At Bramwell Park, he went straight to his study and closed the door with a soft, final click. He stood at the window, staring at the darkening sky.
He replayed the moment again and again. The terror that had seized him when he saw her about to fall—and the way he’d moved without calculation, caring for nothing except her safety. She’d been in his arms. Pressed against him. Safe.
And then.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. She’d felt him. The evidence of his desire had been impossible to hide, and there was no explaining it away to a woman he’d already insulted.
But that was not what haunted him. What kept circling in his mind was the single heartbeat before the horror had set in. She’d leaned into him. He was certain of it: for half a second, she'd relaxed against his chest.
She’d responded. Just for an instant, before memory and fury had drowned the connection. It didn’t matter that he was the man who had called her nothing. It didn’t matter that he was an arrogant lord who had hurt her to save his own pride.
It mattered because if she could respond to him, then perhaps she didn’t truly hate him. Perhaps there was still a chance to make this right. He opened his eyes and stared at his reflection. He would find a way, even if it destroyed him, he’d have to try.
Ten
Flour dust hung in the grey light of the kitchen like snow that refused to settle. Nell punched the dough down hard, folded it over, punched again. Her shoulders burned. Her fingers ached. Good. Pain kept the mind where it belonged—on the work, the shop, the next loaf.
Not on the lake.
She could survive the humiliation. Being fished out like a drowned cat while half the county gawked—fine. She’d fold that away into the locked box where she kept every other bruise life had handed her.
What she couldn’t fold away was the moment before.
His chest against her back. His arms wrapped around her as though she were something worth saving. And then—the press of him. Hard and unmistakable against her hip. His body telling a story his mouth had spent weeks denying.
She slammed the dough against the worktable.
It meant nothing. Men were simple creatures. Warmth and softness, any woman’s body pressed close enough—of course he’d responded. Biology. Instinct. Nothing more.
Nell.
Her name, torn from his throat when she’d fallen. Not Mrs. Ashford. Not the baker.Nell.Like it had cost him something to say it. Like he couldn’t help himself.
The shop was empty, the morning rush long faded. Daphne was at the vicarage. The children were at Mr. Willoughby’s farm. She was alone with the yeast and the sugar and the silence, and the silence was the worst of it.
The front door opened, the bell chiming overhead.
Her hands stilled in the dough.
Dr. Hartley stood in the doorway with his medical bag in hand. “Mrs. Ashford. I wanted to check on you,” he said with a quiet, reassuring smile already forming as he closed the door behind him.
Relief flooded through her immediately. She wiped her floury hands on her apron, feeling foolish for her racing heart. “Dr. Hartley. You are back from your rounds early.”
“I had a cancellation.” He stepped inside, removing his hat and setting it carefully on the counter. “And I confess I have been worried. You took quite a chill at the lake. I wanted to see for myself that you are recovered.”
“I am perfectly well.” She gestured toward the kitchen with a slight wave of her hand. “Truly. Would you like some tea?”
“I would like that very much.” He followed her into the kitchen, settling into a chair at the scarred worktable while she set the kettle over the flame. “The children are at the Willoughbys’ today?” He asked, watching her move about the small space.
“Yes.” Nell set out two cups of plain white china, noting the small chip on one rim as she placed them on the table. “They like Mr. Willoughby’s farm.”
“Good.” His smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he rested his hands on the table. “Children need days like that. Freedom.”
“They are everything to me.” She said as she sat across from him. “Everything I do is for them.”
“I know.” His features softened as he leaned forward slightly, his attention narrowing onto her. “I see it. The way you’ve built this life for them. The sacrifices you’ve made.”
Something in his expression caught her. It was an understanding that went deeper than simple observation. “You speak the way you know something of sacrifice,” she said carefully, watching his face for a reaction.
