“Lady Catherine is—” He started to speak, but his gaze drifted toward the horizon, his expression carefully blank.
“I don’t want to hear it.” She cut him off, dropping to her knees to gather the scattered fruit. Her hands trembled so violently the apples thudded against the wicker of the basket. “I don’t need explanations. You are free to court whomever you please.”
“Nell.” The name was a low, ragged plea, a crack finally appearing in his careful facade as he took a half-step toward her.
“Mrs. Ashford.” She corrected him, the syllables sharp and biting. She straightened her back and clutched her basket, eyes flashing. “We should maintain propriety.”
He fell silent, studying her face. The face that always seemed to see too much. She waited for the anger. The old Dominic would have demanded her attention. He would have refused to let her walk away
He didn’t.
“As you wish.” He gave a short, controlled nod. He bent down, picked up the last apple that had rolled near his feet, andplaced it carefully in her basket. His fingers didn’t touch hers. “Good day, Mrs. Ashford.”
He walked away. He simply walked away with a steady stride and straight shoulders, never once looking back. She stared after him, her basket clutched to her chest, as confusion and fury warred within her.
Where was the fire? Where was the reckless man who had chased her and refused to let go? This calm, composed stranger was not the Dominic she knew.
She should be relieved. She was not.
That evening, a knock came at the door. Nell looked up from the bread she was wrapping, her brow furrowing in confusion. The shop was closed, the children were already upstairs with Martha, and the streets outside were growing dark.
“I will get it.” Daphne crossed to the door. She pulled it open to reveal a young man in Bramwell Park livery.
“Messages for Mrs. Ashford, Miss Wells, and Miss Finch.” He held out three cream-coloured envelopes, each sealed with heavy black wax. “From Bramwell Park.”
Daphne’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline as she took them, closing the door with the nudge of her hip. She crossed the shop and handed one to Nell, keeping the other two. Nell broke the seal with trembling fingers and unfolded the heavy paper.
Lord Westmore requests the honour of Mrs. Ashford’s company at a ball given in celebration of Lady Catherine Thorne. Friday evening, the 12th of November. Eight o’clock. Bramwell Park.
Daphne was already tearing open her own. “Well.” Daphne looked up from her own invitation, her dark eyes wide. Shetapped the paper against her chin. “Lady Philippa invited me specifically. There’s a note. She says she enjoyed our conversation at the tea.”
Nell stared at the elegant script, her mind racing. He’d invited her after everything, yet after she’d refused him. After he’d walked away from her in the street without a backward glance; and why? To torture her? To make her watch him with another woman?
She should refuse.
“You have to go.” Daphne spoke firmly, reading the protest on Nell’s face. She set her invitation on the counter. “We all do.”
Nell shook her head, her jaw tightening. “I most certainly don’t.”
“If you don’t go, everyone will know why.” Daphne crossed her arms, her expression shifting into one of grim practicality. “They will say you are pining. Jealous. They will say you cannot bear to see him with another woman.”
She was jealous. She was desperately, achingly jealous, but no one needed to know that.
“Edmund could take you.” Daphne’s head tilted to the side as she calculated the social move. “Show everyone you’ve moved on as well.”
Moved on. To what? To whom?
The next day, Edmund called.
“I received an invitation to the Bramwell Park ball.” He stood in the middle of her shop, his hat held respectfully in his hands. His brown eyes were warm and earnest, lacking the stormy fire she had grown used to. “I wondered if you might do me the honor of attending with me.”
She should say no. She should stay far away from Dominic and the disaster waiting to happen.
“Yes.” The word escaped her lips before she could catch it. She smoothed the front of her apron with precise movements, her own response sounding strangely distant, as if spoken by someone else. “I would like that.”
Edmund smiled—warm, safe, and everything she should want. He took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Nell felt nothing. Nothing except a cold, growing dread.
Friday evening arrived like a sentence being carried out.
