Chapter 3
Three
Dominic Westmore stood at the window of the study at Bramwell Park, watching groundskeepers hack at hedges that had grown wild in his absence. He couldn’t stop thinking about the baker.
Three days had passed. The crumpled tart wrappers littered his desk, six of them, empty—he’d meant to ration them, perhaps one per day.
Instead, he’d eaten two that first night, standing at this very window while rain streaked the glass.
The remaining four had vanished by the second morning, devoured over coffee he barely tasted.
The house pressed around him. He’d paced the halls yesterday like a caged animal, opening doors to rooms shrouded in dust sheets, finding nothing but memories and silence.
He saw the library where his father had taught him to play chess.
He passed the music room where his mother had practiced scales that once echoed through the corridors.
The nursery remained untouched since he’d outgrown it, still holding the wooden soldiers he’d lined up for imaginary battles.
He turned from the window. His reflection caught in the glass, the scar a dark slash against pale skin, and he looked away.
The door opened behind him. Graves entered with the particular silence of a man who had spent thirty years learning not to startle his employers. “Will you be taking luncheon in the dining room today, my lord?” Graves kept his eyes level, his tone neutral.
“I will be riding to the village.” Dominic reached for his coat where it hung by the door, his movements stiff. “Don’t hold supper for me.”
“Very good, my lord.” Graves moved to the side table, retrieving gloves that Dominic hadn’t asked for. “The grey mare has been saddled.”
Dominic paused, his coat half-shrugged onto his shoulders. “I hadn’t told you I was going out,” he noted, his brow furrowing as he met the servant’s eye.
“No, my lord.” Graves held out the gloves, his expression unchanged. “You hadn’t.”
Something loosened in Dominic’s chest. Graves had seen the crumpled tart wrappers littering the study desk, the restless trips down corridors that led nowhere, and drawn whatever quiet conclusion he was entitled to draw.
“Thank you, Graves,” Dominic said, taking the leather gloves and pulling them tight over his knuckles.
“My lord.” Graves inclined his head and stepped back, his hands folded behind him in a posture of perfect patience.
The roads were dry and the air was crisp with the promise of autumn.
Dominic kept the mare to an easy canter, though his blood thrummed with an urgency he refused to examine too closely.
People stopped to stare as he passed: a farmer mending a fence, a woman hanging washing, and two children who gaped until their mother pulled them inside.
He kept his eyes forward, for he was used to being a spectacle.
The village of Cresswell emerged from the trees like something from a painting. It was a collection of thatched roofs and cobblestone streets, with a church spire reaching toward clouds that threatened rain but hadn’t yet delivered.
“Quaint,” he’d called her shop three days ago. He’d meant it as an insult. Now he wished he could pull it back.
He tied the mare outside the haberdashery and walked the rest of the way to The Mill Street Bakery. His heart was beating faster than it should, and his palms were damp inside his gloves. It was ridiculous. She was a shopkeeper and a widow, while this was nothing but a craving for decent pastry.
He pushed open the door.
Nell had been braced for Mrs. Pemberton since half past nine, when she’d spotted the woman’s distinctive purple bonnet bobbing past the haberdashery window.
Mrs. Pemberton never simply walked anywhere.
She processed like a ship under full sail, and her course this morning had clearly been set for The Mill Street Bakery.
The bell jangled at half past ten. Mrs. Pemberton swept through the door with Felicity trailing behind like a pale ghost.
“Mrs. Ashford!” Mrs. Pemberton’s smile showed too many teeth as she tapped her parasol against the floorboards. “How well you look today. Does she not look well, Felicity?”
Felicity murmured something that might have been an agreement as she adjusted her shawl.
“You are too kind, Mrs. Pemberton.” Nell kept her hands busy arranging seed cakes, though they needed no arranging. That particular brightness in Mrs. Pemberton’s eyes meant gossip or scheming, and usually both. “The usual order?”
“Cranberry tarts, yes. A dozen today, I think. We are expecting company this afternoon.” Mrs. Pemberton settled herself against the counter like she owned it, arranging her skirts with practiced grace. “Felicity, dear, go look at those lovely biscuits in the window. Take your time.”
Felicity drifted away without protest, her slippered feet barely making a sound on the wooden floor.
Nell watched her go and felt a familiar pang of sympathy.
The girl was pretty enough, with fair hair and blue eyes, but there was something extinguished about her.
She was like a candle that had been snuffed too many times and had forgotten how to hold a flame.
“Now then.” Mrs. Pemberton leaned close enough that Nell could smell her perfume, something cloying with too much rose. “You must tell me everything.”
Nell reached for the brown paper, keeping her movements steady despite the woman’s prying stare. “Everything about what, Mrs. Pemberton?”
“Oh, don’t play coy with me.” The fan snapped open, fluttering against Mrs. Pemberton’s considerable bosom.
“You’ve heard, of course, that Bramwell Park is occupied?
Lord Westmore has returned. The viscount himself has come back after two years of hiding away like some wounded animal.
” She paused for effect. “And he was seen leaving this very shop three days ago.”
Nell’s stomach dropped. The rude man. The one who had called her shop quaint and dripped rainwater on her clean floor. The one she’d refused the sovereign from and told that the street was behind him. She’d insulted a viscount, yet she’d told a viscount to leave her shop.
She kept her face neutral through sheer force of will, her hands continuing to fold the brown paper into crisp edges. “He came in from the rain, bought some tarts, and left. I did not know who he was. That was the whole of it.”
Mrs. Pemberton pressed a hand to her chest in theatrical delight, her silk skirts rustling.
“You didn’t know who he was? Oh, how marvelous!
How perfectly marvelous! Tell me, what was he like?
Is the scar very dreadful? They say he was beautiful before the war, absolutely beautiful.
One of the most eligible bachelors in England, if you can believe it.
And now,” she made a sharp tsking sound with her tongue, “such a tragedy.”
“It’s a scar, Mrs. Pemberton.” Nell wrapped the tarts with more force than necessary, the twine biting into her thumb. “I didn’t study it closely. I was occupied with him dripping on my floors.”
“But you spoke with him? What did he say? Was he pleasant? Rude?” Mrs. Pemberton’s fan beat faster. “They say his temperament has soured since the injury. That he barely speaks to anyone, even his own family. His poor mother has been beside herself.”
“He bought tarts.” Nell tied the package with string, pulling the knot tight until the paper groaned. “He paid. He left. I am afraid there’s nothing more interesting to report.”
Mrs. Pemberton’s brows lifted slightly, but her smile didn’t falter.
“Such a shame he has become a recluse. A viscount in his prime, unmarried, with a fortune and an estate.” She glanced toward Felicity, who remained motionless by the biscuit display.
“Of course, a man in his condition cannot afford to be particular. Twenty-eight, a fortune, and an estate—and yet the London mamas will not be lining up the way they once did. Not with a face like that. He will need a wife who does not flinch.” Her expression sharpened with calculation as she smoothed her gloves.
“Felicity would suit him perfectly, don’t you think?
So gentle. So accommodating. A man with his challenges would benefit from a wife who knows when to be quiet. ”
Nell bit back the response that wanted to escape, her jaw tightening as she looked at the young girl. “I am sure Miss Pemberton has many fine qualities.”
“You must tell me if he returns.” Mrs. Pemberton reached for the package, her gloved fingers brushing Nell’s with a lingering pressure.
“Anything he says, anything he seems to want, any indication of his preferences. A mother must be prepared, you understand. One doesn’t simply wait for opportunity to knock, one must be standing at the door with refreshments ready. ”
“I doubt he will return.” Nell slid the tarts across the counter, meeting Mrs. Pemberton’s eyes with a pleasant smile that didn’t reach her own. “I was not particularly welcoming.”
Mrs. Pemberton’s laugh was sharp and knowing as she adjusted her shawl.
“All the more reason he might. Difficult men don’t want simpering, Mrs. Ashford.
They want someone who treats them like they are normal.
” She collected her package, tucking it under her arm like a prize.
“Come along, Felicity. We’ve taken enough of Mrs. Ashford’s time. ”
They left in a rustle of silk and a lingering cloud of rose perfume. Nell stood behind her counter, blood drumming against her ribs, replaying every word she’d said to a viscount three days ago.