Chapter 10
Ten
Flour dust hung in the grey light of the kitchen like snow that refused to settle. Nell punched the dough down hard, folded it over, punched again. Her shoulders burned. Her fingers ached. Good. Pain kept the mind where it belonged—on the work, the shop, the next loaf.
Not on the lake.
She could survive the humiliation. Being fished out like a drowned cat while half the county gawked—fine. She’d fold that away into the locked box where she kept every other bruise life had handed her.
What she couldn’t fold away was the moment before.
His chest against her back. His arms wrapped around her as though she were something worth saving. And then—the press of him. Hard and unmistakable against her hip. His body telling a story his mouth had spent weeks denying.
She slammed the dough against the worktable.
It meant nothing. Men were simple creatures. Warmth and softness, any woman’s body pressed close enough—of course he’d responded. Biology. Instinct. Nothing more.
Nell.
Her name, torn from his throat when she’d fallen. Not Mrs. Ashford. Not the baker. Nell. Like it had cost him something to say it. Like he couldn’t help himself.
The shop was empty, the morning rush long faded. Daphne was at the vicarage. The children were at Mr. Willoughby’s farm. She was alone with the yeast and the sugar and the silence, and the silence was the worst of it.
The front door opened, the bell chiming overhead.
Her hands stilled in the dough.
Dr. Hartley stood in the doorway with his medical bag in hand. “Mrs. Ashford. I wanted to check on you,” he said with a quiet, reassuring smile already forming as he closed the door behind him.
Relief flooded through her immediately. She wiped her floury hands on her apron, feeling foolish for her racing heart. “Dr. Hartley. You are back from your rounds early.”
“I had a cancellation.” He stepped inside, removing his hat and setting it carefully on the counter. “And I confess I have been worried. You took quite a chill at the lake. I wanted to see for myself that you are recovered.”
“I am perfectly well.” She gestured toward the kitchen with a slight wave of her hand. “Truly. Would you like some tea?”
“I would like that very much.” He followed her into the kitchen, settling into a chair at the scarred worktable while she set the kettle over the flame. “The children are at the Willoughbys’ today?” He asked, watching her move about the small space.
“Yes.” Nell set out two cups of plain white china, noting the small chip on one rim as she placed them on the table. “They like Mr. Willoughby’s farm.”
“Good.” His smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he rested his hands on the table. “Children need days like that. Freedom.”
“They are everything to me.” She said as she sat across from him. “Everything I do is for them.”
“I know.” His features softened as he leaned forward slightly, his attention narrowing onto her. “I see it. The way you’ve built this life for them. The sacrifices you’ve made.”
Something in his expression caught her. It was an understanding that went deeper than simple observation. “You speak the way you know something of sacrifice,” she said carefully, watching his face for a reaction.
He remained quiet for a moment, staring into the empty cup before him. Then he drew a long breath and smoothed his cravat with a steady hand. “I was engaged once.”
Nell went still, her fingers tightening on her cup. He’d never mentioned a fiancée, and she had only heard about her from Mrs. Pemberton’s gossip.
“Jasmine.” He spoke the name as if it still carried a physical weight, his gaze dropping to the scarred wood of the table.
“We were engaged for four years. I thought we were happy. I thought we would finally marry once I had established my practice and could give her the life she deserved.” He paused, his jaw tightening into a hard, pained line. “I thought wrong.”
“What happened?” Nell leaned closer, her cup forgotten between her palms.
“She left.” His expression remained a carefully maintained mask. “It’s been almost eight months. She went with a French count who promised her Paris. Adventure. A life more exciting than the one I could provide.”
“I am sorry.” Nell reached out like to touch his hand, then hesitated, her fingers fluttering before coming to rest on the table instead. “The words feel inadequate.”
“She said I was too dull for her.” A ghost of a bitter smile flickered across his face as he looked up. “Too steady. Too predictable. She wanted passion and romance, and I gave her security and routine. Four years of waiting, and in the end, I was not enough.”
Nell’s throat tightened. She recognized this wound; it was the pain of being made to feel insufficient, of giving everything only to be told it was not what was desired.
“You are not dull.” She squared her shoulders, meeting his eyes without blinking.
“You are kind and steady. Those are not flaws, Dr. Hartley.”
He looked up at her, his features softening with surprised gratitude.
“Some people don’t know how to value what they have until it’s gone.” Nell smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“No.” Something shifted in his expression, a sudden gravity settling over him. “They don’t.”
The kettle began to whistle, breaking the silence. Nell rose to tend to it, pouring the steaming water over the tea leaves, grateful for the task.
She poured the tea in the cups and settled. “Here you go, Mr. Hartley.”
“Edmund.” He traced the grain of the wood with a thumb, his posture relaxing into a new kind of intimacy. “Please. Call me Edmund.”
“Edmund.” Nell tested the name, her fingers tightening around the handle of her cup the way to steady herself. It felt strange and dangerously intimate. “Then you must call me Nell.”
His smile reached his eyes this time, softening the weary lines of his face. “Nell.” He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His palm was warm and entirely undemanding.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let herself lean into the comfort of the gesture, exhaling a breath she’d held for three days. It was simple. It was safe.
The front door opened, the bell clattering against the glass. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the shop floor, eating up the distance between the entrance and the kitchen doorway. Nell’s blood went cold. She knew those footsteps.
Lord Westmore filled the doorframe, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the shop. His misty eyes swept the scene, taking in the tea, the quiet intimacy, and Edmund’s hand still covering hers. A shadow cut across his face, dark and dangerous.
Nell snatched her hand back, her pulse spiking. She felt a hot flush of guilt, which immediately turned to fury, though she had nothing to be ashamed of.
“Lord Westmore.” Edmund rose smoothly, offering a polite, professional nod. “Good morning to you.”
Dominic didn’t look at him. His eyes remained fixed on Nell, tracing the colour in her cheeks and the teacups that spoke of a shared morning. “I appear to be interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Edmund’s expression remained unruffled as he gathered his gloves. “I was just checking on Mrs. Ashford after her ordeal at the lake.”
“How… Thorough of you.” Dominic’s attention finally shifted to Edmund, assessing and overtly hostile.
The two men regarded each other across the small kitchen. Hartley stood calm, his hands relaxed at his sides, while Westmore remained coiled, a spring of tension in every line of his body.
Edmund turned back to Nell, his expression warming despite the crackling atmosphere. “I should be going. I have patients to see.”
“Of course.” Nell rose, grateful for his presence even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Thank you for checking on me, Edmund.”
“It was my pleasure.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a brief, proper kiss to her knuckles. “Nell.”
He said her name deliberately, his eyes sliding to Westmore to ensure the familiarity was noted. A stubborn tension pulled at Dominic’s face, his gloved hands curling into fists.
“Edmund,” Nell managed, offering a small dip of a curtsy with a composure that belied the frantic thrum of her pulse.
Edmund gathered his medical bag and crossed to the doorway, pausing just inches from Dominic. “I shall call again soon.”
“I should like that.” Nell lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering.
He nodded politely to the viscount. “Lord Westmore.”
Dominic remained silent, watching the doctor depart with eyes like flint. The front door opened and closed, the bell ringing out a final, lonely note as Edmund’s footsteps faded down the street.
Nell turned back to the worktable and began clearing the tea things, needing the distraction of labor. The china clinked sharply as she stacked the cups on a tray.
“Edmund.” Dominic spat the name like a curse. “You call him Edmund now.”
“We are friends.” She kept her back to him, focusing on the dregs of tea. “Friends use Christian names.”
“Friends.” He paced a short line near the hearth, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. “How pleasant for you both.”
“Was there something you needed, my lord?” She kept her expression flat, though her hands wouldn’t stay steady.
“You know why I am here.” His eyes dropped to her hands, tracking the slight tremor in her fingers.
“I am afraid I don’t.” She picked up the tray and turned from him, desperate for distance. “Excuse me. I have work to attend to.”
She walked toward the back storeroom, that cramped space crammed with flour sacks and sugar barrels where the air always sat thick and warm. His footsteps followed, unhurried and certain, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight.
“Since the lake, I haven’t had a single night’s peace.” He spoke from directly behind her, close enough that his breath stirred the loose hairs at her nape. “Not one.”