But he was done pretending he didn’t want her.
He touched his lip again, the pain bright and grounding. She’d marked him, and he intended to earn every scar that followed.
Eleven
The morning air bit sharp against Nell’s cheeks as she walked toward the grocer’s, her basket swinging empty at her side.
Lily had woken in the night, coughing. It was that wet, rattling sound that made Nell’s heart seize every time she heard it. Edmund’s tonic helped; it always helped. However, the cough had returned with the weather, and Nell knew from bitter experience that tonics alone were insufficient. Her daughter needed building up, for she required warmth, nourishment, and rest.
Soup was the remedy. That was what Nell’s mother had always made when someone was poorly. Chicken broth with root vegetables, simmered low and slow until the kitchen filled with steam and the whole house smelled of comfort.Good for the lungs,her mother used to say while stirring the pot.Good for the soul.
Nell had been making soup for her children since before they could walk. Some traditions were worth keeping.
She’d been avoiding thinking about him. She tried to push away the memory of the storeroom, of the shelf digging into her back, and the taste of blood on her tongue. She tried to forgetthe way he’d smiled when she bit him, the way she’d given him exactly what he desired.
The avoidance didn’t work.
She thought about him constantly. She woke in the night with her lips tingling and her body aching for something she refused to name. She caught herself staring at the storeroom door during quiet moments, remembering the force of his body against hers and the desperate sound he’d made against her mouth. Two days had passed, and she could still taste him.
The grocer’s shop was warm and dim, smelling of dried herbs and sawdust. Nell gathered what she needed. She selected carrots, onions, and a parsnip that was slightly soft but suitable for broth. The butcher next door had chicken, and she managed to haggle him down a penny on a piece that was smaller than she liked but would have to do.
Daphne was with the children this morning while Martha was fitting a dress for Mrs. Pemberton. Nell could almost see Martha now, pins held between her teeth and a measuring tape draped around her neck. These were the women who helped Nell survive, day after day, holding her fragile life together with their capable hands.
She counted her coins carefully outside the butcher’s, tucking them back into her purse with the familiar ache of never quite having enough. The shop did well, better than she’d dared hope when she first opened those doors five years ago, but there was never extra. Every penny was spoken for twice over.
Coming out of the grocer’s, her basket heavy on her arm and her mind wandering to broth and the ghost of a kiss, she nearly collided with a passerby on the pavement. “Oh!” Nell stumbled back, clutching her basket to her chest to steady the contents. “Forgive me, I was not looking where I stepped.”
Lady Philippa Westmore stood before her, silver hair gleaming beneath a deep blue bonnet. A maid hovered at arespectful distance behind her, though the older woman’s face lit up with surprised delight.
“Mrs. Ashford!” Philippa clasped her gloved hands together near her chin. “What a happy accident. I was just thinking about you.”
Nell dipped into an awkward curtsy, her heavy basket making the gesture feel graceless. “Lady Philippa. Good morning to you.”
“None of that.” Philippa waved away the formality with a brisk, impatient motion of her hand. “I have been meaning to call at your shop, but my nephew has been...” She paused, her lips pressing together in a thin line. “Difficult. I haven’t had a moment to myself.”
Her nephew.
Heat crept up Nell’s cheeks before she could catch it, and she fixed her attention on a point somewhere past Philippa’s shoulder, praying the older woman wouldn’t notice the flush.
“Provisions?” Philippa eyed the carrots peeking out of Nell’s basket with open curiosity, her head tilting. “You are not baking today?”
“Soup.” Nell shifted the crush of the basket to her other arm, her muscles straining under the weight. “My daughter is unwell, and I am making broth.”
Philippa’s expression shifted, genuine concern replacing her curiosity as she stepped closer. “Unwell? The little girl you mentioned at Sir Huxley’s?”
“Lily, yes.” Nell found herself answering honestly, smoothing the edge of her cloak with restless fingers. There was something about Philippa that invited confidence—a warmth beneath her aristocratic bearing and a directness that felt more like friendship than condescension. “She has asthma, and the damp weather makes it worse.”
“Poor child.” Philippa shook her head, her brow creasing with a heavy sigh. “My friend’s boy had the same affliction—it is a dreadful thing to watch them struggle for breath. Is she being treated?”
“Dr. Hartley has been very attentive.” Nell adjusted her grip on the wicker handle, the weave biting into her palm.
“The good doctor.” Philippa’s eyes sharpened slightly, a knowing flicker appearing in their depths as she tilted her head. “Yes, I noticed he was quite attentive at Sir Huxley’s.”
Nell didn’t know how to respond to such an observation and changed the subject instead, gesturing vaguely toward the end of the street. “She is resting today—my lodger is sitting with her.”
“Your lodger?” Philippa prompted, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Martha. She’s a friend and a seamstress.” Nell tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering there as though they needed something to do. “She rents a room above the shop and helps with the children when I am working.”
