Page 46 of Holly & Folly

Millie stood, cutting her off. “Not everyone regards you with as much harshness as you regard yourself, Nell. In fact, I doubt that anyone does. Or could. We shan’t argue about it anymore, for I am quite hungry and likely to say something I will regret, as you well know.” With a wink, she put out a hand, and Nell took it, rising to her feet and squeezing Millie’s hand.

“You have stood by me through it all,” Nell said. “I could not have asked for a better friend.”

“You would do no less for me.”

That was true enough. Millie was like a sister to Nell, so much that she found herself wishing that Wesley and Millie would make a match of it. Millie was far too caught up in the mystery of her admirer, though, for there to be a foundation for the hope, and every time Nell dared to broach the subject, it was brushed aside.

Much like Nell had brushed aside the suggestion that Lord Dalmeer’s affection for her was more than performance.

Nell could not afford to hope such a thing.

He had chosen her specifically for her unsuitability. When combined with his assurances that he did not mean to marry for many years yet—and would do so dutifully when he did—hope would be a strange response indeed.

After the excitement of the previous day, the guests seemed inclined to remain at Bellthorne in calmer pursuits. Breakfast was taken late and at a leisurely pace, after which many chose to read or embroider or play at cards. Two of the more aged guests had fallen asleep, their heads lolling in their chairs.

Lord Dalmeer was absent, and Nell tried not to give in to the feeling of disappointment this left her with—or to pay any heed to the way her heart leapt when he appeared in the drawing room in the early afternoon.

His gaze took in the scene, then settled on her, a smile forming on his lips.

How long had he remained in the library with the book she had chosen for him?

The effect of his appearance was an all-encompassing sense that all was right in the world—and Millie nudging Nell inconspicuously as the earl traversed the room toward them.

“I had worried what I was missing,” Lord Dalmeer said, taking a seat next to the chaise longue where Nell and Millie sat, “but I can see I needn’t have.”

“Do not be deceived,” Nell said, a current of energy running through her at his proximity. “It has been very lively. Mr. Bowles has snorted himself awake no less than three times, which made his wife start and poke herself in the finger.”

The earl smiled. “Perpetual excitement, then.”

“Precisely. But after yesterday’s exertions, no doubt you required rest.”

His eyes twinkled. “I have been with my steward all morning, I will have you know.”

Their smiling gazes held until Nell realized Millie was watching them with a glint of humor in her eye.

The earl rose from the seat he had just taken. “And because of that, I have no desire to sit or snort or sew. I think a stroll about the gardens is in order.”

Nell looked through the window. It was December 27th—not exactly the best time of the year to admire the roses.

“The winter garden,” Lord Dalmeer said, seeming to understand her response. “It is sparse but not without interest, I think. Will you join me?” His eyes were fixed on Nell, but after a moment, they flitted to Millie in invitation, as though he had just remembered she was there.

Millie was eager to venture outside, and Wesley too, and soon they had a party of nearly a dozen who returned to their rooms to don clothing appropriate for the day’s cold temperatures and gray skies.

They had agreed to meet in the saloon in a quarter of an hour’s time, and Nell made her way there in her warmest coat and gloves, tying her bonnet strings as she walked.

“Miss Prescott.” Lord Dalmeer skipped up beside her at the end of their corridor, wearing a dark blue greatcoat and a black top hat, his gloves in hand.

Nell smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Moments alone with Lord Dalmeer had come to feel like the times she had stolen a Bath bun from the kitchen as a child.

No doubt, she would reap her punishment soon enough, just as she had then.

As they walked, she tried to tie the loop on her bonnet ribbons but failed, for her gloves were new and too long in the fingers.

“Here,” Lord Dalmeer said, cutting in front of her. “Allow me.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Is tying bonnet ribbons one of the domestic arts your reading helped you acquire?”

“My skill pre-existed that, in fact,” he said as he took the ribbons. “Compared to tying a cravat, a bonnet ribbon is a mere trifle.” He pulled the bow taut with gentle hands.