He could not deny it. He stayed rooted to the spot and kept his focus on the distant treeline.
“Then I definitely need to meet her.” Philippa patted his hand in a firm rhythm. “Come along, nephew.”
“I cannot—” The words came out rough. He dropped his chin and looked at the dirt by his boots. “I said something at the festival. Something I should not have.”
Philippa paused. Her hand went still on his arm. “What did you say?”
He kept looking at the grass. “I called her nothing of consequence. I thought it would protect her reputation, but she… I think she heard.”
Philippa shut her eyes. A quiet sigh slipped out. “Oh, Dominic.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“You have your father’s talent for cruelty when you are afraid.” The words landed like a blow.
Dominic bowed his head. “I know.”
“Then you will face it.” Philippa linked her arm through his, her grip unyielding. “Come.”
Nell saw them approaching before Daphne did. The silver-haired woman walked with purpose, her stride eating up the distance. Behind her, Westmore followed like a man being led to the gallows. Nell’s spine went rigid, and she tucked her chin high. She wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flee. She just looked in the other direction.
Daphne’s head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. She recognized the viscount. “Nell.” Daphne whispered, her fingers digging into the fabric of her reticule. “He’s here!”
“Yes.” Nell kept her stare fixed ahead. “Let him come.”
Daphne’s jaw set. Hartley noticed the shift, his eyes moving between the women and the approaching pair, but he said nothing.
The silver-haired woman reached them first, her smile warm and her eyes missing nothing. “Forgive the intrusion. I am Lady Philippa Westmore.” She adjusted her gloves with brisk tugs. “My nephew has been terribly remiss in introducing me to anyone.”
Hartley stepped forward with a polite bow. “Lady Philippa. A pleasure. Dr. Hartley. I have a practice in the village.”
“A physician!” Philippa tapped her chin with her folded fan. “How wonderful. We are in dire need of good doctors in Hampshire.”
“And may I present Mrs. Ashford.” Hartley gestured toward Nell. “She owns the bakery in the village. And Miss Daphne Wells, her dear friend and assistant.”
Nell curtsied and kept her focus on Philippa. “Lady Philippa. An honour.”
Philippa regarded her with open curiosity. “Mrs. Ashford. What a pleasure. And Miss Wells.”
Daphne dipped into a stiff curtsy. Her lips pressed thin. “My lady.”
“And this is my nephew.” Philippa gestured behind her. “Lord Westmore.”
Dominic stepped forward. His face held a careful mask. Tension touched his mouth. “Mrs. Ashford. Miss Wells.”
Daphne did not curtsy. She watched him like a flint striking stone. Confusion crossed his brow before he turned to the doctor.
“Dr. Hartley.” The words came tight. “How do you know Mrs. Ashford?”
“I am physician to Mrs. Ashford’s daughter.” Hartley’s expression did not shift, yet his attention grew intent as he moved closer to Nell.
Philippa’s attention swung to Nell, concern replacing pleasantry. “Your daughter is unwell?”
“My Lily has asthma, my lady.” Nell smoothed the front of her skirt. “The damp weather troubles her lungs.”
“Poor lamb.” Philippa pressed a gloved hand to her collarbone. “Is she improving?”
“She is.” Nell allowed herself a grateful glance toward Hartley. “Dr. Hartley has been very attentive.”
