Page 13 of Holly & Folly

He laughed. “Even if I did, it would do you little good.”

She could not dispute this. An injury to her own person would require an escort to the house, while an injury to his would not.

Before the topic could be pursued, however, Mr. Fowell and Miss Caldwell returned.

Lord Dalmeer sent Nell a final, significant look, as if to say Only you can save us before turning to answer Miss Caldwell’s plea for help.

They had no opportunity to converse further, as Mr. Fowell requested Nell’s assistance searching out a few larger boughs to hang at either end of the passage.

Nell had a competitive enough spirit that she still wished to win the competition, and she suggested that a bow tied neatly in the center of the boughs would make a striking sight.

“I quite agree,” Mr. Fowell said. “I found a few candidates for such an important position just over here.”

Nell tensed as his hand pressed lightly against the small of her back to guide her.

Was he simply forward, or did he believe she would welcome such an intimacy because of her reputation?

“Oh, how pretty this one is!” She hurried to an entirely ordinary bough that was far enough away that Mr. Fowell’s hand dropped from her back. Thoughts of winning the competition gave way to a need to save herself from any more of Mr. Fowell’s familiarity.

Injury was looking more and more appealing.

“May I clip it this time?” She put out a hand for the shears.

“Of course,” Mr. Fowell said politely as he ceded them to her.

Nell studied the tool, trying to decide if there was a way she could cause herself injury without too much pain or danger. Perhaps she was a poor creature, however, for the prospect turned her stomach.

With Mr. Fowell’s eyes on her, she had no choice but to set to clipping the first bough. She grasped the branch with her left hand, avoiding the red berries.

An idea occurred to her, but it would require removing her gloves.

Her heart raced, and she glanced at Mr. Fowell, then let out a sound of feigned frustration. “These silly gloves!” She removed them, and he took them.

“Carefully now,” he adjured her, setting his hand in the same place on her back.

She forced herself to breathe evenly when what she truly wanted was to turn the shears on him.

“Now with as much force as you can muster,” he said. “I will help if you cannot manage.”

She stifled an eye-roll.

He was too close and watching too carefully for her to employ any artifice at the moment, though, particularly as she was not practiced at such things. She clipped the bough with a snapping sound, and it fell to the ground. She stepped aside for Mr. Fowell to retrieve it.

He stooped, and she took advantage of his distraction to grasp at a bunch of berries and pull.

She winced as the sharp leaves scratched the palm of her hand. Ignoring the stinging, she squeezed the berries until she felt liquid slipping through her palm. A drop fell to the snow beneath her.

Now was her chance.

What, precisely, was she to do, though?

She let out a scream and opened her hand, which stung as the berry juices soaked into the scrapes.

Mr. Fowell stood, his eyes rounding at the sight before him.

For a moment, Nell wondered what he would do, for he seemed frozen.

He made a convulsive movement and stumbled backwards. “My lord!” he managed to call out before clapping his hand over his mouth and averting his gaze.