“Somewhat.” The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a budding smile. “You are very generous, Mrs. Ashford.”
“I am very practical.” She gestured toward the display case with one flour-dusted hand. “Insulting customers is bad for business. Even customers who deserve it.”
He moved closer to the counter, close enough that she could catch the scent of leather, rain-washed horse, and the warm, woody depth of sandalwood. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Your tarts, however,” he said, nodding toward the glass display, “were not insufferable. They were exceptional.” He spoke simply, without flattery, his ashen eyes meeting hers directly. “The cranberry especially.”
Warmth crept up Nell’s neck despite her efforts to remain cool. She busied her hands with straightening a sheet of paper she’d already adjusted twice. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I found them even tastier the second morning.” He turned his eyes to the tarts, and something in his posture eased as his hands unclenched at his sides. “Richer, somehow. I thought perhaps I was imagining it.”
“You were not.” She reached for a fresh sheet of brown paper, grateful for the task. “The flavor develops overnight. Thetartness mellows and allows the butter to come through. Most people eat them too quickly to notice.”
“I ate most of them too quickly as well.” He glanced at her, a rueful twist to his mouth.
She smiled. It was a real smile, and she was surprised by the way it tugged pleasantly at her cheeks. “Then you’ve a discerning palate, my lord.”
“I have a weakness for good food.” He straightened, reaching into his waistcoat with a soft rustle of silk. “Four cranberry tarts. If you’ve them.”
“I do.” She turned to the case and selected four of the best ones, their golden crusts glistening under the afternoon sun.
He produced the coins, the correct amount this time, and placed them on the counter with a soft clink. Nell swept them into her palm and turned to wrap the pastry, hyperaware of him watching her back. She folded the paper and tied the string in a neat, firm bow.
She turned back and held the package out to him. He took it. Their hands hovered over the brown paper for a beat. His fingers brushed the edge where hers had been. He did not touch her, yet he stood close enough that she felt his warmth.
“I will return, Mrs. Ashford.” He tucked the package under his arm and kept his focus on her. “Your establishment may be quaint, but the proprietor is...” He paused and tilted his head as if weighing a grave question. “Tolerable.”
She snorted. The sound slipped out before she could stop it. Her hand flew to her mouth. “High praise indeed, my lord.”
“I am not known for my effusiveness.” Warmth touched his face. The hard line of his mouth curved into a real smile. “Good day, Mrs. Ashford.”
He walked toward the door at an easy pace. He stopped at the threshold with his hand on the latch and glanced back. The afternoon light struck his scar and cast it in sharp relief. Nellrealized she no longer saw the damage. She saw only the force in him and a mouth that could soften toward kindness.
“Dominic,” he said, the words dropping to a low, quiet register. “My name is Dominic.”
She didn’t use it. The name sat on her tongue and she tucked it away in her mind for safety.
“Good day, Lord Westmore.” She inclined her head, her hands folded before her.
He inclined his head in return, opened the door with a jangle of the bell, and stepped out. The door swung shut—yet Nell pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart racing.
“Did a viscount just flirt with you?” Daphne’s voice came from beside her, sounding both strangled and incredulous.
Nell didn’t answer. She moved to the window and watched as Dominic untied his horse and swung into the saddle with easy grace. She watched him turn the mare toward Bramwell Park until he disappeared around the corner.
This is dangerous, she thought, her reflection watching her from the glass. A viscount and a baker. A man with a fortune and a woman with a past that could swallow her whole if anyone looked too closely. There was no sense in it, only trouble.
But she was smiling anyway, and she couldn’t seem to stop.
Four
The green silk had been in Nell’s wardrobe for seventeen years, wrapped in muslin to protect it from dust, moths, and time. She stood before the open wardrobe now, running her fingers over the fabric through its protective covering. French silk, her mother had told her once. It had been purchased before the war with France made such luxuries impossible to find. Her mother had worn it the night she met Nell’s father at a country dance in Derbyshire, an evening not unlike the one planned for the village green tonight.
Something beautiful should go with you,her mother had whispered, pressing the dress into Nell’s hands the night she’d run away with Gabriel. Even if everything else about this is wrong.
Nell hadn’t worn it since. She hadn’t dared. Beautiful things invited attention, and attention invited pain. She’d learned that lesson well in the years that followed.
A knock sounded at her bedroom door. Martha entered without waiting for an invitation, her sewing basket tucked under one arm. “You are still staring at it.” She crossed the small room and pulled the muslin away with brisk movements. “Staring won’t make it fit. Let us see what we are working with.”
