The path they had chosen followed the uneven edge of a wood of elm and silver birch and lay in gentle loops like the undulations his settling line would trace as he finished a perfect cast. Strains of music from the opening set drifted out to them on the still air.

Rallying, he asked, “Are you fond of dancing, Miss Shaw?”

“Yes,” she answered. “And you, Lord Haverly?”

Nick considered and rejected the truth. “You needn’t call me that, Miss Shaw,” he said stiffly. “And you must remind me to return you to the ball in good time.”

“Must I?” asked Bel. She raised an eyebrow. “And what am I to call you?”

He laughed. “I suppose it’s asking too much that you would call me Nick?”

She appeared to weigh the idea. “It is,” she replied, suddenly serious.

They walked on in silence until Nick began to develop a distinct aversion for the dry, brittle sound of gravel underfoot. Then a new thought occurred.

“Miss Shaw, you did agree to accompany me just now.”

Bel nodded.

“And you were aware that one likely consequence of our leaving the group was that we would become the next topic of conversation among those who remained behind.”

“Nothing is more certain,” she replied.

“Then it is no new resentment that keeps you silent in my company? Merely the old?”

“What am I to call you?” she demanded, glancing up at him.

It was a mistake to look into his eyes, Bel discovered, for he had a way of looking at her as if he had quite forgotten the existence of any other person. The quivery knot inside her expanded and sent tremors along her limbs.

“If not Nick, you mean?” He appeared to ponder her question. “I have other names. I have certainly been called other things, few of which I can repeat to you. Farre calls me ‘lad’ as often as not. There is ‘sir,’ or if you prefer, the more contemptuous ‘sirrah.’ But which of these allows you to express the exact shade of distance and implacable resentment you feel toward me—I cannot advise you on that.”

“You are being kind, you know,” she said.

He laughed a brief harsh laugh. “Now that’s something you have not yet accused me of being. I cannot recall doing a kind act in my life.”

“No ‘little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love that are the best part of a good man’s life?’” she teased.

“Don’t let the poet mislead you, Miss Shaw. You know what I hope for, even here among your friends and family. You refused to speak to me in the village the other day on account of it.”

She knew. Their bargain.