Lily’s free hand flew to cover the bulge, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “It’s my book, sir.”
“What book?” He took a slow step toward her.
“The Castle of Otranto.” Lily lifted her chin, bracing for the laughter that so often followed the discovery of her reading tastes.
Dominic paused as he surveyed the small girl. “A Gothic story? It’s a bit dark for a Sunday afternoon, is it not?”
His eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Walpole.” He tilted his head, studying her with a look that bordered on genuine respect. “You like being frightened?”
Lily blinked behind her spectacles, clearly thrown by his knowledge of the author. “I like the mystery,” she said and looked into his eyes, trying to gauge whether he was truly interested or merely humoring her. “And the castles.”
“Our library has a first edition of Udolpho.” He jerked his chin toward the house, his focus never leaving her face. “Have you read it?”
“Three times.” Lily’s grip on Nell’s hand tightened until her small fingers ached. Nell could feel the excitement thrumming through her daughter’s body like a live wire.
“You can hold it before you leave.” Dominic adjusted his stance, stating it as an absolute fact rather than a casual offer. The matter was settled. “If you’re careful.”
Lily’s mouth dropped open, her spectacles sliding down her nose unheeded as she looked up at her mother with eyes the size of saucers.
Dominic turned his attention to Oliver, who stood apart with his arms crossed over his narrow chest. The boy was guarding his territory, sizing up this stranger with the suspicion of a sentry. “Do you like to fish?” Dominic’s expression remained neutral as he studied the boy’s rigid posture.
Oliver’s chin jutted forward, his jaw tight. “No,” he muttered, staring back.
“Ever wanted to?” Dominic leaned back, resting one hand on the stone balustrade in a posture of easy unconcern.
Oliver shrugged. He seemed determined to show how little he cared for anything a lord might offer. “I don’t know anyone who fishes. I’ve never gotten the opportunity to try it.”
“The lake holds pike.” Dominic nodded toward the glittering water, his tone remaining strictly matter-of-fact—as thoughdiscussing the weather rather than trying to win over a hostile child. “Nasty brutes, some of them. I once saw one take a man’s bait, rod, and half his dignity in a single strike.”
Oliver’s eyes flicked toward the lake despite himself. Nell saw a spark of interest flare across his face before he shuttered it away. “So?”
“So nothing.” Dominic matched the boy’s studied indifference with a shrug of his own.
Oliver narrowed his eyes, his feet planted firmly on the terrace. “You don’t have to be nice to us, you know.” His chin lifted, a challenge aimed squarely at the man towering above him. “Just because we’re here doesn’t mean we need minding.”
“Oliver.” Nell’s warning was sharp.
Dominic held up a hand to still her, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. “I am not minding you.” His expression gave nothing away. “I am telling you about the pike. What you do with the information is your own affair.”
Oliver searched his face for mockery or some hidden agenda and found none. Slowly, his arms uncrossed and his shoulders dropped half an inch. He didn’t smile, but the rigid armour of his posture began to crack.
Finally, Dominic turned to Nell.
His eyes dropped to her yellow dress, tracing the line of her shoulders with a heat she could feel on her skin. They traveled lower, lingering on the curve of her bodice until her breath hitched in her throat. When he finally looked back up, his expression was a mask of composure, but his eyes burned.
“Mrs. Ashford.” The greeting was a low scrape, rough at the edges as he bowed his head.
“Lord Westmore.” Nell folded her hands in front of her. She pressed her nails hard into her palms to keep herself from reaching up to touch her heated cheeks.
They settled around the tea table, which was laden with more food than Nell’s family ate in a week. Scones piled high with clotted cream and jam, tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, seed cakes, ginger biscuits, and a towering arrangement of fruit that looked too beautiful to eat. Lily devoured three scones in rapid succession, cream smearing the corner of her mouth. Oliver picked at his food with studied disinterest, even as a pile of sandwiches accumulated on his plate. Martha sat quietly beside Philippa, her seamstress’s eyes cataloguing every stitch of the older woman’s gown while she nibbled a ginger biscuit with the careful restraint of someone unaccustomed to being waited on. Daphne kept shooting Nell significant looks across the table, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline whenever Dominic spoke. Nell ignored every single one of them.
Dominic answered Lily’s endless questions about the library with a patience that made Nell’s chest ache. He explained which shelves held which genres and described the reading alcove with the best light. “I shall show you the section devoted to gothic novels before you leave,” he promised, reaching for the teapot.
“The east wing is haunted,” he said, his face perfectly serious and his chilling eyes solemn as a judge’s. “A lady in grey. She walks the halls at midnight, weeping for her lost love.”
Lily leaned forward over her half-eaten scone, her spectacles sliding down her nose, utterly captivated. “Have you seen her?” She whispered.
“Once.” Dominic held her stare without blinking. “When I was your age. The sound of her crying woke me from a dead sleep.”
