“The one with the scar?” Daphne moved to the bread shelf, straightening loaves that were already straight. “What about him?”
“He is Lord Westmore.” Nell’s voice sounded strange in her own ears, thin and hollow. “The viscount. Owner of Bramwell Park.”
Daphne’s face went pale beneath her freckles, her hands freezing mid-reach. “The one I offered meat pies to?” She pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. “Lord above. I spoke to a viscount like he was any common tradesman.”
“We both did.” Nell picked up her cleaning cloth and attacked the counter with vicious, circular strokes. “I practically threw him out.”
Daphne was quiet for a moment, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. “Well, he deserved it.” She paused, her tone wavering. “Did he not?”
“He did.” Nell’s hands were still shaking, and she couldn’t quite convince herself that being right would matter when a viscount decided to take offense.
The bell above the door jangled.
Nell looked up, her shopkeeper’s smile already forming, and felt it die on her face.
He filled the doorway. No rain this time. Just clean boots and a coat that hadn’t been slept in. His hair was neatly combed back from his forehead, and the scar stood out starkly in the bright light, a raised ridge of tissue that pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Daphne sucked in a breath beside her.
He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He closed the door behind him with a soft click and stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, looking at Nell with those iron eyes that gave nothing away.
“Baker,” he spoke the word through clenched teeth, his focus fixed on a point just above her head.
Nell blinked, her hand pausing mid-motion over the counter. “I beg your pardon?”
He cleared his throat, his fingers flexing where they were clasped behind his back. “I don’t know your name. I realized, riding here, that I never asked.” His mouth set in a harder line. “Baker seemed, at best, insufficient.”
Daphne gave Nell a look that said, plain as day,a viscount is in your shop and you have flour on your elbow.She turned back to the counter and busied herself shaping the next batch of loaves, though her hands moved slower than usual and her ears were plainly working harder than her fingers.
Nell felt every bit of it. The smudge on her sleeve. The stray strand of hair escaping her pins. The oldest work dress she owned, the grey one with the patched elbow.
“Mrs. Ashford.” The greeting landed flat, stripped of warmth. She set down her cleaning cloth and folded her hands primly in front of her. “Eleanor Ashford.”
“Mrs. Ashford.” He repeated the name slowly, his attention dropping to the black ribbon at her collar the way it had three days ago. He’d already drawn his conclusion then, she realized. He’d known the moment he first saw it.
“Widowed.” She held his stare despite the frantic hammering of her heart against her ribs. “My lord.”
The title landed between them like a stone dropped into a still pond. His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders stiffened beneath the fine wool of his coat.
“Ah.” His mouth twisted in a gesture that was not quite a smile and not quite a grimace. “Someone has been talking.”
“The village talks, my lord.” Nell lifted her chin, refusing to shrink from his scrutiny. “It’s what villages do.”
“And now we are to have 'my lords'.” He shifted his weight. Disappointment crossed his face before he flattened it to nothing. “How tedious. I had rather enjoyed being treated like a common nuisance.”
“Would you prefer I continue not knowing who you are?” The words escaped before she could catch them, her chin lifting higher in defiance. “I could arrange to forget, if it would make you more comfortable.”
Daphne made a small, strangled sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Nell didn’t dare look away from the man before her.
Lord Westmore didn’t stiffen with offense. Instead, the hard line of his mouth softened by a fraction. The storm behind his eyes quieted, and something softer surfaced.
“I would prefer,” he said slowly, taking a measured step closer to the counter, “that you stop looking at me the way I am about to have you arrested.”
Nell let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. “I did tell you to leave. Rather forcefully. And Irefused your coin. I believe I also implied you were incapable of conducting a simple transaction.”
“You did.” He approached the counter, his boots striking the floor without the predatory weight of their first meeting. “And I deserved it. I was,” he paused, his brow furrowing as he searched for the proper word, “insufferable.”
She hadn’t expected an apology, or anything resembling one, from a man of his station. Her eyebrows rose before she could check the impulse. “You were,” she agreed, allowing herself a small, sharp nod. “Somewhat.”
