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NELL
To those who loved her, Elinor Prescott was known as Nell. To the rest of the world—most of whom held her in neither affection nor esteem—she was more likely to be referred to as that shocking Prescott girl.
The carriage in which she and her brother sat lurched over frozen ruts as it approached the magnificent and sprawling Bellthorne Hall, which would be brimming with people who would not be calling her Nell.
Nell looked away from the chaise window and smoothed the skirts of her blue traveling dress, trying not to think how many of the estate’s scores of rooms would house guests who would ogle her when they were told who she was and what she had done.
She felt her older brother’s eyes on her and met them.
Wesley looked very fine in his traveling coat, his brown hair curled softly in the front. “You look as if you were approaching Newgate rather than a Christmas party.”
Nell laughed, hoping it would quell her nerves. “Will it not be a bit of both? I shall be on trial in a way.”
Wesley did not respond immediately. He merely regarded her in his thoughtful, considering way, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Or perhaps it was pity.
Nell smiled. “You must own that if Wesley Prescott was not so eligible and handsome, I would not have been invited at all.”
“What I own,” he countered, “is that the invitation lies entirely at the feet of Mama and Papa.”
Nell could not refute this. Mama and Papa had become recently acquainted with Lady Dalmeer, and it was to that budding friendship that Nell and Wesley owed their impending arrival at what promised to be one of the grandest—and most crowded—house parties of the decade.
“Whatever the case,” Wesley said, looking out the window as the road widened into the courtyard, “there will be plenty of guests to disappear amongst.”
“True enough.”
Plenty of guests to disapprove of her too.
She craned her neck as the facade of Bellthorne Hall loomed over the chaise, the honey-colored stone a mass of warmth in a cool winter landscape. It was cold enough that patches of snow dotted the scene from the last time it had fallen.
Wesley helped Nell down from the chaise as footmen in yellow livery bustled around to care for their trunks, stable hands took charge of the chaise, and Nell and Wesley’s servants were taken in hand by those of Bellthorne Hall.
One of the two tall, white doors that led inside opened, and a butler stood in the doorway, waiting to receive Nell and Wesley.
Receive was perhaps a generous description.
The man’s posture was as rigid and imposing as the weathered stone of Bellthorne’s facade, his brushed gray hair almost too neat to be credited.
“Welcome to Bellthorne Hall,” he said in a colorless voice. “May I tell Lady Dalmeer whom we have the pleasure of welcoming?”
“Mr. Wesley Prescott and Miss Elinor Prescott,” Wesley said.
The butler inclined his head and led them into the entry.
Nell stifled a breath of surprise as she stepped onto the black and white marble floors. Columns of pale stone rose forty feet above, giving way to a domed ceiling, painted in pastel and punctuated by arched windows that bathed the room in a wintery gray light. A fire flickered in the ornate grate, bound on either side by marble busts.
Footsteps echoed, and Nell pulled her eyes back in time to see a stout but finely attired middle-aged woman approaching, flanked by two maids. The Countess of Dalmeer wore a wide smile, her eyes crinkling at the sides. A few strands of gray tried to conceal themselves amongst her elegantly coiffed blonde hair.
“Mr. Prescott!” She made a sweeping, magnanimous gesture with both hands that was slightly dampened by her nasal voice.
“Lady Dalmeer.” Wesley moved to bow just as she put out her gloved hand. He finished his bow quickly and took the hand, hesitating before brushing his lips over the back of the glove.
Nell suppressed a smile.
“What a pleasure it is to welcome you here, Mr. Prescott,” Lady Dalmeer said. “You were handsome when we met, but I must say, you show to even greater advantage here at Bellthorne.”
Nell’s brows rose.
