Chapter 12
Twelve
The carriage arrived at two, just as Lady Philippa had promised.
Nell climbed in first. Daphne followed, then Martha holding Lily’s hand, and finally Oliver, who scrambled up the steps with the coiled energy of a boy trapped indoors too long.
The yellow dress whispered against Nell’s legs.
It was borrowed from Martha and altered to fit her curves, chosen this morning with shaking hands.
She’d told herself she hadn’t worn it for him, but she was lying.
The knowing sat heavy in her chest as the carriage lurched into motion.
“A real estate, Mama!” Lily pressed her face against the window, her breath fogging the glass. “With gardens and everything!”
“Sit properly.” Nell tugged her daughter back onto the seat, smoothing the girl’s pinafore with hands that wanted to shake. “You will smudge the glass, Lily.”
“I don’t care about smudges.” Lily sat, but she kept bouncing, her spectacles sliding down her nose the way they always did when she was excited. “Do you think there will be a lake? Sarah Martin said rich people always have lakes.”
Oliver pressed himself against the opposite window, his dark eyes fixed on the countryside rolling past. “I thought Sarah Martin was a liar.” He muttered the words, though he didn’t pull his gaze from the scenery.
Bramwell Park appeared around a bend in the road, and the carriage went silent.
Golden stone glowed warm in the autumn light.
Ivy climbed the walls in carefully maintained cascades, and the windows caught the sun, throwing it back like scattered coins.
The house rose three stories with wings extending on either side, and gardens swept down toward what was, indeed, a lake glittering silver in the distance.
Lily’s mouth fell open, her spectacles sliding forgotten to the tip of her nose—and Oliver’s studied indifference cracked.
His jaw went slack, though he clamped it shut when he caught Nell watching.
“Blimey.” Daphne breathed the word, so low Nell could scarcely hear it against the rattle of the wheels.
Lady Philippa waited on the front steps, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. She descended as the carriage rolled to a stop, reaching for Nell’s hand before the footman could offer his.
“You came!” Philippa clasped Nell’s fingers between her own, her face creasing into a delighted smile. “I was half afraid you’d send your regrets.”
“I considered it.” Nell stepped onto the gravel drive, acutely aware of how her borrowed dress swished around her ankles and how out of place she must look against the grandeur of the house.
Philippa laughed, a warm, genuine sound that echoed off the stone facade, and linked her arm through Nell’s with the easy intimacy of an old friend. “I like you, Mrs. Ashford. You say what you mean—yet come, all of you. Tea is ready on the terrace, and Cook has outdone herself with the scones.”
The entrance hall swallowed them whole. Marble floors veined with grey stretched in every direction, and portraits of stern-faced Westmores stared down from heavy gilt frames.
A chandelier the size of Nell’s entire kitchen hung overhead, its crystals winking in the light that poured through tall windows.
Nell felt small beneath it. She felt the yellow dress shrink against her skin.
Every coin she’d ever counted and every hour she’d ever worked seemed to press down on her shoulders.
“It’s like a palace!” Lily spun in a slow circle, her neck craned back as she gaped at the chandelier.
“It’s drafty.” Philippa steered them toward a corridor, her hand warm on Nell’s arm. “But it has its charms. Come, the terrace is this way.”
They passed through rooms filled with furniture older than Nell’s grandmother and carpets that had surely cost more than her shop earned in a year. This was where he lived, Nell thought. Where he slept. Where he’d grown from a boy into the complicated man who haunted her dreams.
“Lord Westmore is…?” Nell bit her lip, the question escaping before she could catch it back.
“Around somewhere.” Philippa waved a hand toward the interior of the house, her rings flashing. “He has been impossible all morning. He is snapping at servants and pacing the halls like a caged wolf. I told him to make himself useful or make himself scarce.”
Nell’s pulse kicked hard against her throat.
They emerged onto a back terrace that overlooked the grounds, and Nell stopped breathing.
The gardens spread below them like a painting, manicured lawns swept toward the lake, and ancient oaks cast pools of shadow.
And in the distance, rising dark and mysterious, stood a hedge maze with walls that had to be twelve feet tall.
“It goes on forever!” Lily grabbed Nell’s hand and squeezed hard enough to hurt, her whole body vibrating.
“Is that a lake?” Oliver asked excitedly but then cleared his throat, trying to recover the dignity befitting a boy of nine.
“Thirty acres.” Philippa settled into a chair near the tea service with a contented sigh, smoothing her skirts. “Though I confess I have never walked all of it myself.”
“Can we go see it?” Lily started pulling toward the terrace steps, her eyes fixed on the glittering water.
“After tea.” The voice came from behind them, low and rough and achingly familiar.
Nell’s spine locked straight.
Dominic stepped onto the terrace through a door half hidden by climbing roses.
No cravat today. His collar hung open, showing a triangle of tanned skin at his throat.
His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, baring forearms roped with muscle, and his dark hair looked as though he’d been running his hands through it in frustration.
He stopped a few feet from the group, his hands loose at his sides, and let his eyes move over them one by one. His attention landed on Lily, and something in his face shifted. He took in her spectacles, crooked as always, and the outline of a book pressing through her pocket.
“What is that?” He nodded at her pocket. He skipped the patronizing lilt adults usually reserved for children, speaking as if to an equal.
Lily’s free hand flew to cover the bulge, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “It’s my book, sir.”
“What book?” He took a slow step toward her.
“The Castle of Otranto.” Lily lifted her chin, bracing for the laughter that so often followed the discovery of her reading tastes.
Dominic paused as he surveyed the small girl. “A Gothic story? It’s a bit dark for a Sunday afternoon, is it not?”
His eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Walpole.” He tilted his head, studying her with a look that bordered on genuine respect. “You like being frightened?”
Lily blinked behind her spectacles, clearly thrown by his knowledge of the author. “I like the mystery,” she said and looked into his eyes, trying to gauge whether he was truly interested or merely humoring her. “And the castles.”
“Our library has a first edition of Udolpho.” He jerked his chin toward the house, his focus never leaving her face. “Have you read it?”
“Three times.” Lily’s grip on Nell’s hand tightened until her small fingers ached. Nell could feel the excitement thrumming through her daughter’s body like a live wire.
“You can hold it before you leave.” Dominic adjusted his stance, stating it as an absolute fact rather than a casual offer. The matter was settled. “If you’re careful.”
Lily’s mouth dropped open, her spectacles sliding down her nose unheeded as she looked up at her mother with eyes the size of saucers.
Dominic turned his attention to Oliver, who stood apart with his arms crossed over his narrow chest. The boy was guarding his territory, sizing up this stranger with the suspicion of a sentry. “Do you like to fish?” Dominic’s expression remained neutral as he studied the boy’s rigid posture.
Oliver’s chin jutted forward, his jaw tight. “No,” he muttered, staring back.
“Ever wanted to?” Dominic leaned back, resting one hand on the stone balustrade in a posture of easy unconcern.
Oliver shrugged. He seemed determined to show how little he cared for anything a lord might offer. “I don’t know anyone who fishes. I’ve never gotten the opportunity to try it.”
“The lake holds pike.” Dominic nodded toward the glittering water, his tone remaining strictly matter-of-fact—as though discussing the weather rather than trying to win over a hostile child.
“Nasty brutes, some of them. I once saw one take a man’s bait, rod, and half his dignity in a single strike. ”
Oliver’s eyes flicked toward the lake despite himself. Nell saw a spark of interest flare across his face before he shuttered it away. “So?”
“So nothing.” Dominic matched the boy’s studied indifference with a shrug of his own.
Oliver narrowed his eyes, his feet planted firmly on the terrace. “You don’t have to be nice to us, you know.” His chin lifted, a challenge aimed squarely at the man towering above him. “Just because we’re here doesn’t mean we need minding.”
“Oliver.” Nell’s warning was sharp.
Dominic held up a hand to still her, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. “I am not minding you.” His expression gave nothing away. “I am telling you about the pike. What you do with the information is your own affair.”
Oliver searched his face for mockery or some hidden agenda and found none. Slowly, his arms uncrossed and his shoulders dropped half an inch. He didn’t smile, but the rigid armour of his posture began to crack.
Finally, Dominic turned to Nell.
His eyes dropped to her yellow dress, tracing the line of her shoulders with a heat she could feel on her skin.
They traveled lower, lingering on the curve of her bodice until her breath hitched in her throat.
When he finally looked back up, his expression was a mask of composure, but his eyes burned.
“Mrs. Ashford.” The greeting was a low scrape, rough at the edges as he bowed his head.