Nell pressed her back against the wooden shelf behind her, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. “Perhaps they are the same for me.”
“They are not.” The statement landed between them with the pressure of cold iron. He leaned in until the world narrowed to the lines of his face and the heat of his breath against her skin. “I know what you want, Nell. I felt it yesterday. In that maze. When you came apart against me.”
“That was a mistake.” She forced the words out, even as her body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her belly at the memory, her cheeks flushing a deep, telltale crimson.
“No.” He spoke the word with a fierce conviction, his hands coming up to bracket her against the shelf without quite touching her. “That was the first honest thing either of us has done since we met.”
Nell went still. She pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart through the fine wool of his coat to hold him at bay. “Dominic?—”
“Marry me.” He blurted the words, like the breath had been knocked from him.
The request hit her like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs. She stared at him, her mouth falling open as her hands froze against the heat of his chest.
“What?” She barely recognized the thin, reedy sound of her own voice.
“Marry me.” He said it again. His hands finally made contact, gripping her shoulders to hold her in place. “Be my wife.”
She kept staring, waiting for the mocking smile that would tell her it was a joke, a jest, or some cruel game of the aristocracy.
He was not smiling.
Nell shook her head, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if to anchor herself. “You are mad.”
“Probably.” He didn’t soften his expression, but his grip on her shoulders tightened. “But I am also in love with you.”
The breath left her body in a soft whoosh.
“I love you.” He said it as though the confession were being ripped from him, like every word cost him something vital. He leaned forward, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. “I have tried not to. God knows I have tried. But I cannot stop thinking about you. I cannot stop wanting you. I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”
Nell’s hands trembled against his chest. She shook her head again, the movement brushing her brow against his. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He pulled back just far enough to look at her, his thumbs brushing across the fabric on her shoulders. His expression was raw and entirely open. “I know you are the strongest woman I have ever met. I know you built a life from nothing. I know you’d die for your children without a second thought. I know you make me feel like I am worth something for the first time in my miserable life.”
Nell pressed her hands harder against his chest, trying to create a desperate distance. “Dominic?—”
“Marry me.” The words were raw with desperation. His hands slid from her shoulders to cup her face, his palms warm against her skin. “I will give you everything. Bramwell Park. Money. Security. Your children will want for nothing. They shall have the best education, the finest clothes, everything they have ever dreamed of. I will adopt them legally, and give them my name. They will be Westmores, with all the rights and privileges that entails.”
It was everything. It was more than she’d ever dared to hope for in her darkest hours. And she couldn’t say yes. Nell closed her eyes, drew a long breath, and pulled his hands away from her face. “No.”
He went utterly still. The colour drained from his face, and his hands fell limply to his sides. “What?”
“No.” She spoke firmly, forcing the word past the ache in her chest. She opened her eyes to meet his. “I cannot marry you.”
His brow furrowed. Confusion and pain crossed his face. “Why not?”
“Because it would destroy us both.” She pressed her back against the shelf, needing the support as her legs shook beneath her heavy skirts.
“I don’t understand—” He reached for her again, but she held up a hand, palm out, to stop him.
“I am a widow, Dominic.” She pressed her hand flat against his chest to hold him back, her composure brittle as old plaster. “A common widow with two children and a bakery that barely keeps us fed. And you are a viscount.”
“I don’t care about—” He tried to step closer, but she shoved against him with a sudden, sharp strength.
“The ton will care.” She cut him off, her jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. “They will call me a fortune hunter. Everyball, every dinner, every drawing room — I will be the joke they tell behind their fans.”
“I don’t care what they think.” He caught her hand against his chest, trapping it there so she could feel the steady, insistent beat beneath his ribs.
“You say that now.” She shook her head, her throat tight as she struggled to pull free. “But I count pennies, Dominic. I measure flour by the ounce and stretch every shilling until it screams. You have never had to count anything in your life. That kind of distance between two people — it doesn’t disappear because you want it to.”
