Something on the ground caught his eye. It was a shawl of cream-coloured wool, simple but well made. It must have slipped from her shoulders while they talked, while she’d told him about the pianoforte and he’d confessed why he’d fled London. He bent and picked it up; the fabric was soft beneath his fingers, still holding the warmth of her body.
He brought it to his face without thinking and breathed in. He smelled vanilla, sugar, and something underneath that was simply her, warm and alive. He felt lost. He was standing in the dark like a besotted fool, holding a shopkeeper’s shawl to his face like it was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.
“Westmore!” His breath hitched, trapped in a lungful of vanilla, as he stood paralysed with the shawl still pressed to his cheek.
Someone called out from beyond the trees. Dominic let the shawl fall behind him, the cream-coloured wool pooling in the grass at his heels as he turned to find Sir Richard Hale emerging from the shadows. Sir Richard’s tankard was sloshing, his grin too wide and his eyes bright with the particular gleam of a man who had spotted gossip. Mrs. Pemberton materialized at Sir Richard’s elbow, her purple bonnet bobbing and her fan already fluttering.
They approached him from the direction of the festival and stopped a few feet away. Their backs were to the torchlight and to the path anyone returning from the green would take.
“Saw you walking with the baker.” Sir Richard studied Dominic with barely concealed curiosity as he took a long draught of his ale. “Taking quite an interest in village life, are we?”
“What is this about a baker?” Mrs. Pemberton’s voice dripped with false innocence.
“Westmore and the baker.” Sir Richard chuckled, swirling the remaining ale in his cup. “I caught them taking a cozy stroll in the dark. Very cozy indeed.”
Dominic’s mouth set in a grim line. They were both watching him now, cataloguing every twitch of his expression and every shift of his weight. Tomorrow the whole village would know—by the week’s end, the rumor would reach the whole county.
Her words echoed in his mind:Gossip decides whether I earn or starve.
He had to kill this now, before it destroyed everything she’d built. He arranged his face into the cold mask he’d worn in London ballrooms, bored, dismissive, and utterly uninterested.It was the mask that had earned him a reputation for arrogance and driven away everyone who might have cared.
“The baker?” He let boredom drip from every syllable, his lip curling with practiced disdain as he looked past them. “She is nothing of consequence.”
Sir Richard laughed, delighted by the cruelty. Mrs. Pemberton giggled behind her fan.
There was a movement behind them, a flash of green in the darkness. Dominic’s eyes lifted over Mrs. Pemberton’s shoulder, over her ridiculous purple bonnet, and his blood turned to ice.
Nell stood ten feet away. She was frozen in the path, her shawl-less shoulders pale in the dim light. Their eyes met. She’d heard. Every word. He could see it in her face, in the way her expression shuttered and the light died in her eyes. Her whole body went rigid as though she were bracing for a blow.
I am a fool.The thought was cold and clear, cutting through the fog of his own stupidity.
He watched her stand there like a statue. Mrs. Pemberton was still talking, her fan beating the air between them, and Dominic could not move, could not follow, could not undo a single word without proving every one of them true.
“Can’t blame you for looking, though.” Sir Richard’s voice crashed through the moment, oblivious and jovial as he clapped a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “That dress does do remarkable things. For a shopkeeper.”
Mrs. Pemberton tittered, her fan beating faster against her chest. “One can hardly fault a man for appreciating the scenery.”
Nell didn’t run. That was the worst part. She didn’t gasp or cry or cause a scene. She simply looked at him, looked through him. Then she backed away. One step. Two. Controlled and dignified, the green silk swaying gently as she retreated. She turned and walked into the crowd without looking back.
Sir Richard was still talking, something about viscounts and village diversions, but Dominic heard none of it. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at the space where she’d been, feeling something crack open in his chest.
The shawl lay in the grass behind him, still warm and still carrying her scent. He’d told her she intrigued him, while he’d asked her for something true—and then he’d repaid her trust by calling her nothing.
Mrs. Pemberton's fan snapped shut with a sharp click. “My lord? Are you quite well?”
“Fine.” He replied coldly. Dominic cleared his throat and forced his expression back into the cold mask of the aristocracy. “The night air has a chill. If you will excuse me.”
He didn’t wait for their response. He didn’t look back at the shawl lying abandoned in the grass. He walked in the opposite direction from where Nell had gone, toward the stables and his horse, toward Bramwell Park and the empty rooms that were all he deserved.
Six
Nell found Daphne at the stall, busy counting coins into a small leather pouch. Her hands were not shaking, yet she was distantly proud of that.
“Nell!” Daphne looked up with a grin that faded the moment she saw Nell’s face, her hands going still over the coins. “What is wrong? What has happened?”
“A headache.” The lie came easily. “I need to collect the children and go home.”
Daphne’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push. She swept the remaining coins into the bag with a quick motion. “I can close up here. You go on.”
