All the way to Foxdene, he debated whether he should have chosen something else. Perhaps it was presumptuous. Perhaps it was too practical.
Good grief, no woman had ever tied him in knots the way Tess Hawthorne did. She consumed his thoughts when she was near during the day. He admired her insights and her enthusiasm for the work. When they parted at night, she remained on his mind and sometimes even appeared in his dreams.
She’d invited him to dine with them at Foxdene twice, and each time he’d relished the easy conversation between the siblings and Mrs. Wells. The cottage was a place of family and comfort, the kind of comfort he’d been avoiding for years.
Now, he was almost giddy at the prospect of joining them again, though what he really hoped for was a moment alonewith Tess. They hadn’t had one since she’d found him in the Walcotts’ library. He wondered if that was something she purposely avoided. She certainly wanted to avoid the matter of their kiss.
All he wanted was to kiss her again. Once more, and he’d surely get her out of his head. Once more, and he could go back to being the sort of man he’d been before he met her.
Surely, it was the maddening fact that he couldn’t touch her, or kiss her, that made him want her with an unrelenting ache.
Foxdene glowed from within, its windows a golden brightness in the dusk, and Dom caught the scent of wisteria on the warm evening breeze.
He didn’t have to knock.
Mrs. Wells seemed to be watching for him and opened the door the minute he approached.
“Welcome, Mr. Prince, come in. Come in.”
“It’s Dominic to you, Mrs. Wells,” he said as he stepped inside and was assailed with the scent of sugary, fresh-baked confections.
Tess stood near the fireplace with her brother, and both turned to greet him.
She was all Dom could see.
She wore her hair pinned up, but a single blond curl had come loose to graze her neck. He swallowed hard as his eyes fixed on that spot that he suddenly had the overwhelming need to taste.
She didn’t smile—not at first. Her eyes held a flicker of something he’d seen that night in the library.
“Dominic,” she said, “Tristan promised me you’re the only guest he invited.”
“I’m honored.”
Her gaze slid down to the gift under his arm.
“This is for you.” He offered her the box tied with a satin ribbon. “Happy birthday, Tess.”
“Thank you,” she said as she reached for the gift with both hands.
“Go on and open it, Tess,” Tristan urged before stepping away to convene with Mrs. Wells.
Tess stepped over to one of the stuffed chairs before the fire and settled into it. Dom took the one next to it, sitting on the edge, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight.
He watched her work at the ribbon on the parcel, and his breath got caught somewhere behind his ribs.
It was absurd. He’d faced vandals in his travels, bartered with grave robbers, and traversed crumbling bridges. But none of that had made his palms itch like they did now as he watched Tess open her gift.
When she edged the lid of the box free, she stilled as she looked inside.
He couldn’t read her expression, but she seemed to be holding her breath too.
Then she lifted the leather case out gently, settled it on her lap, and opened it to reveal the tools nestled inside.
“A field set,” she said, her voice breathy and low. “But not just any set. This is...” She lifted a brush, its mahogany handle polished and smooth. “This is beautiful.”
Dom cleared his throat, trying to breathe steadily. “I had it assembled by a gentleman in London, who engraved each piece for you.”
Tess lifted the trowel, noting her initials engraved on the brass collar between the blade and the handle.
