Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
One week had passed since she’d told him everything. Seven days since she’d whispered her real name into the dark of his bedroom and waited for him to turn away. Seven days since he’d pulled her close instead and kissed her like she was something precious, something worth keeping.
Nell opened the shop that Tuesday morning and caught herself humming a low, lilting tune. She stopped at once, while she looked around the empty bakery like someone might have heard. The ovens crackled. The bread rose in its pans.
She was humming.
When had she started doing that? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d hummed anything. Not since before Gabriel, yet not since before the fire. Not since she’d become the kind of woman who kept her head down and her mouth shut, never drawing attention to herself.
But this past week, something had shifted.
The world felt lighter, brighter. It was like someone had scraped the grime off a window she hadn’t realized was dirty.
She woke up smiling; and she went to bed smiling.
She smiled at customers who used to irritate her, at the weather that used to feel like a personal offense, and at the empty street that used to make her nervous.
It was terrifying.
Happiness never lasted. That was what life had taught her. Happiness was a trap, a lure, a pretty lie that made the fall hurt worse when it inevitably came. Gabriel had been charming once, too, but Gabriel had made her smile once, too.
But Dominic was not Gabriel.
She knew that now, knew it in the marrow of her bones, in the place where truth lived.
Dominic was reckless and impulsive and maddening, but he was not cruel—and he didn’t weaponize kindness.
He didn’t make her feel small so he could feel big.
He looked at her as if she were the sun, and when she told him her darkest secrets, he’d held her closer instead of pulling away.
Still, the happiness scared her.
She went back to kneading dough, letting the familiar rhythm settle her nerves.
Press, fold, turn. Press, fold, turn.
The dough felt warm and alive under her palms, the yeast doing its quiet work. This, at least, she understood—yet this, at least, she could control.
The door to the back room creaked open.
Lily’s head appeared, dark curls escaping her braid, her eyes bright with the particular gleam she wore when she was about to say something she thought was clever.
Oliver followed a moment later, his whittling knife tucked into his belt and his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant he was paying very close attention to something.
“Mama is humming.” Lily leaned toward her brother, her stage-whisper carrying easily across the room. She pressed one hand to her chest in mock horror, her eyes wide and mischievous. “Again.”
“She has been doing that all week.” Oliver rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he leaned against the doorframe. “It’s getting embarrassing.”
“I can hear you both.” Nell didn’t look up from her dough, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. “You are not as subtle as you think.”
Lily bounced over to the counter, propping her chin in her hands and watching Nell work with that intense, curious focus she’d possessed since she was a baby.
The girl had never learned to look at anything halfway.
She gave everything the full force of her attention, whether it was a book, a butterfly, or her mother’s suspicious good mood.
“Is it because of Lord Westmore?” Lily asked the question innocently enough, but her eyes were too sharp for nine years old. “Do you like him?”
Nell’s hands stuttered on the dough. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Lord Westmore and I are friends.” Nell smoothed the top of the dough, but the word felt inadequate, almost laughably so.
What else could she say? She couldn’t tell her nine-year-old children that she’d spent the past week sneaking to Bramwell Park after they fell asleep.
She couldn’t admit she’d slept in his bed more nights than her own, or that she’d told him she loved him and neither of them had taken it back since.
Oliver made a sound that might have been a cough or a snort.
“Friends.” Lily drew the word out like taffy, her grin spreading. “Is that why you were humming?”
“I hum sometimes.” Nell looked at the flour on her hands, avoiding their gaze.
“No, you don’t.” Oliver crossed his arms, leaning against the wood with an air of patient skepticism that made him look far too much like a tiny adult. “You never hum. You barely even smile. And now you are doing both. All the time.”
“Since Lord Westmore.” Lily added helpfully, tapping her fingers on the countertop.
Nell set down her dough. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face her children with what she hoped was a reasonable expression and not the flustered guilt she felt written across her face.
“Lord Westmore is...” She paused, trying again. “He has been… We’ve become...”
“You do like him.” Lily’s smile was so wide it threatened to split her face. “You really, really like him.”
“I...” Nell began, but she was interrupted.
The shop bell jangled.
Nell’s head snapped toward the sound with embarrassing speed.
And there he was. Dominic filled the doorway as he always did, his broad shoulders blocking the morning light and his dark hair still slightly damp from a morning bath.
The bruise at his temple had faded to a sickly yellow-green, and he moved a little stiffly still, but his eyes were clear and alert as they fixed on her.
A week. They had enjoyed a week together, and she still was not used to the way he looked at her. It was like she were something rare, something he couldn’t quite believe was real.
“Lord Westmore.” Nell steadied herself against the counter, her heart hammering. “You are supposed to be resting.”
“I have rested enough.” He stepped inside, not bothering with the pretense of browsing the tarts. His eyes swept past the display cases and the bread cooling on the racks, seeing nothing but her. “I have business to attend to.”
“Business.” She raised an eyebrow, trying to find her composure. “In my bakery.”
“Important business.” He nodded toward the doorway where her children still stood, watching this exchange with fascination. “Can I meet the children?”
“Yes!” Lily waved from her spot, bouncing on her toes.
Oliver said nothing. He simply watched Dominic with that careful, measuring look he’d maintained since the first time they had met. The boy trusted slowly, and Nell loved him for it. She’d trusted herself slowly.
“Good.” Dominic moved past Nell without touching her, though she felt the heat of him as he passed. He was close enough that she could smell soap and something woodsy. “I need to speak with them.”
“Speak with them about what?” Nell stepped forward, reaching instinctively for his arm.
He turned to meet her eyes. Something in his expression made her breath catch, a mixture of nervous determination and barely contained joy.
“Trust me.” He covered her hand with his and squeezed once, then let go. “Stay here.”
“Dominic.” She whispered his name, her hand falling back to her side.
But he was already walking toward the kitchen. Her children fell into step beside him like it were the most natural thing in the world. Lily practically skipped. Even Oliver seemed curious, his earlier wariness softened into cautious interest.
The door swung shut behind them.
Nell stood alone in her shop, flour on her hands and confusion churning in her chest. What was he doing? What business could he possibly have with her children that required privacy? What required leaving her out here to wonder?
She moved toward the kitchen door but stopped herself.
He’d asked her to trust him; he’d asked her to stay.
She stayed, but she pressed her ear against the door anyway, just for a moment.
The wood was thick. She could hear the low rumble of Dominic’s voice and the higher pitch of Lily’s, but no words reached her.
It was just sound without meaning, tantalizing and frustrating.
Fine. She would wait.
She went back to her dough and kneaded it with more force than necessary, trying very hard not to think about what was happening in her kitchen.
In the kitchen, Dominic found himself facing the two most important judges he would ever encounter.
Lily sat by the fire with a book in her lap, though her attention had clearly abandoned the story.
She was all bright eyes and eager curiosity, bouncing slightly where she sat—Oliver was at the table, whittling something with careful, precise strokes.
He looked up when Dominic entered, set down his knife, and fixed Dominic with a look of serious appraisal.
These were Nell’s children. Her fierce, protective, too-grown-up children who had watched their mother struggle to build something from nothing. They had learned that adults couldn’t always be trusted — and now they were deciding whether to trust him.
Dominic had faced down cavalry charges at Waterloo. He’d held the line when men were dying around him. He’d stood before the entire ton in London after Vivienne broke off the engagement, let them stare at his scar, and dared a single one of them to speak. None of that had prepared him for this.
“Lord Westmore.” Lily scrambled to her feet, her book tumbling to the floor. “Mama said you were hurt. Are you better now? Does it still ache? Mama says head wounds can be tricky.”
“I was hurt.” Dominic pulled out a chair and settled himself across from Oliver with deliberate calm. “I am better now. May I speak with you both?”
Oliver went still. His hand drifted back to his whittling knife, though he did not pick it up. He did not make a threat. He made it clear he was paying attention, and that he would protect what was his.
“Good.” Dominic nodded, respecting the boy’s vigilance.