Still, the happiness scared her.
She went back to kneading dough, letting the familiar rhythm settle her nerves.
Press, fold, turn. Press, fold, turn.
The dough felt warm and alive under her palms, the yeast doing its quiet work. This, at least, she understood—yet this, at least, she could control.
The door to the back room creaked open.
Lily’s head appeared, dark curls escaping her braid, her eyes bright with the particular gleam she wore when she was about to say something she thought was clever. Oliver followed a moment later, his whittling knife tucked into his belt and his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant he was paying very close attention to something.
“Mama is humming.” Lily leaned toward her brother, her stage-whisper carrying easily across the room. She pressed one hand to her chest in mock horror, her eyes wide and mischievous. “Again.”
“She has been doing that all week.” Oliver rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he leaned against the doorframe. “It’s getting embarrassing.”
“I can hear you both.” Nell didn’t look up from her dough, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. “You are not as subtle as you think.”
Lily bounced over to the counter, propping her chin in her hands and watching Nell work with that intense, curious focus she’d possessed since she was a baby. The girl had never learned to look at anything halfway. She gave everything the full force of her attention, whether it was a book, a butterfly, or her mother’s suspicious good mood.
“Is it because of Lord Westmore?” Lily asked the question innocently enough, but her eyes were too sharp for nine years old. “Do you like him?”
Nell’s hands stuttered on the dough. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Lord Westmore and I are friends.” Nell smoothed the top of the dough, but the word felt inadequate, almost laughably so.
What else could she say? She couldn’t tell her nine-year-old children that she’d spent the past week sneaking to Bramwell Park after they fell asleep. She couldn’t admit she’d slept in his bed more nights than her own, or that she’d told him she loved him and neither of them had taken it back since.
Oliver made a sound that might have been a cough or a snort.
“Friends.” Lily drew the word out like taffy, her grin spreading. “Is that why you were humming?”
“I hum sometimes.” Nell looked at the flour on her hands, avoiding their gaze.
“No, you don’t.” Oliver crossed his arms, leaning against the wood with an air of patient skepticism that made him look far too much like a tiny adult. “You never hum. You barely even smile. And now you are doing both. All the time.”
“Since Lord Westmore.” Lily added helpfully, tapping her fingers on the countertop.
Nell set down her dough. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face her children with what she hoped was a reasonable expression and not the flustered guilt she felt written across her face.
“Lord Westmore is...” She paused, trying again. “He has been… We’ve become...”
“Youdolike him.” Lily’s smile was so wide it threatened to split her face. “Youreally,reallylike him.”
“I...” Nell began, but she was interrupted.
The shop bell jangled.
Nell’s head snapped toward the sound with embarrassing speed. And there he was. Dominic filled the doorway as he always did, his broad shoulders blocking the morning light and his dark hair still slightly damp from a morning bath. The bruise at his temple had faded to a sickly yellow-green, and he moved a little stiffly still, but his eyes were clear and alert as they fixed on her.
A week. They had enjoyed a week together, and she still was not used to the way he looked at her. It was like she were something rare, something he couldn’t quite believe was real.
“Lord Westmore.” Nell steadied herself against the counter, her heart hammering. “You are supposed to be resting.”
“I have rested enough.” He stepped inside, not bothering with the pretense of browsing the tarts. His eyes swept past the display cases and the bread cooling on the racks, seeing nothing but her. “I have business to attend to.”
“Business.” She raised an eyebrow, trying to find her composure. “In my bakery.”
“Important business.” He nodded toward the doorway where her children still stood, watching this exchange with fascination. “Can I meet the children?”
