Martha had sent her regrets that afternoon—a headache that had settled behind her eyes and refused to shift, leaving her pale and apologetic in the doorway of her room. She would stay with the children, she insisted, waving away Nell’s offer to remain home with a firmness that brooked no argument. She pinned Nell’s hair up in loose curls with a green ribbon before retreating to bed, her parting gift one last tug on a stubborn curl and a quiet “you look lovely“ murmured through the pain.
Nell wore the same green silk dress she’d worn to the harvest festival—the one Dominic had seen her in before everything fell apart. She tried not to think about that as she smoothed the fabric over her hips. Daphne appeared in a deep burgundy gown borrowed from a cousin, her cheeks flushed with excitement she wasn’t bothering to hide.
Edmund’s carriage arrived precisely at half past seven. He handed both women down with the practised ease of a man who had been raised to mind his manners, looking at Nell’s dress with warm appreciation as he tucked her hand into the crook ofhis arm. Daphne walked on his other side, her burgundy skirts rustling against the gravel drive.
Bramwell Park blazed with light. Every window glowed, music drifted across the dark gardens, and carriages lined the drive. It looked like something from a fairy tale, a palace of golden stone and glittering glass.
Nell’s stomach turned at the sight of it. She squeezed Edmund’s arm, seeking an anchor in the storm of her own making.
She’d been here only a week ago. She’d been in the maze, but she’d been in his arms.
Nell forced the memory aside, her breath catching. The entrance hall was crowded with guests. They were the finest families in the county, their jewels sparkling under the chandeliers and their voices carrying through the vast marble space. Nell felt their eyes on her immediately. She felt the whispers starting like a physical weight and felt herself shrinking beneath the cold pressure of their scrutiny.
She didn’t belong here. She was a baker among lords and ladies. She was a woman with flour permanently embedded under her fingernails, merely pretending she had any right to walk these hallowed halls.
Philippa intercepted them near the entrance to the ballroom. Her silver hair gleamed beneath a diamond tiara, and her smile remained gracious as she greeted each guest in turn.
“Mrs. Ashford, how lovely you could join us.” Philippa clasped Nell’s hands briefly. “And Miss Wells. I am so pleased. You must find me later to discuss that cardamom recipe you mentioned at tea.”
“Lady Philippa.” Daphne dropped a deep, respectful curtsey, her cheeks flushing a bright pink with pleasure.
Philippa turned to Edmund with equal warmth, her silk skirts rustling. “Dr. Hartley. How good of you to escort our village ladies this evening. The refreshments are just through there, and I believe the first dance has already begun.”
The ballroom took Nell’s breath away. Chandeliers dripped with crystals that fractured the light into a thousand diamonds. A string quartet played in the corner, and couples were already swirling across the polished floor. The walls were lined with hothouse flowers, their perfume heavy and cloying in the warm air. Servants moved through the crowd with silver trays of champagne, their movements silent and precise.
She saw him immediately.
Dominic stood near the far wall. He was devastatingly handsome in black evening clothes that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean waist. His dark hair was combed back from his face, and he was smiling—and he was actually smiling at something the woman beside him had said.
Lady Catherine.
Nell’s stomach turned to ice. The woman was young, younger than Nell by at least ten years, with golden hair piled artfully atop her head. She’d a face that belonged on a porcelain doll—yet she was beautiful in that effortless way that Nell had never been. She was all delicate features and graceful lines, and her hand rested on Dominic’s arm with familiarity.
“Shall we dance?” Edmund’s voice came from somewhere far away. He placed a warm, steadying hand on her elbow.
Nell tore her gaze away from the couple across the room, her throat feeling as though it were constricted by wire. “Yes. Please.”
Anything would be better than watching them.
They joined the other couples on the floor. Edmund led her through the steps with steady competence. He was a good dancer. He was reliable and predictable. She barely felt hishands on her waist or his fingers wrapped around hers as they moved in time to the music.
She was watching Dominic. She watched him smile at Lady Catherine. She watched him lean close to hear something the girl said, his dark head bowing toward her golden one. She watched his hand cover hers where it rested on his arm.
He hadn’t looked at Nell once since she’d arrived.
Good,she told herself, forcing her gaze back to Edmund’s kind, familiar face.This is for the best.
The dance ended, and Edmund excused himself to fetch her a glass of lemonade with a polite bow. Nell found a spot near the potted palms where she could stand without being too conspicuous. Her fan fluttered against the heat of the crowded room, the silk ribs clicking with every movement.
The next dance began, and she watched from the sidelines.
Dominic and Lady Catherine took the floor together, moving through the steps with practiced grace. His hand rested on the small of her back. It was the exact spot where it had rested on Nell’s back in the maze. Lady Catherine tipped her golden head back and laughed at something he whispered.
Nell’s fan snapped shut in her grip with a sharp, wooden crack.
She was jealous. The realization hit her like a blow to the stomach. It stole her breath and made her hands shake against the silk of her skirts. She was jealous of this beautiful young woman with her perfect golden curls and her porcelain skin. She was jealous of every smile he gave her, every word he spoke, and every moment of attention that should have been…
Should have been what? Nell had refused him. She’d told him no. She’d sent him away. She had no right to be jealous; she had no claim on him whatsoever.
