Chapter 18
Eighteen
Five days passed.
They were five days of bread and customers and smiles that didn’t reach her eyes. They were five days of lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling as his words drifted through the shadows, refusing to fade. I love you.
Nell moved through her routine like a ghost. She rose before dawn, kneading dough until her arms ached, serving customers with the mechanical efficiency of one who had stopped feeling anything at all.
She was hollow. She was a shell of a woman going through the motions of a life she no longer recognized.
She’d made the right choice. She told herself that every morning when she woke and every night when she couldn’t sleep. It was the sensible choice. It was the choice that would protect her children, her reputation, and her fragile, hard-won independence.
Edmund called twice during those five days.
Once he brought her a book he thought she might enjoy, and once he invited her to walk with him along the river.
She was pleasant to him. She was even warm.
She gave him a hope she didn’t feel, because it was easier than explaining the truth.
She couldn’t feel anything anymore. The numbness had spread through her like frost, leaving her frozen from the inside out.
Market day dawned grey and damp, matching her mood. Nell pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and made her way through the village to the grocer’s. Her basket was over her arm, and her mind was drifting somewhere far away.
“Lord Westmore has a guest at Bramwell Park.” Mrs. Pemberton savoured each word like a sweet on her tongue, leaning closer until Nell could smell her heavy lavender water.
“A lady. Lady Catherine Thorne. She arrived three days ago. They were seen riding together through the village yesterday morning. Very attentive, from what I hear.”
It hadn’t even been a week since he proposed to her, since he told her he loved her.
Nell kept her face carefully blank, though her heart buckled. She adjusted the clasp of her cloak with numb fingers. “How nice for him.”
“They took tea at the inn afterwards.” Mrs. Pemberton continued her assault. “Sat by the window where everyone could see. Laughing together. Such a handsome couple.”
Tea at the inn. By the window. Where everyone could see. As if he wanted the village to watch.
“There’s to be a ball.” Mrs. Pemberton delivered the final blow with evident relish, her hand pressing to her chest in a gesture of mock excitement. “Friday evening. In Lady Catherine’s honour. All the best families have been invited.”
A ball.
His feelings had certainly faded with a dizzying speed, Nell thought bitterly. One refusal and he’d moved on to the next woman the way Nell had never existed. It was like he’d never knelt before her in that hidden alcove and touched her as if she was the most precious thing in the world.
She’d been right about him. He was infatuated. Nothing more. Then why did it feel like her heart was being crushed beneath a heavy weight?
“Excuse me.” Nell gathered her basket and stepped around Mrs. Pemberton, her spine straight and her head held high. “I have a shop to run.”
She walked away before the woman could utter another word. Her footsteps remained steady on the cobblestones, her expression giving nothing away.
She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not ever. Not over a man who had forgotten her in less than a week. She'd made the right choice, and he'd proven it.
So why did she want to scream?
She rounded the corner near the butcher’s shop and walked straight into something solid, warm, and devastatingly familiar.
Dominic.
Her basket dropped from numb fingers. Apples rolled across the cobblestones, bright red against the grey stone.
She stumbled back. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She froze as she took him in. He looked different.
He looked rested. He looked calm. Clarity sat in him.
His jaw sat loose. His scarred face showed none of the ruin she expected.
He wore a simple coat and no hat. His dark hair sat rough from the wind.
He regarded her like a stranger he meant to acknowledge with manners.
Where was the wrecked man who swore he loved her? Where was the desperation? Where was the intensity? Where was the need?
“Mrs. Ashford.” He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back.
She matched him. Her chin lifted. Her hands clenched at her sides. “Lord Westmore.”
Neither moved. The apples kept rolling across the stones until one stopped at the toe of his boot.
“I hear congratulations are in order.” The words escaped before she could stop them. They sounded like broken glass.
His lids lowered. A small muscle jumped in his jaw. “Congratulations?”
“Lady Catherine.” She practically spat the name, her arms winding tightly over her chest as though to hold herself together. “A ball in her honor. How quickly you’ve moved on.”
A shadow passed across his face—a brief shadow of surprise, or perhaps hurt—but he didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t crowd her against the wall the way she expected, though he didn’t demand that she listen.
“Lady Catherine is—” He started to speak, but his gaze drifted toward the horizon, his expression carefully blank.
“I don’t want to hear it.” She cut him off, dropping to her knees to gather the scattered fruit. Her hands trembled so violently the apples thudded against the wicker of the basket. “I don’t need explanations. You are free to court whomever you please.”
“Nell.” The name was a low, ragged plea, a crack finally appearing in his careful facade as he took a half-step toward her.
“Mrs. Ashford.” She corrected him, the syllables sharp and biting. She straightened her back and clutched her basket, eyes flashing. “We should maintain propriety.”
He fell silent, studying her face. The face that always seemed to see too much. She waited for the anger. The old Dominic would have demanded her attention. He would have refused to let her walk away
He didn’t.
“As you wish.” He gave a short, controlled nod. He bent down, picked up the last apple that had rolled near his feet, and placed it carefully in her basket. His fingers didn’t touch hers. “Good day, Mrs. Ashford.”
He walked away. He simply walked away with a steady stride and straight shoulders, never once looking back. She stared after him, her basket clutched to her chest, as confusion and fury warred within her.
Where was the fire? Where was the reckless man who had chased her and refused to let go? This calm, composed stranger was not the Dominic she knew.
She should be relieved. She was not.
That evening, a knock came at the door. Nell looked up from the bread she was wrapping, her brow furrowing in confusion. The shop was closed, the children were already upstairs with Martha, and the streets outside were growing dark.
“I will get it.” Daphne crossed to the door. She pulled it open to reveal a young man in Bramwell Park livery.
“Messages for Mrs. Ashford, Miss Wells, and Miss Finch.” He held out three cream-coloured envelopes, each sealed with heavy black wax. “From Bramwell Park.”
Daphne’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline as she took them, closing the door with the nudge of her hip. She crossed the shop and handed one to Nell, keeping the other two. Nell broke the seal with trembling fingers and unfolded the heavy paper.
Lord Westmore requests the honour of Mrs. Ashford’s company at a ball given in celebration of Lady Catherine Thorne. Friday evening, the 12th of November. Eight o’clock. Bramwell Park.
Daphne was already tearing open her own. “Well.” Daphne looked up from her own invitation, her dark eyes wide. She tapped the paper against her chin. “Lady Philippa invited me specifically. There’s a note. She says she enjoyed our conversation at the tea.”
Nell stared at the elegant script, her mind racing. He’d invited her after everything, yet after she’d refused him. After he’d walked away from her in the street without a backward glance; and why? To torture her? To make her watch him with another woman?
She should refuse.
“You have to go.” Daphne spoke firmly, reading the protest on Nell’s face. She set her invitation on the counter. “We all do.”
Nell shook her head, her jaw tightening. “I most certainly don’t.”
“If you don’t go, everyone will know why.” Daphne crossed her arms, her expression shifting into one of grim practicality. “They will say you are pining. Jealous. They will say you cannot bear to see him with another woman.”
She was jealous. She was desperately, achingly jealous, but no one needed to know that.
“Edmund could take you.” Daphne’s head tilted to the side as she calculated the social move. “Show everyone you’ve moved on as well.”
Moved on. To what? To whom?
The next day, Edmund called.
“I received an invitation to the Bramwell Park ball.” He stood in the middle of her shop, his hat held respectfully in his hands. His brown eyes were warm and earnest, lacking the stormy fire she had grown used to. “I wondered if you might do me the honor of attending with me.”
She should say no. She should stay far away from Dominic and the disaster waiting to happen.
“Yes.” The word escaped her lips before she could catch it. She smoothed the front of her apron with precise movements, her own response sounding strangely distant, as if spoken by someone else. “I would like that.”
Edmund smiled—warm, safe, and everything she should want. He took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Nell felt nothing. Nothing except a cold, growing dread.
Friday evening arrived like a sentence being carried out.