Chapter 9
Nine
Dominic had expected tedium. He’d expected to stand at the edge of the party and count the minutes until he could escape, enduring the sidelong glances that followed him everywhere.
He hadn’t expected her.
She wore a pale blue dress, modest but becoming, with curls escaping at her temples. She stood beside a man he didn’t recognize, her hand resting on the stranger’s arm with an ease that made a dangerous edge twist in Dominic’s chest.
“Dominic.” His aunt's words broke into his thoughts, her fan snapping shut with a rhythmic click. “You are staring.”
He tore his attention away, but not quickly enough. Philippa followed his line of sight, studying the woman in blue with open curiosity.
“The woman in blue?” Philippa asked, tilting her head.
He didn’t answer; his throat felt too tight, his jaw locked against the words he couldn’t afford to say.
“She is lovely.” Philippa’s focus remained on the group, her head tilting with a clinical interest. “Not in the fashionable way, perhaps, but there’s something about her. Spirit.”
“Aunt, don’t—” Dominic started.
“Who is she?” Philippa was already in motion, her silk skirts hissing against the grass. “Come. Introduce me.”
“No.” The word snapped out like a whip, and Dominic stepped forward to intercept her. “She is no one. Just a… villager.”
Philippa’s eyebrow rose, her features sharpening into a look of pure, aristocratic skepticism. “A villager who has made you forget how to breathe?”
“Aunt, please.” He caught her arm, his shoulders hunching as he leaned in close. “Don’t.”
She studied his face and read straight through him. Whatever she saw there softened her expression. “This is why you have not been sleeping.”
He could not deny it. He stayed rooted to the spot and kept his focus on the distant treeline.
“Then I definitely need to meet her.” Philippa patted his hand in a firm rhythm. “Come along, nephew.”
“I cannot—” The words came out rough. He dropped his chin and looked at the dirt by his boots. “I said something at the festival. Something I should not have.”
Philippa paused. Her hand went still on his arm. “What did you say?”
He kept looking at the grass. “I called her nothing of consequence. I thought it would protect her reputation, but she… I think she heard.”
Philippa shut her eyes. A quiet sigh slipped out. “Oh, Dominic.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“You have your father’s talent for cruelty when you are afraid.” The words landed like a blow.
Dominic bowed his head. “I know.”
“Then you will face it.” Philippa linked her arm through his, her grip unyielding. “Come.”
Nell saw them approaching before Daphne did.
The silver-haired woman walked with purpose, her stride eating up the distance.
Behind her, Westmore followed like a man being led to the gallows.
Nell’s spine went rigid, and she tucked her chin high.
She wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flee. She just looked in the other direction.
Daphne’s head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. She recognized the viscount. “Nell.” Daphne whispered, her fingers digging into the fabric of her reticule. “He’s here!”
“Yes.” Nell kept her stare fixed ahead. “Let him come.”
Daphne’s jaw set. Hartley noticed the shift, his eyes moving between the women and the approaching pair, but he said nothing.
The silver-haired woman reached them first, her smile warm and her eyes missing nothing. “Forgive the intrusion. I am Lady Philippa Westmore.” She adjusted her gloves with brisk tugs. “My nephew has been terribly remiss in introducing me to anyone.”
Hartley stepped forward with a polite bow. “Lady Philippa. A pleasure. Dr. Hartley. I have a practice in the village.”
“A physician!” Philippa tapped her chin with her folded fan. “How wonderful. We are in dire need of good doctors in Hampshire.”
“And may I present Mrs. Ashford.” Hartley gestured toward Nell. “She owns the bakery in the village. And Miss Daphne Wells, her dear friend and assistant.”
Nell curtsied and kept her focus on Philippa. “Lady Philippa. An honour.”
Philippa regarded her with open curiosity. “Mrs. Ashford. What a pleasure. And Miss Wells.”
Daphne dipped into a stiff curtsy. Her lips pressed thin. “My lady.”
“And this is my nephew.” Philippa gestured behind her. “Lord Westmore.”
Dominic stepped forward. His face held a careful mask. Tension touched his mouth. “Mrs. Ashford. Miss Wells.”
Daphne did not curtsy. She watched him like a flint striking stone. Confusion crossed his brow before he turned to the doctor.
“Dr. Hartley.” The words came tight. “How do you know Mrs. Ashford?”
“I am physician to Mrs. Ashford’s daughter.” Hartley’s expression did not shift, yet his attention grew intent as he moved closer to Nell.
Philippa’s attention swung to Nell, concern replacing pleasantry. “Your daughter is unwell?”
“My Lily has asthma, my lady.” Nell smoothed the front of her skirt. “The damp weather troubles her lungs.”
“Poor lamb.” Philippa pressed a gloved hand to her collarbone. “Is she improving?”
“She is.” Nell allowed herself a grateful glance toward Hartley. “Dr. Hartley has been very attentive.”
Philippa regarded the two of them—the doctor standing close, his hand hovering at Nell’s elbow—and something knowing flickered across her face. She tucked it away with practised ease.
Dominic stood rigid through the exchange, watching Nell with an intensity that bordered on indecent. Philippa glanced at him, one eyebrow arching in silent prompt.
He cleared his throat. “Her sweets are exceptional.” The words came out rough, scraped raw. “The best in the county.”
The praise landed heavy in the silence. He wouldn’t meet Nell’s eyes. Philippa’s gaze darted between the two of them, her fan tapping once against her palm.
“High praise,” she murmured. “My nephew rarely compliments anything.”
“Mrs. Ashford.” Dominic took a half-step forward, his voice strained. “I wondered if I might —”
“Dr. Hartley.” Nell cut across him, turning to the doctor with a brightness sharp enough to draw blood. “I’ve heard there is a viewing platform by the lake. I should very much like to see it.”
Hartley read the desperation in her shoulders. “Of course.” He offered his arm. “The view is quite fine this time of year.”
“Miss Wells.” Hartley turned to Daphne. “Would you care to join us?”
Daphne looked at Dominic, then Philippa. “Actually, I think I shall stay. Lady Philippa, would you mind terribly if I walked with you?”
“I would be delighted, Miss Wells.” Philippa offered her arm.
Nell squeezed Daphne’s hand once—gratitude and warning compressed into a single press of fingers—then took Hartley’s arm and did not look back.
Dominic watched her hand resting on another man’s sleeve. He watched her straight, proud back disappear down the gravel path. His gloves creaked where his fists tightened.
He should let her go. She’d made herself clear.
His feet moved anyway, drawn toward the lake at a distance he couldn’t close and couldn’t widen. Fools never knew when to stay away.
The path to the lake wound through manicured hedges and beneath ancient oaks with leaves just beginning to turn gold.
Hartley walked beside her in comfortable silence, his presence steady and undemanding.
“Thank you.” Nell’s voice came out shakier than she’d intended, and she reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “For getting me away.”
“You seemed like you needed an exit.” His smile was gentle, and he adjusted his pace to match her smaller steps. “I have found that garden parties often require strategic retreats.”
The viewing platform jutted out over the lake, a wooden structure weathered by the elements.
A few other guests stood at the far end, admiring the swans that drifted across the glassy surface.
Nell stepped onto the platform, the boards creaking beneath her feet, though she moved to the railing, wrapping her fingers around the worn wood.
“It’s beautiful.” The tension in her shoulders began to unwind in the peaceful quiet.
Hartley joined her at the railing, standing close enough to offer warmth but not so close as to crowd her. “I come here sometimes when I need to think.”
“What do you think about?” She turned to look at him, her curiosity piqued by his somber tone.
His smile turned wistful, and he looked out at the water. “The past, mostly. Paths not taken.”
“I think about those things too.” She looked down at her reflection in the shallows, understanding him better than he knew.
“Do you ever wonder what your life might have been?” He asked it quietly, his brown eyes raking over her face. “If you had made different choices?”
Every day, she thought. But she merely smoothed the lace at her wrist. “Sometimes. But I have my children and my shop. I wouldn’t trade those.”
“No.” His features softened, and his hand drifted a fraction closer to hers on the rail. “I don’t suppose you would.”
For a moment, Nell let herself believe this quiet companionship could be enough.
Then, a sharp crack splintered the air. The boards beneath Hartley’s feet gave way without warning.
He went down with a shout of surprise, plunging into the lake in a violent crash of churning water.
Nell stumbled backward as the platform began to crumble, the boards beneath her own feet groaning as they tilted toward the dark gap.
Suddenly, strong arms caught her from behind.
She was yanked back from the collapsing edge and pulled hard against a solid chest. She landed on safe ground, the gravel path solid beneath her shoes.
His arms wrapped around her, holding her so tight she could feel his heart hammering against her spine.
His rapid breath stirred the hair at her temple as he gasped for air.