Chapter 3 #2
She’d mocked him. She’d refused his coin.
She’d looked him in the eye and told him this was a bakery, not a counting house.
Men like that could destroy women like her with a single word to the right people.
A complaint about her rudeness, a suggestion that her establishment was not fit for decent custom, and she would be ruined.
Everything she’d built, the shop, the lodgings, the fragile safety she’d carved out for herself and the children, all of it could crumble because she’d let her temper get the better of her.
She forced herself to breathe. No. He’d been rude first. Arrogant and dismissive, looking at her shop like it offended him, looking at her like she was merchandise to be assessed and found wanting.
A title didn’t excuse behavior; and a fortune didn’t buy the right to treat people like dirt beneath expensive boots.
But still. She should have curtsied, but she should have recognized quality when it walked through her door. She should have swallowed her pride and been properly deferential, the way women like her were supposed to be deferential to men like him.
The back door swung open. Daphne emerged with flour on her apron, wiping her hands on a rag. “Was that Mrs. Pemberton sniffing about again? I could smell her perfume from the kitchen. What is she scheming now?”
Nell turned away from the counter. “The man from three days ago. The rude one who dripped everywhere.”
“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 I refused 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.”
“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. The tartness 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.
Nell realized 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.