Nell laughed. It was a clear, genuine sound that surprised her as it escaped. “No harm done, Mr. Willoughby. I have survived worse than a stepped-on toe.”
They fumbled through the rest of the dance together, neither of them graceful, yet both of them smiling. The music was bright, the torchlight felt warm on her face, and for one perfect, fleeting moment, she forgot to be afraid. She forgot to be careful.She forgot that she was a woman with secrets and a past that could swallow her whole if anyone looked too closely. She smiled a real smile, the kind she used to give freely before Gabriel taught her that smiling invited attention, and attention invited pain.
The music ended with a final flourish of the fiddle. Mr. Willoughby bowed, his old knees creaking audibly, and Nell found herself curtsying in return. It was a muscle memory from another life, performed with an elegance she’d thought long dead.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashford.” He straightened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve made an old man’s evening.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand briefly, meaning the words more than he could know. “For asking.”
He melted back into the crowd. Nell stood there for a moment, flushed and breathless, the green silk swirling against her legs. Her throat was dry from laughing and her cheeks were warm from the exertion, yet she felt lighter than she’d felt in years.
She made her way to the cider stall, suddenly parched. She accepted a cup from the ruddy-faced woman manning the barrel, offering a small nod of thanks. She stood at the edge of the crowd to catch her breath, allowing herself to believe she might deserve this simple happiness.
Five
Dominic stood at the far edge of the green, tankard in hand, wondering what in God’s name had possessed him to come. He hated festivals. He loathed the noise, the press of bodies, and the way people’s eyes slid to his scar and then quickly away, like he couldn’t see them doing it. He’d avoided every village gathering for the four years he’d been away.
But Graves had mentioned, far too casually while laying out Dominic’s evening coat, that Mrs. Ashford always kept a stall at the Harvest Festival. He’d noted that her cranberry tarts sold out within the hour and suggested it might be worth attending if one were in the mood for decent pastry.
Dominic had told himself he was in the mood for pastry.
So here he was. He lurked in the shadows like a fool, nursing ale he didn’t want and watching villagers enjoy themselves in ways he’d forgotten. The music grated on his nerves, and the laughter felt like mockery, but every sidelong glance at his face reminded him why he’d stopped attending social functions.
Then he saw her.
The green silk caught the torchlight, shimmering with every movement. Her raven hair gleamed, the distinctive streak ofwhite showing bright at her temple. Every curve was on display without apology, like she’d every right to take up space in a world that told women like her to shrink. She was laughing with an old man. She was dancing badly, stumbling through steps, and looking more alive than anything he’d seen in two years.
His breath stopped in his chest. She was not beautiful the way London debutantes were beautiful, porcelain and practiced, each smile calculated for effect. She was beautiful like a storm. She was like something wild and dangerous that could break a man who got too close.
He wanted to get closer.
He watched the dance end. He watched her curtsy to the old man and make her way to the cider stall. He watched her stand alone at the edge of the crowd with a cup in her hands and a flush on her cheeks. He set down his tankard on a nearby bench and moved before he could think better of it.
The crowd parted as he approached. It always did, whether from deference or discomfort, he had long since stopped trying to determine. She hadn’t seen him yet. She was looking at the dancers, that almost-smile still playing on her lips. The green silk hugged her waist and draped over her hips, making his hands itch with a sudden, sharp urge to touch.
He stopped a few feet away, merely looking at her and taking her in.
She turned and saw him. The smile faded from her face, and her shoulders stiffened beneath the fine green silk. She didn’t run, however. She lifted her chin instead, her brown eyes meeting his grey ones without flinching as she waited for him to speak.
“Mrs. Ashford.” He inclined his head, a sudden, unintended grit catching in the back of his throat. “You are looking… festive.”
“Lord Westmore.” She held her cider cup like a shield between them, her knuckles white against the wood. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I came for the tarts.” He shifted his weight, the lie obvious. Her stall was across the green, and he hadn’t so much as glanced in its direction.
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile but close. “Of course you did. Should I fetch you some?”
“Later, perhaps.” He moved closer, drawn by a pull he couldn’t name. “That dress is new.”
“Old, actually.” She didn’t step back, though her fingers tightened further on the cup. “It belonged to my mother.”
“It suits you.” The words scraped out of him, sounding more like a confession than a compliment.
She looked away first, her lashes sweeping down to hide her eyes. “Thank you, my lord.”
The noise of the festival pressed around them with its music, laughter, and the crackle of torches. It all felt distant and muted, the way they existed in a bubble separate from the village.
“Walk with me.” He gestured toward the quieter edge of the green, away from the dancers and the notice already turning toward them.
