“Go.” Nell managed a smile she did not feel. “We are fine.”
He squeezed her hand once and crossed the lawn. The moment he was out of earshot, Daphne turned on her.
“You walked with Lord Westmore at the festival.” Her voice dropped low, barely above a breath, but the hurt in it carried like a shout. “And you didn’t tell me.”
Nell couldn’t meet her eyes. She turned her head away, watching the colourful blur of the party. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Nothing of consequence.” Daphne spat the words like something poisonous she’d held too long on her tongue, her gaze fixed on a distant point across the lawn. “That arrogant, scarred—” She stopped herself and drew a sharp breath. “If I see him today, I swear I shall?—”
“Daphne, please.” Nell’s voice cracked, her fingers nervously pleating the fabric of her skirt. “Not here. Not now.”
“He hurt you.” Daphne’s voice softened, her anger gentling into something closer to grief as she reached out to touch Nell’s shoulder. “I can see it. You have been different since that night. Quieter. Sadder. And now I know why.”
Nell’s throat closed, and she looked away, unable to deny the truth.
Daphne took her hand and squeezed tight. “I am sorry. I won’t make a scene, but I shall not pretend to like him either.”
“I know.” Nell squeezed back, offering a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”
They stood together, watching the party swirl around them. The music, the laughter, and the glittering world that had never been theirs felt further away than ever.
Daphne’s jaw worked for a moment as she sought a distraction. She nodded toward a woman passing in an elaborate gown. “That dress Lady Morton is wearing. Is that supposed to be fashionable?”
Nell felt a ghost of a smile tug at her lips, her tension easing just a fraction. “I believe it’s meant to be.”
“It looks like a curtain attacked her.” Daphne sniffed, smoothing her own modest skirts. “Your blue is much prettier.”
Hartley returned, his expression apologetic as he adjusted his waistcoat. “Forgive me. Mr. Patrick does go on about his ailments.” He looked between them, sensing the shift but asking nothing. “Shall we find somewhere quieter?” He offered his arm to Nell, his eyes searching hers for comfort.
Nine
Dominic had expected tedium. He’d expected to stand at the edge of the party and count the minutes until he could escape, enduring the sidelong glances that followed him everywhere.
He hadn’t expected her.
She wore a pale blue dress, modest but becoming, with curls escaping at her temples. She stood beside a man he didn’t recognize, her hand resting on the stranger’s arm with an ease that made a dangerous edge twist in Dominic’s chest.
“Dominic.” His aunt's words broke into his thoughts, her fan snapping shut with a rhythmic click. “You are staring.”
He tore his attention away, but not quickly enough. Philippa followed his line of sight, studying the woman in blue with open curiosity.
“The woman in blue?” Philippa asked, tilting her head.
He didn’t answer; his throat felt too tight, his jaw locked against the words he couldn’t afford to say.
“She is lovely.” Philippa’s focus remained on the group, her head tilting with a clinical interest. “Not in the fashionable way, perhaps, but there’s something about her. Spirit.”
“Aunt, don’t—” Dominic started.
“Who is she?” Philippa was already in motion, her silk skirts hissing against the grass. “Come. Introduce me.”
“No.” The word snapped out like a whip, and Dominic stepped forward to intercept her. “She is no one. Just a… villager.”
Philippa’s eyebrow rose, her features sharpening into a look of pure, aristocratic skepticism. “A villager who has made you forget how to breathe?”
“Aunt, please.” He caught her arm, his shoulders hunching as he leaned in close. “Don’t.”
She studied his face and read straight through him. Whatever she saw there softened her expression. “This is why you have not been sleeping.”
