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On the one hand, it did seem like folly—to trust another man with her reputation when the last one had nearly destroyed it without a second thought.

On the other hand, she could not deny what the earl had said: he had the power to help her rebuild her reputation. As she had come to find out, it was inextricably connected to that of her family, and if there was a way to repair even a bit of the damage she had done with her mistakes, she could not refuse it.

At the very least, she could now look on the prospect of seeing Mr. Fowell with equanimity instead of dread.

The drawing room had been transformed with festive decorations, thanks to Lady Dalmeer’s competition. It was a remarkably handsome room on an ordinary day, but with garlands and bows and mistletoe, it was breathtaking—and far more thoroughly decorated than the Antique Passage.

When the countess showed signs of wishing to proceed to the dining room, Nell looked around for any sign of her son, but he was not present.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Mr. Fowell making his way toward her from the other side of the room, where he had been speaking with Miss Stroud.

Nell looked again for any sign of the earl, as though she could possibly have missed someone with his presence even in a room as full as this one.

Just as Mr. Fowell reached her, the door opened, and Nell’s heart skipped.

The earl strode in with his characteristic nonchalance, bringing a smile to Nell’s face. The relief she felt was quickly replaced by a strange mixture of anticipation and nerves.

They had made an agreement together, but to make an agreement was quite different than to carry it out. She had a feeling the earl would not be satisfied with doing the simple or expected—if there was such a thing in this situation.

His gaze took in the room in an unhurried way, only to halt on her. The corner of his mouth lifted, and Nell’s stomach somersaulted as she smiled back.

Mr. Fowell looked over his shoulder for the cause of her reaction just as the group began to file out of the drawing room. His gaze flicked back to Nell, to whom he offered his arm.

Whether that small interaction had been enough to give Mr. Fowell pause or whether he was simply on his best behavior because they were surrounded by the other guests, he did not do anything to make Nell uncomfortable over the course of the meal. She was able to divide her conversation equally between him and Mr. Hawthorne on her other side.

She found Lord Dalmeer’s gaze upon her numerous times over the course of dinner, always with that little smile in his eyes that made her skin tingle.

The ladies retired to the drawing room after the meal, and Nell debated telling Millie about the arrangement, but as she considered how to convey her strange decision, she found it difficult to know what to say. She would rather see what Lord Dalmeer had in mind before trying to explain it to Millie.

The men rejoined them more quickly than usual, for Lady Dalmeer had instructed them not to linger. With great pomp and cheering, the Yule log was lit, after which the countess announced the winners of the decorating contest.

Nell was unsurprised to learn the drawing room was selected as the winner—the room for which Lady Dalmeer herself had been in charge.

Lord Dalmeer applauded with the others. “Very impartial of you, Mother.”

The prize for the winner was a holly crown and the choice of forfeits for the parlor game: Steal the White Loaf.

Lady Dalmeer had thus not only appointed herself the winner of the decorating contest, chosen the parlor game, and become the one to dole out forfeits—she had also appointed herself the one her guests had to steal the loaf from. Only, it was not a loaf but a mistletoe.

There was little subtlety about the countess. No wonder her son was so eager to resist her.

“A mistletoe rather than a loaf,” came an ill-concealed whisper behind Nell. “No doubt Miss Prescott will be eager to play.”

Nell stiffened, suppressing the urge to turn around and see who had said it—and who had snickered in response. She had been looking forward to playing, but with a lump in her throat, she determined that spectating was the wiser choice.

She had expected Lord Dalmeer to seek her company now that they were not constrained by the seating at dinner, but he stood across the room with Lord and Lady Weymouth. Perhaps all her talk of the fragility of her reputation had made him timid.

Keeping close to Wesley and Millie, Nell observed as guest after guest was caught trying to steal the mistletoe. She sipped her tea, fighting the urge to make her own attempt, for she was certain she could manage it without being discovered.

Lord Dalmeer made no attempt, but he could be heard laughing and making teasing comments every time Mother caught someone. No doubt he feared what forfeit Mother might require of him.

Nell could not blame him, for between each round, the countess tried to catch his eye. Lord Dalmeer merely smiled back at her, seemingly oblivious to the message she was trying to send.

Again and again, guests tried to surreptitiously snatch the mistletoe; again and again, they were caught and forfeits extracted from them—everything from reciting a poem to snorting like a pig. Nell began to wonder whether her lack of participation might cause more comment than the alternative.

Or perhaps that was merely her competitive nature attempting to justify participation. With her luck, she would be caught, and as forfeit, Lady Dalmeer would force her to recount the night she spent waiting for Henry at the inn.

It was but moments later that Nell heard a voice behind her. “Miss Prescott has not made any attempts,” a woman commented in a low voice—not, however, low enough to prevent her from hearing.