“Who is to say I may only be happy if I marry?” She turned to look him directly in the eyes. “I would like to travel and be an independent woman. I do not wish to place myself in our mother’s position of losing my life because I succumbed to the very British idea of marrying for convenience.”
Bran challenged, “Then marry for love, Ella.”
“There is no such thing, Bran. Love lives only in imagination and dreams.”
*
The next morning Bran purposely waited for Velvet’s appearance at breakfast. He had noted that she rose early, took a light repast, and went riding for several hours each morning. A few discreet comments to the staff told him although she often rode, this early morning retreat was a new habit for his cousin. He purposely seated himself at the table’s far end, where she could not observe him until she was well in the room, and then he bided his time.
Just the thought of Velvet made Bran’s breeches tighten. Since the day his daughter revealed the miniature bearing his cousin’s likeness, Velvet Aldridge had haunted Bran’s every waking and most of his sleeping moments. It drove him crazy how she avoided him, and he desperately wanted to break through the wall she had effectively built to keep him at a distance. What Ella confided yesterday made sense, but Bran did not want to destroy Velvet’s dreams. The fact she once considered him her hero made him want to imitate Velvet’s dreams. When he had left Thornhill, he had thought he might return when he had reached his majority and claim her as his own, but by then, Bran had seen the battlefield’s horrors, had deliberately killed several men, and had sought solace in the arms of less than perfect women. Such a man could not be a hero.
Wearing a forest green riding habit, accenting each of her well-defined curves, Velvet slipped in the breakfast room door just as Bran raised his hand to his mouth to take a bit of the toast. As he did on that first day, he had held in suspension, taking in every inch of her, while forcing himself to breathe. Although not the womanizer many thought him to be, Bran had known his share of women, but he had never reacted physically to any the way he did to her. Maybe he still clung to the illusion of the ideal woman as she did to an ideal man. Whatever it might be, Bran now held an overwhelming desire to turn her around and take Velvet Aldridge back to his room to enjoy peeling her out of that too concealing costume.
“Good morning, Cousin,” he said nonchalantly.
Spinning on her heels, Velvet initially bestowed an undisguised smile on him, but quickly withdrew it, retreating to her restrained politeness. “It seems, Cousin, that every time I see you, you are lifting food in the air,” she snapped.
Bran flushed, realizing he still held the toast aloft. “It is the only exercise in which I partake of late, what with spending so many hours in the estate books’ company.”
“I pray everything is in order.” She poured herself a cup of chocolate and prepared a plate of fruit and toast. Coming to the table, Velvet chose a chair several places from where he sat. “Ella led me to believe you had found nothing unusual.”
“My sister speaks the truth, but that does not mean I have no concerns. In fact, I would appreciate your assistance.” Bran had thought he might lead her to volunteer to spend time with him, but with her obvious play for distance, he realized he needed a more direct course.
Velvet adjusted her seat and fingered the setting’s silverware, evidently, taking time to school her reaction. Bran realized she did not want to assist him–to be anywhere near him, in fact. But she would not refuse. The Fowlers had given her a home when her parents had passed, and her family holdings had gone to her father’s younger brother. The Aldridges had sent her and the twins to live with “welcoming” relatives. The Fowlers had agreed to Velvet’s coming to Thorn Hall because she and Eleanor were close in age, and they could provide each other company. Bran’s mother was ill, even then, and Eleanor, much younger than him, needed a friend. They never treated Velvet as a poor relative; instead, the Fowlers, especially Bran and Eleanor, had welcomed her as a sister. He knew that Velvet would accept her obligation. “How may I be of service, Your Grace?”
“I need to connect with the cottagers. They will accept me as the new duke because they have no choice, but it would be better if they could do so because they view me as a man they trust.” He spooned preserves on another slice of toast. “Ella tells me your church service and your goodwill among the tenants opens their doors readily to you. I need that identity transferred to me by association.”
Predisposed to objecting to everything he said, Velvet immediately questioned his motives. “What do you plan?” she blurted out.
“Nothing detrimental,” he assured her. “Yet, I do need to change how many tenants think about their crops and the animals we raise on the estate. There are more efficient practices that will more readily secure our futures.”
Velvet raised her chin in defiance. “I owe this family my life, Your Grace, but I will not be party to stealing these people’s hope.”
A bit vexed by his inability to break through her barrier, Bran countered, “Nor would I expect you to. I am well aware of your kind heart, my Dear; I remember it well. Yet, you seem to have forgotten my true nature.”
Velvet shot back, “I am not certain I ever truly knew it, Your Grace.”
At the moment, although physically attracted to her, Bran had no patience for her misplaced priorities. He would not spend all his time in proving himself to her. It seemed he did little else besides prove his worth in his short life time–with his father, with Ella, with Ashmita, with his service to the Realm–and he desperately wanted someone to just accept him with all his faults. “Then it is time you did,” he snapped. “You will ride out with me today and over the next few days. You will introduce me into our tenants’ homes and support this family to which you owe loyalty.” Bran stood, urgently needing to put his own distance between them. “I am normally a patient man, Velvet, but I will not coddle you. My sister has grown into a vibrant young woman. It is time you joined her. There is more to life than your image of good deeds and purity. Not everything is black and white; in fact, shades of gray dominate this world. Please be prepared to ride once you finish your meal.” He threw his napkin on the table and stormed from the room.
Finding himself in the main hallway Bran considered returning to the breakfast room to shake sense into her pretty head, but subconsciously the image of putting his hands on her quickly converted into second thoughts of kissing her senseless. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, jamming his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Bloody, bloody hell!”
*
Dutifully, Velvet rode with him to each of the tenant homes to the south of the main house. Although Bran properly lifted her from the saddle and to the saddle with every call, they did not speak or even acknowledge each other unless before the cottagers. Each time he did, Velvet stiffened with his touch, making it a battle for control of their interactions. However, by the third house they had entered, she had begun to attend to what Bran said to his renters, and despite her anger, Velvet began to relent and to listen for herself. Bran took the time to ask the tenants’ names, to assure each he wanted the man to be successful, and to listen to the man’s concerns. He had brought a small pad and a pencil where he scribbled notes as they spoke. With each household breadwinner, he explained how much of the land was to be left fallow this year. He also instructed the man on how part of the land was to be used for legumes.
“We will rotate the crops annually,” he told Henry Lowell. “Our current use is killing the soil by demanding it produce large crops every year. Leaving some fields fallow and adding different products will replenish what we lose. I realize it is a big risk, Mr. Lowell, but I have seen this method work in Scotland, and it is used in the Americas. You must trust me.”
“I be doin’ what ye say, yer Grace.” The man nervously wiped his hand on his pants. “As long as me family be takin’ care of.”
“I will have someone see to the roof this week, Mr. Lowell.” Unexpe
ctedly, Bran shook hands with his renter. “You have my word on it. It will be difficult this first year because we are leaving some land free, but each of the Fowler families will be cared for. Again, you have my word on it.”
“I be trustin’ ye, yer Grace.”
Within a two hours’ space, Bran had spoken to ten of his tenants, finding several men gathered around the fire at Mr. Henley’s. At this pace, it would take him more than a week to speak personally to each of the cottagers, but he had recognized the importance of such connections. He had assured them of the estate’s soundness, and he let them know he would not accept business as usual as an excuse for failure. The day he made the decision to return to his family home, Bran had also made the conscious choice of changing the way people saw it. His father’s reputation would not haunt the halls. In fact, if Bran had his way, he would burn Thorn Hall to the ground and start over.
Now, he and Velvet rode side by side, returning to the main house, having made a dent in the list of improvements he had planned for the estate. With the continued silence bothering him more than he cared, impulsively Bran reached for the reins of Velvet’s horse. Pulling up his own, he asked, “May we stop for a few minutes? We need to talk.”
For several elongated seconds, he watched as Velvet considered refusing, but, finally, he heard, “Certainly, Your Grace.”
Dismounting, he came around to help her down, but unlike the other half dozen times he had done so this day, this time he lowered her slowly to stand directly before him, effectively pining her between him and her horse. This close he could smell her hair’s sweet lavender, and, instinctively, Bran reached to replace a loose strand under her bonnet. Only inches apart, neither of them moved. “Let us walk towards the river,” he said at last.
Uncomfortably, Velvet accepted his proffered arm.
“I am sorry,” he spoke softly and did not look at her, “if I have disappointed you. I knew neither of my father’s death, nor of his illness, but even if I had, I cannot say for certain that I would have sought you and Ella out. I never wanted this.” He gestured to the land spreading out before them. “And I never could have conceived of a way of being with you and Ella without it. But I came back for the women in my life: for my mother who suffered unselfishly so I would inherit Thornhill, for Eleanor who deserves so much more than what she had received, for you who was there for Ella when I was not, and for Ashmita who begged me to secure a place in Society for our daughter. I was content in making a place for Sonali in Cornwall; it was Ella who convinced me that as a duke’s daughter, my child would not face the racial snubs that might follow her as the child of plain Mr. Fowler.”
“Then you loved her, your wife?” Bran had expected her question for several days.
He had never told anyone the whole truth regarding his taking Ashmita into his life. The story he shared with Eleanor was one he had perfected over the years to explain Sonali’s obvious Indian features. Now, he wanted to tell others, especially his sister and Velvet, but he knew they would not understand. “Ashmita’s affection healed me when I was lost, and she gave me Sonali. I cared for her deeply.”
Bran observed the gamut of emotions crossing Velvet’s face before she said, “I know I am being foolish, and I am grateful for your return if for no other reason than Ella has suffered such degradation without you. I could not bear for her to be relegated to Lady Leighton’s companion. However, I feel while you were out in the world, you left Ella and me behind. You forgot us, Bran, and by your own words, you had no intention of reigniting those memories.”
“It was not as if I have lived a life of luxury,” he charged. “When I left Thornhill, I had no monthly allowance; I was not on a Grand Tour! I fought in unbelievable battles and lived by my wits. I went to bed hungry and cold and filthy, but I came out of it a better man. Can you not just accept what happened and create a new life? We are still together–you and I and Ella.”
Tears misted her eyes, but Velvet purposely turned away where he could not witness her incongruous thoughts. “I hate that you suffered. When you left, I prayed you would finally find peace.” She buried her face into her hands. “I will try to forget and make this easier for all of us.”
“Do not forget us,” he whispered close to her ear. “Your face kept me alive when I was in many a difficult situation. I never forgot you.” He tilted her chin up where he could see her face. Using his thumbs, he wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Truly, Bran?” she murmured.
“Most certainly, Sweetling.” Bran considered embracing her; a brief kiss would go a long way to relieve the tension he felt throughout his body, but he controlled his very real desire. So close now, when she breathed out, Bran breathed in. They had both veiled their true feelings, building walls where no one could hurt them. Buried in hopes and renewed dreams, they remained, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.
The sound of the bullet ricocheting off the pebbles at their feet sent Bran diving to the ground, pulling her with him, sheltering her. A second shot followed before he could smother Velvet with his own body.
Heartbeats thunderously pounding, he held her, waiting for the next assault, but none came, and when he was certain the danger dwindled, Bran rolled away and scrambled to his feet. “Stay put,” he ordered before surveying the area. For the bullet to come that close, the person needed to be nearby. He scanned the tree line, searching for anything, but nothing moved–not a shadow–not even a rabbit or a squirrel, which he knew meant someone was there because animals scattered when danger came close. He swallowed hard. Had someone purposely shot at him? Could one of his father’s enemies return to exact justice? One of his?
Still lying flat on her back, Velvet moaned from behind him, “Bran?”
Immediately, he was beside her pushing the hair from her face and untying her bonnet. “I apologize, Sweetling,” he soothed. “Hopefully, I did not hurt you.”
“What was that?” she mumbled.
“I think a poacher came too close,” he lied. “Permit me to assist you.”
Bran stood again and reached his hand to steady her rise, but as she pushed off to sit first, a pained look overspread her face. “Bran!” she gasped and grabbed her side.
His eyes followed hers. The blood seeped from under her jacket. “Lord!” he dropped to his knees beside her. “Lay back,” he ordered. Catching the jacket, he jerked it open, sending the buttons flying. Pulling at the blousing under the jacket, it did pretty much the same thing. Her stays were bent, but he had no time to loosen them. Working his fingers under them, he found an opening in her chemise. “I cannot tell how bad it is,” he whispered, “but the blood slows when I press against it.” Frantically, he pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket and lodged it against the opening, using the staying to secure it in place. “I will see you home, Velvet.”
“I am afraid.” Her eyes grew in size.
“Nothing will happen to you. I promise.” He scooped her into his arms, hurrying along the path they walked only minutes before. Taking his horse’s reins, he moved it beside a fallen tree trunk, using the decaying elm as a mounting block so he would not have to release her. Settled into the seat, he turned the horse towards Thorn Hall.
In less than ten minutes, he galloped into the circular drive. Velvet still clung to his neck. She sobbed against his chest, which actually gave him hope she was more frightened than hurt. Sliding from the animal’s back when a footman grabbed the reins, Bran never released her. Taking a deep breath, he lifted her closer to him and scaled the steps. Reaching the entrance at last, he barked, “Jordan, Miss Aldridge needs a doctor. Hurry, Man, she has been shot!”
Chapter 4
“The physician says it is only a flesh wound,” Ella informed Velvet as she adjusted the pillows behind her cousin’s head.
The girl nodded in acknowledgement. “Do you suppose it will leave a scar?”
Ella clucked her tongue in disbelief. “Is your perfection in jeopardy?”
Velvet’s chee
ks flushed in color. “It should not matter, should it? It is not as if anyone will see it.”
“Even if you were to marry, for most husbands, you would never fully undress,” Ella teased. “Your maid may have more knowledge of it.”
Velvet’s eyes darted around quickly assuring they were quite alone. “Can you imagine being unclothed by a man?”
Ella looked away quickly, truly uncomfortable. “No...no. I cannot imagine such intimacy. However, the good Lord must have seen it that way. Men and women did not clothe themselves until after Eve’s temptation; it must be most natural if one is in love.”
“It would be very exciting,” Velvet whispered, “and very wanton.” Again, Ella became uncomfortable and flushed with color. “Oh, forgive me, Ella; I have spoken out of turn. I just cannot forget the feel of Bran’s fingers as he searched under my stays for the wound. His touch burned more than the bullet. Is that possible?”
“I must take your word on that, Cousin.”
A light tap on the door brought the man of whom they spoke.
Bran had carried her to her bedroom, kicking the door open with a thunderous bang. When he had seen the blood, his heart had stopped. He had known his share of wounds in battle, nursed a few of them himself, but he had never panicked the way he did today. Thankfully, Velvet had suffered only a minor injury; yet, he relived the fear shooting through his veins as he ripped open her riding habit to examine the wound. He had put her in danger because he did not consider his enemies might seek him in Kent. Instinctively, he had known that Velvet had suffered from no accident. They were standing in the open clearing leading to the riverbank. A hunter would have to be situated along the tree line to deliver such a shot, and a sportsman could not mistake him and Velvet for an animal. The second shot had wiped away any doubts. Since the attack, Bran had seriously considered what he should do to protect the women in his life. He had already contacted two of his best friends, asking them to follow up on who might be in the area. Covering all possibilities, after he had personally checked on Velvet, he would interview his father’s steward Mr. Colenfield and Mr. Jordan about the former duke’s possible enemies. Maybe he had inherited more than just the estate.
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