Chapter 1 #2
His attention moved over her shop. It dragged across the display cases and the modest counter. It paused at her apron and judged the lot of it lacking.
“Quaint.” He let the word hang as he tapped a gloved finger against the doorframe. He took the room in again. One brow rose in quiet dismissal.
He spoke the word like a verdict, a judge passing sentence on something beneath his notice.
His accent was cultured and aristocratic, dripping with the particular disdain of men who had never wanted for anything.
Nell’s spine stiffened, and her smile turned to glass.
The accent was different, the clothes finer, but she knew that tone — that cold certainty that the world existed to serve him.
Gabriel had worn it too, in cheaper cloth.
He stepped inside properly, shaking rain from his shoulders.
He hadn’t intended to come in, she realized.
He simply wanted shelter from the downpour, and her shop was a convenient, dry place to stand until the weather passed.
He approached the counter with boots that struck the floor.
He moved like a predator, accustomed to rooms parting around him.
He scanned her display, then let his attention slide to her. It paused at her bodice long enough to make the point. Then it moved back to her face, taking its time.
“The rain should pass shortly, sir.” Nell let the words drip with false sweetness while she wiped a spot on the counter that was already clean. “Though you are welcome to purchase something while you wait.”
His eyebrow rose a fraction. “The tarts. Are they fresh?” he asked, flicking his attention to her hands.
“Baked this morning.” She gestured to the display, keeping her movements controlled. “Cranberry. Seed cake. Lemon curd, if your tastes run sweeter.”
He reached past her, coming close enough that she caught the scent of rain, horse, and sandalwood. He picked up a cranberry tart, turning it in his long fingers, inspecting it the way one might a disappointing artifact. He set it down without care, leaving it slightly askew from its fellows.
“I will take six,” he commanded, pulling a leather purse from his coat.
There was no warmth in the order; he placed a gold sovereign on the counter. The coin gleamed against the worn wood. It was far too much for six tarts, a deliberate display of wealth or perhaps a test to see how quickly she would grovel for it.
Nell slid the sovereign back toward him with the tip of her finger. “I don’t keep change for gold, sir. Sixpence will do.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked from the coin to her face. “You are refusing my coin?”
“I am requesting appropriate payment.” She held his stare without flinching, the way she’d learned to hold Gabriel’s eyes in the early days, before she understood that meeting them only made him angrier.
“This is a bakery. It’s not a counting house.” Nell kept her hand extended, her palm unyielding.
A muscle twitched along his face. For a moment, she thought he might argue, or worse, simply leave the sovereign and walk out, forcing her to either keep it or chase after him.
Instead, he reached into his waistcoat and produced a handful of smaller coins.
He counted out sixpence, then dropped them into her palm.
Their fingers brushed. The contact was brief and accidental, yet it felt electric.
Nell pulled her hand back and busied herself wrapping the tarts in brown paper—her pulse quickened, though she refused to examine the reason. She tied the package with string and slid it across the counter.
He took the parcel without a word of thanks and turned toward the door. The rain still hammered against the windows, grey sheets of it turning the street beyond into a blurred watercolour.
Daphne came out from the back room with fresh loaves stacked in her arms. She stopped short when she saw the stranger leaving. “Was there something else you needed, sir?” she asked as she shifted the warm bread against her hip. “We have meat pies fresh from the oven if you’re hungry.”
The man paused at the door. He looked over his shoulder. That cold stare found Nell across the shop.
“I have what I came for,” he said, his attention lingering on Nell for a breath too long before he pulled his hat lower and stepped into the rain.
Then he was gone. The bell jangled behind him like a mocking laugh. Daphne exhaled a long, low breath. “Who was that?” she asked, setting the loaves down on the counter and crossing her arms over her chest.
Nell stared at the door, watching the water pool on the floor where he’d stood. “I have no idea. Some lord who wandered in from the rain.”
“Some lord,” Daphne repeated. “With a face like that and manners like a wet cat.” She tilted her head, studying Nell. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” Nell kept her eyes on the floor and reached for the mop.
“You’re not fine. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Daphne shook her head, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “What did he say to you?”
Nell didn’t answer because her heart was still racing, and it was not the old, familiar fear that Gabriel had trained into her bones.
This was something else, something she didn’t have a name for and didn’t want to examine too closely.
Gabriel’s cruelty had been hidden, sweetness masking poison.
He gave pretty words and charming smiles until the door closed and the mask came off.
But this man, with storm-grey eyes and a tongue sharp enough to cut, wore his disdain openly. There was no mask.
There was something almost honest about it.
Nell shook herself and bent to mop up the water he’d tracked in, for if he returned, she would be ready. She wouldn’t let a stranger unsettle her again.