She chewed on her lip, the burning determination to succeed flaring back to life in her gut, momentarily overcoming her despair at her parents’ latest decrees. Though that exalted society, which was England’s premiere scientific institution, had not yet welcomed females into their ranks, they could not fail to see how important her findings were. And then she might finally be recognized as more than a mere hobbyist and secure for herself a place among Britain’s top entomologists.
Only how in the world would she ever manage that without her scientific equipment? Even more devastating, she was completely forbidden to pursue her research and was now forced into focusing all of her time into transforming herself into the perfect woman so she could snag a titled husband.
Panic decimated her momentary euphoria. Her parents had already begun to expect more and more from her as far as social obligations went, especially now that the summer season had begun. If they had their way, she would be carted about Synne from house to house, day in and day out, until they were able to squeeze a proposal from some unsuspecting male.
“Shall we look for other tansy beetles in the area for you?” Miss Nelly asked, her voice breaking through Bronwyn’s quickly spiraling thoughts.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Thank you.”
With that the girls scampered off, sending up the faint scent of camphor and rosemary as they brushed past the tansy plants, their happy voices and giggles carrying on the warm summer air.
There was nothing much she could do about her situation, she thought despondently as she bent over her notebook, adding delicate striations along the elytra in her quick sketch. As a young, unmarried female with no fortune of her own, she had no independence, no agency. She was her parents’ property, to do with what they wished. And should she somehow manage to extract a proposal from someone, she would then become her husband’s property. No matter what path her life took, she had no control over her eventual fate. And that included her entomological work and dreams of success.
But she was growing maudlin, an emotion she did not have time to coddle. Setting her jaw, she went back to work on her sketch, gently lifting the leaf to study the small beetles there, making quick lines and notes in her book. So engrossed was she in her sketch, she did not immediately hear Miss Nelly’s voice call to her. Finally, however, the sound of it pierced the bubble Bronwyn was in. Thinking the girls must have located more of the beetles, she held up one finger.
“Just let me make these final notes.” She quickly scribbled something more, then held up her hand. “Help me up will you?”
But it was not a slender girl’s hand that grasped her own. No, this one was large and strong and decidedly male. Before she could think to snatch her hand back, the unseen person yanked her to standing. And Bronwyn found herself once more staring up into the face of the wickedly handsome, disturbingly intense stranger from the day before.
“Oh,” she managed weakly.
“Oh, indeed,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice sending a jolt of something electric and altogether consuming through her limbs.
She had not forgotten him since that chance encounter outside the Quayside yesterday. No matter if she was following her mother about on her errands, or sitting in on the calls that her mother made to her friends, or listening to her father spout ideologies about duty and family, this man had always been in the back of her mind. And when she had gone to bed…
She flushed hot at the remembrance.
But now he was here in front of her.Looking just as delicious as before.
She blinked.Delicious? Whatever had put that particular descriptor in her head?
He smiled slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Miss Pickering, I believe?”
Bronwyn, in the process of hurriedly stuffing her pencil and paper out of sight and self-consciously dusting off her skirts, froze. “How do you know my name?”
“My wards informed me of your identity,” he explained, motioning to the two girls standing several feet off to the side.
“Wards?” Bronwyn asked, looking back and forth between the Hargrove girls and the gentleman. She had thought the girls must have a parent about somewhere. Yet she had never thought to ask them. Now she saw the reason for their air of loneliness: if they were the wards of someone, it meant they did not have parents to care for them any longer. They were orphans.
The gentleman inclined his head, watching her with an unnerving interest. “Indeed. I arrived from London just yesterday to join them.” He smiled slightly, a small curve of his lips that didn’t soften his features one bit. “When I ran into you, in fact. But forgive me; I haven’t introduced myself. I am—”
“Mr. Hawkins,” Miss Eliza burst in, stepping in front of her guardian. “Mr. Ash Hawkins.”
“Yes,” Miss Nelly agreed heartily, jumping forward to stand beside her sister. “Mr. Ash Hawkins. Our guardian.”
Bronwyn blinked, confused, and looked to Mr. Hawkins. Who looked nearly as taken aback as she felt. He considered his wards closely for a time, some strange, silent interaction seeming to occur between them. Finally he turned back to Bronwyn, smiling stiffly, and held out his hand. “Yes. I am Mr. Ash Hawkins. Owner of Caulnedy Manor.”
“I…see.” Bronwyn, feeling as if she had missed something, nevertheless shook off the feeling and took the man’s hand. Too late, however, she realized she was not wearing gloves. And neither was he.
How could a simple handshake feel so very intimate? Though their palms and the pads of their fingers were the only parts of them that touched, she felt it on every inch of her body. Shaken, more from the fact that the sensation urged her to close the distance between them and do God knew what, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. Yet she stood there, mutely staring. Not quite knowing what to say to this man who made her feel the strangest things in the most private parts of her body.
Bronwyn cleared her throat, shifting from foot to foot, then pulled the watch from the pocket at her waist, giving it a quick glance, more out of nervous habit than anything. She blinked, looking back again.
“Is that truly the time?”
Mr. Hawkins frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“The time. I lost track of it completely.” Her parents would be furious; she was supposed to have been home by one to join them for a luncheon at Lady Tesh’s house, an invitation they had been angling after for what seemed ages. And it was—she looked once more at her watch, blanching—quarter past?