never required much urging to get Papa to speak of the Celts and the Anglo-Saxons and Vikings
who came after them to Norfolk.
I herein enclose a check for the sum of 500 pounds. The same sum upon completion of the project will be forthcoming.
“Get the smelling salts, Wellsy,” Tristan called in a teasing tone.
Tess heard him approach. “You knew I couldn’t refuse,” she said, still staring out at the wide trunk of the oak and the rolling
fields beyond. “A thousand bloody pounds.”
Tristan chuckled.
“So you’ll do it?” Even from across the room, Dominic Prince’s voice affected her.
She turned to face him, the letter and check clutched tightly in her hand. “Do you think he’ll mind that I step in for my
father?”
Mr. Prince set his teacup on a table near the settee and stepped closer.
Anticipation glittered in his dark eyes, and that confident smile of his curved his mouth. “I know he won’t, and if he did,
I’d persuade him otherwise.”
Once again, so certain of his ability to persuade. What would he be able to persuade her of in the coming days? Nothing, because
she’d learned that lesson all too well. Once burned, now determined to never be a fool again.
And yet a rogue brazen shiver made her bite her lip.
“It’s all settled then,” Tristan said, clapping his hands merrily. “This calls for whiskey.”
“You’ve had enough,” Tess murmured to him before brushing past to approach her new partner in this endeavor of Mr. Van Arsdale’s.
“You should know,” she told Dominic Prince, “that I don’t relish the notion of digging up our history to have it shipped off
to America. We could start a museum here.”
Tristan let out a little groan at her return to the topic.
“Perhaps Van Arsdale could be persuaded to leave some of what’s found here,” Mr. Prince opined.
Tess blinked. “Do you think he’d do that?”
Mr. Prince shrugged. “He likes credit for his good deeds. As long as you slapped an etched plate on the museum crediting him,
he might be persuadable.”
“Would you speak to him about it?”
After a moment of hesitation, Mr. Prince, a soft smile playing at his lips, said, “For you, I would, but I can’t make any
promises.”
“Understood, but I’d appreciate the attempt.” Tess no longer believed in promises made by rogues anyway.
“But he’ll want the finest finds to go to America,” Tristan added, sounding terribly practical and not at all bothered by
the truth of his words.
Tess wouldn’t have any sway with the American at all if she refused to help Mr. Prince. And heaven knew they sorely needed
a thousand pounds.
“Very well. I’ll assist you,” Tess finally said, confident in her decision, her chin notched up a tinge.
She was immediately gifted with a beaming smile from Dominic Prince. Not one of his sultry grins or cheeky smirks. This smile was boyish in its enthusiasm, bone-melting in its sincerity.
Tess knew this land’s history as well as her father had, but whatever was happening between her and Dominic Prince was entirely
unknown, dangerous territory.
“Where do we begin?” she asked, forcing her voice not to quaver.
He took a breath, a smile still lingering on his lips. “I think we should start tomorrow by speaking to the landowner, Lord
Fenbridge.” He reached up and gripped the back of his neck before meeting her gaze again. “Apparently, he’s still not entirely
in favor of this project. Van Arsdale hoped that with a Hawthorne’s help, we could convince him.”
Tess seamed her lips together to keep from scoffing the way she had when he’d called her lovely, but a wave of wariness blotted
out how tempting it was to have his dark-honey gaze on her.
What Van Arsdale and Mr. Prince didn’t know was that Lord Reginald Fenbridge loathed nothing in the world more than a Hawthorne.