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The quick ride felt longer, in some ways, than the hour and a half sermon.

Ten

NELL

Wesley helped Nell, then Millie into the carriage, and Nell settled in next to her friend for the ride home, looking through the small window onto the landscape of patched snow and mud.

“Lord Dalmeer is very attentive,” Millie said in a voice that failed in its attempt to sound casual.

Nell looked at her, then at Wesley, who was watching her closely.

“He wished to introduce me to the vicar,” she explained.

Millie and Wesley shared another look.

“To what end?” Millie sounded very much as though she had inferred a great deal from Nell’s explanation.

Based on his keen expression, Wesley seemed to share her inferences.

Nell let out a laugh. “Not due to whatever both of you are thinking. I had mentioned that, if I were ever to marry, a vicar might suit me, and he thought it quite entertaining to see that I became better acquainted with Mr. Tomlinson.”

Nell’s cheeks began to warm, for she did not think Wesley would approve of the exchange with the vicar. It had been unwise, but it had also been so amusing that she had not cared at the time.

Sitting in front of her brother and without the earl’s support, she began to realize just how improper it had been.

“But that does not explain last night,” Wesley said.

Nell’s mind returned to the game of Steal the White Loaf and how everyone at Bellthorne had witnessed Lord Dalmeer single her out not once but thrice. “The earl enjoys teasing.”

Why she was taking such pains to throw water over their assumptions—the very sort she and Lord Dalmeer were trying to cultivate with their arrangement—was beyond her. She disliked misleading her brother and her best friend, particularly into believing the Earl of Dalmeer regarded her with any degree of serious intention, but the thought of explaining to them the reckless arrangement she and the earl had come to was equally unpalatable.

And yet, the plan had been working. Even since last night, fewer people had given her sidelong looks or whispered when she was near, and if they did, the tone was not one of hushed gossiping or pity but of curiosity.

Perhaps the future would not be so bleak as she had feared.

The Christmas feast Lady Dalmeer had arranged might have been offered at Carlton House, so expansive was it. To the festive decorations in the dining room were added a dizzying assortment of dishes. Turtle soup, roast beef and goose, venison pasty, Yorkshire pudding, mince pies, and many Nell could not even name.

She was seated, as usual, beside Mr. Fowell and Mr. Hawthorne. The former’s demeanor toward her had shifted since the other night, for which she was deeply grateful, but she caught him looking at her once or twice. No doubt he was struggling to reconcile his own opinion of her with the interest she was receiving from Lord Dalmeer.

She could not blame him, for if it had been true, it would have stretched the bounds of belief. Only Lord Dalmeer’s tendency not to conform to expectation lent it any credibility at all.

Once the men had rejoined the women in the drawing room, Lady Dalmeer announced that everything was prepared in the Long Gallery for silhouettes, where pairs would take turns tracing each other.

Nell was relieved to find Lord Dalmeer in discussion with his cousin, Lord Weymouth. Capitalizing on his—and others’—distraction, she made her way to the door. She winced as she turned the knob, but it gave way without a sound. She opened the door just enough to slip through, then closed it gently behind her.

Letting out a relieved breath, she began the long walk to her bedchamber, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. This was the passage she had taken her first day at Bellthorne. Now, she was well enough acquainted with the house to know that the Music Room and Tapestry Room lay to her left. What the final room in the corridor housed, she did not know, which was why she started when its door opened as she was passing.

Lord Dalmeer emerged, pulling the door closed behind him. “Going somewhere, Miss Prescott?” A smile played at his lips. “A touch of the headache?”

“Yes, if you must know.”

He came toward her. “You look far too well for anyone to believe such a thing.”

Her heart skipped. She wished he would not continue their ruse when they were alone. It was too confusing. “Appearances can be deceiving, my lord. I declare I am quite ready to faint from the pain.”

“Then I shall be here to catch you—and take you to the Long Gallery, where you may distract yourself from the pain by demonstrating your tracing skills.”

An image of him carrying her limp form in his arms flashed across Nell’s mind, reminding her of when he had carried her toward the house after her pretended injury.