Wish List

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, 1818

Copley Grange

Near Corfe Castle, England

"Oh dear. Is that the best you have to wear, Miss Ambrose?"

"Your pardon, ma'am. I'm afraid it is," Vivian admitted, holding her hands clasped tightly in front of her and refusing to give in to the urge to smooth the skirt of her navy wool gown. It was a gown meant for a governess or a paid companion, or for what she was: a poor relation.

"Dear me, dear me, this won't do. This won't do at all!" Mrs. Twitchen, her distant cousin, fretted. "We are having Mr. John Sudley, baronet, for dinner, and his wife is the granddaughter of an earl. This won't do!"

"Perhaps, ma'am, it would be better if I did not attend?" Her stomach growled and gurgled beneath her clasped hands. She could, though, feed it just as well off a tray in her room as at the table.

"Nonsense," Captain Twitchen spoke up, sitting by the fire where the oak yule log burned. He placidly read his paper, a bull of a man around which maids and footmen flowed as they hung greenery and positioned silver candelabra newly polished. "If your gown is not suitable, wear one of Penelope's. She won't mind. Will you, girl?"

"Papa!" Penelope, aghast, turned from her inspection of a towering centerpiece of sweetmeats with sprigs of poisonous mistletoe tucked here and there in a creation of the girl's own design.

Vivian's eyes lingered longingly on the pyramid of goodies even as she felt the heat of humiliation in her cheeks. It was bad enough to be sent from one branch of the family to another, treated like a hungry beggar. It was worse yet to land upon a new doorstep only a day before Christmas, when a family had its mind on entertainments planned weeks in advance, and on private traditions. But worst of all was to feel that her presence was an annoyance and an intrusion.

"They would not fit," Penelope said. "Miss Ambrose is much larger than I am, and the colors would be all wrong. She cannot wear one of my gowns."

"I don't see why not," Captain Twitchen disagreed, folding his paper in half to better read an article of interest. "You've got more already than you need for the season, and you'll be having a bushel more made when we return to town, I warrant." He glanced up from his reading, examining his daughter and his wife's cousin. "You look near enough in size to me."

"Might there be one you could spare?" Mrs. Twitchen inquired cautiously of her child.

"Let her stay in her room! You do not wish to dine with a baronet, do you, Miss Ambrose?"

Vivian supposed she didn't much care where or with whom she dined, as long as dine she did. It had been ages since she'd last eaten.

"Penelope," her father said warningly, and gave his daughter a long look.

"But, Papa, it isn't fair! I suppose you'll want me to share all my gowns with her for the season as well, won't you?"

"Hush, child," Mrs. Twitchen said, coming and putting her hands on her daughter's shoulders and steering her out of the room, then gesturing to Vivian to follow. "You'll give him ideas."

Vivian cast a look back at Captain Twitchen and found him once more absorbed in his paper, the troubles of the females of his house best left to its females. For a brief moment, she had a feeling that the man was a sleeping dragon best not wakened.

Turning, she gave a last, loving look at the tower of treats, then followed the fiercely whispering, protesting Penelope and the shushing Mrs. Twitchen up the oaken staircase of Copley Grange and down the hall to Penelope's room.

Her prideful heart wished to refuse a gown so grudgingly lent, but her reasonable mind ordered her to follow the dictates of the captain and his wife. Those two were the ones she needed to please, not Penelope, although she suspected the Twitchen girl could make her life a misery easily enough.

It felt as if it had been a month ago, but it was only this morning that she had arrived here at the home of her first cousin, twice removed-Penelope's mother. They had never met before this day, although the arrangements for Vivian's arrival had been made some weeks past, as soon as old Ann Marbury had died.

Miss Marbury had been the spinster great-aunt of a previous set of cousins-cousins who had found Vivian useful as a companion to their wicked, dotty old relative. For nine years she had fetched and carried, read aloud, and played at cards with the beastly old woman, had endured increasing insults and pinches, and had had food thrown at her as the lady's mind deteriorated.

It had been a blessing to them both when the woman died. Vivian did not think herself hard-hearted for believing so, for as often as Miss Marbury had been cruel and suspicious, she had equally as often spent her days in tearful confusion, inconsolable, asking after those who had died long before Vivian had been born.

Farewell, unfortunate Miss Marbury! And may the angels keep you in good company!

And farewell also, horrid cousins, who kept me caged with an old woman for your convenience and never spared a thought for me or my future!

She was twenty-five years of age, and had never once attended a dance or an assembly, although her family were gentry and such should have been her right. The horrid cousins had preferred keeping her as unpaid help to spending the money to garb her and help her catch a husband and thus be free of their charity.

But now that Miss Marbury was dead and Vivian's usefulness gone with her, Vivian had been passed on to the next relatives willing to take her in and provide for her. She could only hope the Twitchens proved kinder and more generous than her other cousins.

"Penelope, do stop pouting and fussing. You will put wrinkles in your face with such expressions," Mrs. Twitchen said, and opened her daughter's clothespress to examine the possibilities therein.

"Not the green silk-that is my favorite," Penelope said, seeing her mother reaching for the garment. "It brings out my eyes, and would not suit another."

"Miss Ambrose has green eyes as well," Mrs. Twitchen mentioned.

"She cannot!" Penelope cried, then turned to examine Vivian and contradict the distressing statement. But she could not.

Vivian was equally surprised. The two girls were opposites: she herself had dark hair where Penelope had fair; she had a strong build that was underfed where Penelope had a fine build that was too plump. She would not have thought they shared any traits at all. Yet as her seventeen-year-old cousin came near, Vivian saw that indeed they had the same sea green eyes with dark gray rims.

Penelope's face grew red with anger, and she turned away with a flounce.

Mrs. Twitchen was still talking. "She is our cousin, after all, and blood will show. Dear me, we must dress her suitably. I will not be embarrassed in front of the baronet!"

"It is only Cousin John, Mama. I do not see why you need make such a fuss."

Mrs. Twitchen chose several gowns and laid them out over the bed and two upholstered chairs, then spoke to Vivian. "My husband's sister made an excellent match in a baronet. The title has since passed down to Sir John, Captain Twitchen's nephew, whom we have had the great good fortune to entertain on many an occasion, as he adores his uncle so. His wife is descended from the Earl of Surrey."

"Indeed, ma'am," Vivian said, for want of any better comment. She was beginning to wish most heartily that she could be left alone in her new bedroom while the family entertained their guests. Meeting the Twitchens and being installed in their home was strain enough for one day without the addition of baronets and granddaughters of earls.

"He is not half so grand as to deserve such care," Penelope put in.

"Hush, child. You say that because you know no better. When you come out this season, you will see what difference it makes to say your cousin is a baronet."

"And my great-grandfather a baron. I know, Mama."

"You help Miss Ambrose choose something, and give her ear bobs and a necklace to wear if she has none of her own, and perhaps some silk flowers for her hair. Really, we cannot have her looking so shabby, and she a relative of mine!"

Mrs. Twitchen hustled off, murmuring worries about Cook and the footmen, and Vivian was left alone with her cousin.

"I am sorry about this," Vivian said to the girl, feeling awkward and unwelcome. And hungry, to add to her misery. "If I had new gowns meant for my season, I should not like to have another wear one of them first, and she a stranger to me."

"I have been looking forward to my first season since I can remember," Penelope said, a quaver in her voice. "And here you come, right before it is to start! And we will have to have dresses made for you, and take you about, and all our acquaintances will be asking who you are when this was supposed to be my time. And you're too old for a season, too old by half! It's not fair!"

Vivian could tell the spoiled creature a thing or two about fair; she could! But she would not. Such a protected creature as Penelope Twitchen could not know what life was like outside the loving care of her mama and papa, and Vivian herself would have rather been a spoiled creature than an impoverished one, had she the choice. So she held her tongue.

"Please choose your least favorite," she said, knowing that such was what Penelope had in mind anyway.

The girl chewed her upper lip, frowning at the dresses. "I'm not overfond of the yellow," she said. "It makes my hair look dull, although it does have that lovely Valenciennes lace."

"I would be glad enough to wear it," Vivian said.

"You won't spill gravy on it?"

As if she were a child who could not use a spoon! Vivian counted to five, unclenched her jaw, and said, "I shall take great care not to."

"Well, all right, then." Penelope picked up the dress and held it against Vivian's shoulders. "I suppose it might fit, and the color is not completely unattractive on you. Do you have hair ribbons, ear bobs, anything?"

"I'm afraid I will have to ask those of you, as well." She would rather stick a sprig of holly in her hair and call herself decorated. Mrs. Twitchen would be displeased, though, and she didn't want to embarrass the woman.

Penelope sighed, leaving the dress in Vivian's arms and going to her dressing table. "This is really most unfair of Mama and Papa. This was to be my season."

"I do not like it any better than you," Vivian snapped, her weariness, tension, and hunger getting the better of her tongue. Last night had been spent very uncomfortably, sharing a bed at an inn with the unwashed, phlegmy woman who had been paid a pittance to accompany her. She had not slept well. "But I am glad that Captain and Mrs. Twitchen are willing to sponsor me for a season, for marriage is the only way I can at last be free of the so-called charity of relations!"

Penelope turned to her, jaw agape. "What an ungrateful wretch you are!"

"Not ungrateful. I shall thank your dear parents every day of my life if they can help me find a husband."

"More's the pity we will not find you one before we return to London, for then I could be rid of you the sooner."

"There is no greater gift I could ask from this Christmas season than that! The three kings didn't bear anything half so precious as a husband would be to me." Certainly such a mercenary view wasn't anything out of a fairy tale, princes scaling castle walls to rescue her from the villainous clutches of evil knights, but she had never expected such. A husband was simply someone to whisk her away from her dependence on her family. There needed to be no drama.

Vivian's green eyes met Penelope's. A moment of consideration stretched between them. Vivian's stomach growled.

"It's not truly possible, is it, to find a husband in such a short time?" Vivian asked.

"I… I'm not sure."

"When does the family return to town?"

"Soon after Epiphany," Penelope said. "The parliamentary session will begin in January this year, and Papa is an MP, so we must go back."

Epiphany was January sixth, the day after Twelfth Night. "It is not much time, less than two weeks. It's not possible." Vivian sighed, her momentary hopes sinking.

"No, perhaps it is." Penelope had a pink silk rose in her fingers, which she began to tap against her lower lip as she considered. "Are you particular about whom you marry?"

"I would wed a man forty years my senior who smelled like molding potatoes and had the wit of a particularly stupid rabbit-as long as he had a solid income and could provide me with my own home."

"You are desperate, aren't you? You have no dowry, and no income of your own. You are past the better part of your youth. You might have to make do with such a one."

"I expect little better." And truly she did not. The only things that saved her from joining the ranks of governesses were that her education was insufficient to qualify her, and that most of her relatives would rather have her as a spinster gentlewoman they had to support than as a spinster with an occupation.

They would rather as well keep her a poor relation than to see her marry below her level, ending up with a man in trade whom they would then have to claim as a relation. Gentry was all that was acceptable, as well as all that was beyond her, given her lack of an inheritance. And what chance had she to go against their wishes and find herself a blacksmith or a carpenter with whom she might make a ruder home? None.

A woman of her age and station, of her poverty and genteel connections, was subject to the tyranny of her relations. They held her welfare within their purses, tied tight with a drawstring cord, and her only escape was marriage.

It was only the average prettiness of her face she could sell, and the youth of a body that could still bear children. It was old men who were forever the most eager buyers of those commodities.

Who said she wasn't in trade, like the lowest grocer or fishmonger? She would do what she had to to sell herself before she went rotten.

"There is one possibility of a match," Penelope said, coming forward and tucking the silk rose into Vivian's hair. "And he will be visiting us this very night!"

Chapter Two

Whatever weariness Vivian had felt was burned away by a new tension. If Penelope had her way, she would be meeting her future husband tonight. And the cruel child refused to tell her anything about him!

"He'll be the only single man present. You can find out what you will about him on your own. I shan't spoil the fun of that for you," Penelope said, then took the curling tongs to Vivian's hair.

As she sat and endured Penelope's primping and trimming of her, she wondered what it could be about this man of which her cousin was unwilling to speak. She did not fool herself: there had to be something wrong with him. Very wrong. Why else would Penelope believe he might be interested in Vivian's own impoverished self, and so eager to wed that the engagement could be accomplished in a mere two weeks?

Penelope was treating her as a large doll to be dressed and rearranged without complaint. No longer did she fret about her Valenciennes lace garbing another, nor about loaning her yellow topaz ear bobs and the necklace that went with them. She dabbed Vivian's face with powder, and tinted her lips and cheeks with a faint trace of carmine.

"Shhh," Penelope said. "Don't tell Mama I have it."

Penelope held a needle over the candle and used the soot to fill in the spots where Vivian's brows were sparse or uneven. She was as determined as a mama preparing her daughter to snag a young peer at a ball. Her concentration was a testament to her desire to have her season all to herself, yet at the same time it showed a certain pride in her handiwork. Vivian recalled the carefully arranged mountain of sweetmeats and mistletoe, and hoped her own appearance fared better under Penelope's artistic guidance.

She also felt a bit of a fool while Penelope fussed over her. She was twenty-five and had never been a beauty even when she had the freshness of youth to her face. She feared that when at last she was allowed to look in the mirror, it would be a caricature of a young woman that looked back at her, and it would be plain to all that she was pretending to be something she was not, and with only one goal in mind.

There was, though, a small part of her that began to come alive under the attention, watching with interest the way in which Penelope wielded the cosmetics and chose ribbons and flowers for her hair. With a start she realized what it was: vanity.

And so what if it was? It was long past time she had the chance to indulge in that vice that women were said to have perfected.

"There. I think that is the best that can be expected of us," Penelope said, standing back and examining her handiwork.

At last Vivian was allowed the mirror. She stood in front of the cheval glass and blinked in surprise. She had not been transformed into a beauty-that much even Penelope's pastes and lotions could not achieve. But what charms she had were brought out while the flaws were concealed.

Her brow that was too high was shortened now by the dark brown curls that covered it, and that brought attention to her eyes, whose color was brighter for the contrast with the red of her lips and cheeks. The powder helped to conceal the one or two faint pink blemishes, while allowing the whiteness of her skin to shine through.

"Astonishing!" Vivian said. She touched lightly at her hair, the back brought up in a braided coil, flowers and ribbons tucked around it. It was so much lovelier than the plain chignon she usually wore. She could not quite believe it was Vivian Ambrose in the mirror, it was such a change from the familiar reflection.

Penelope tucked her chin in, a tight-lipped smile of pride and satisfaction on her face. "Don't spoil it by acting as if you think yourself plain. He'll value you as you value yourself, or so Mama has told me a thousand times."

At that, the tension crept back, for how could she value herself any higher than what she was? She saw now the way her collarbones were sharp under her skin, and the boniness of her wrists. Her shoulders were too square and broad, and her jaw as well.

She had a prodigious appetite that had never been satisfied with the stingy trays of food sent up to her and Miss Marbury. Her cousins' servants had sensed the disregard with which she was treated, and had in turn treated her accordingly, ignoring requests she made for extra food. The effects showed in the angular body beneath the lace and silk of this new dress, the powders and the ribbons.

She looked what she was: a nervous, hungry spinster.

Noises came from below, voices raised in greeting. Guests were beginning to arrive.

Vivian felt, all at once, the true loss of those years at Miss Marbury's bedside. She had had no training in the rules of society, knew little of making pleasant conversation, and even less of how to win the heart of a man. She was going to make faux pas left and right, and the baronet would wonder indeed where this graceless cousin of his aunt's had come from.

This, though, was her chance, and she would not-could not-let her lack of experience stop her. She straightened her spine and raised her chin.

She had spent nine years waiting for her life to begin, waiting to live as other people did. Her patience was worn away, her hunger all-consuming. She wanted a snug house; she wanted children she could spoil as badly as Penelope had been spoiled; she wanted a husband who, however old and smelly, would look upon her as a treasure and call her "my dear." And she, in return, would make certain he was well fed and that his clothes were fresh and mended, and treat him with tender regard and gratitude.

If Penelope thought Vivian had a chance at this unnamed man, then perhaps she did. And she would take it.

"Mr. Brent, it is good to see you again," Captain Twitchen said. "I hear you'll be giving us Tories a hard time of it."

"As hard a time as I can possibly manage," Richard Brent said. "What's the good of buying oneself a seat in Parliament if one cannot obstruct Tories?"

"By Jove, you're as blunt as I remember! You won't go far without a bit of finesse, though, Mr. Brent. Politics, you know. Can't always say what you think. I shouldn't go about advertising my seat was from a rotten borough, if I were you."

"I don't see why not. I am always honest about my corruptions."

"Ha! Ha! And so you are. If nothing else, you'll be an entertainment this session; that you will."

"I'll do my best to distract you and your cohorts from your duties," he said, grinning. He couldn't help but like the bluff old captain.

"That you will!" the man agreed.

"Richard, you naughty man," his sister Elizabeth said, coming up and taking his arm. "Talking politics? I'd say you should know better, only that would encourage you all the more. Come, there is someone you should meet."

"Must I?" he asked, and the question was not in jest.

"You must. Captain Twitchen," she said, nodding her head to her uncle-by-marriage.

"Lady Sudley," the captain acknowledged with a brief bow.

"Who now?" Richard asked as Elizabeth led him away. He was visiting her and her family at Haverton Hall for the Christmas season, a tradition he had been faithful to since she had married some five years previously. In that time he had met a goodly number of the eminent citizens of Dorset County, and of Corfe Castle, the small village named for the ruined keep that loomed above it.

"You shall see."

Worrisome words. Elizabeth was forever trying to reform, if not his behavior, then at least the appearance his actions took, and her chosen method was unfortunately matrimonial. Despite the evidence that no well-bred gentlewoman would have him, Elizabeth persisted in thinking one would.

Her disappointment was greater than his when most declined so much as even a dance with him.

Blind Elizabeth -she could not see that her brother's presence in the same room with gentlewomen was tolerated only because his family had rank and he had money. For that kind, honest toleration of society he was suitably kind in return, and he gave its hypocrisies the respect they deserved.

"You're not going to frighten some tender young creature by introducing me to her, are you?"

"No one who knew you could possibly be frightened of you, for all your growling."

"So you are introducing me to one," he said.

"She may be different."

He sighed. "At least she will have a tale to share with her friends of how she was forced to speak to that dastardly Richard Brent. I shall not disappoint her."

"Be kind, Richard."

"I shall be completely myself, for did you not just say that no one could possibly be frightened of me if they knew me?"

Elizabeth made a rumbling noise in the back of her throat, most unladylike. Then her expression lightened, her smile softened, her grip on his arm loosened, and he knew that the victim was at hand.

"Miss Ambrose, there you are," Elizabeth began as they came up to a dark-haired woman dressed in pale yellow. "I would like to introduce to you my brother, Mr. Richard Brent."

The girl stared at him, blinking great sea green eyes, then raised her hand for him to take.

"Miss Ambrose," he said, taking her fingers and bowing over them. They trembled in his grasp, and when he looked up from under his brows he saw the faint sheen of perspiration on her upper lip and the plane of her bosom. Not that he allowed his eyes to linger there. "How do you do?"

"How do you do?" she whispered back, her voice cracking on the words.

"Miss Ambrose is cousin to Mrs. Twitchen, and newly arrived from Shropshire," Elizabeth said, as he released the young woman's hand.

"Do you find Corfe Castle any improvement?" he asked. She looked to be one of those nervous girls who, if she was not careful, would grow into a sinewy, discontented old woman around whom one could never relax. She was probably thinking disdainful thoughts about him at this very moment.

"I like the people better," she said.

"Do you?" he asked.

"I think the food looks to be better here, as well."

He startled himself by laughing. Miss Ambrose gazed at him with widened eyes, as if not understanding why he found her amusing. Elizabeth smiled and excused herself.

"Let's hope Cook has not tried to be fancy and created a gothic mess of a meal, with four sauces for every dish," Richard said. "I can never decide if a free dinner should be counted as a gift or a curse. I think it is only the meager excitement of discovering which it shall be that draws me into accepting what few invitations come my way."

Miss Ambrose's lips parted, and she stared dumbstruck at him for several seconds. "You came only for the food?" she finally managed to ask.

"You look a hungry sort of girl," he said, intentionally being as blunt as his reputation had him. She would scamper off, and he would be free of another young miss who lived her life by the rules, not by the truth of her heart. "Aren't you looking forward to sitting down to dine more than you are to any songs on the pianoforte or games of whist?"

She gaped at him as if he were an exotic animal, then leaned forward confidentially and whispered, "I am perishing of hunger. I could eat an entire goose, were one to wander in and conveniently fall dead at my feet." Then she pulled back and put her fingertips to her lips as if she could push the words back in. "A lady is not supposed to admit to such things, is she?"

"I hardly think the scandal sheets will pillory you for it," he said, utterly surprised by her answer.

She flashed him a grateful smile, and he wondered if she was ignorant of his minor infamy. He had not killed anyone, he had not cheated anyone of their wealth, he had not ruined any virgins, yet for his past and present choices gentlewomen had closed ranks against him and counted him a nefarious fellow, unworthy of their daughters. He knew he had been a frequent topic of the crudest sort of gossip. But it did not bother him much; he had not found any daughters worthy of him.

The announcement came for dinner, and he gave this new young woman his arm. After the briefest of hesitations she took it, and he saw that it was shyness that had stayed her for a moment, not offended honor. She really might not know anything about him! He was surprised by his pleasure in that thought.

Mrs. Twitchen indicated with a benevolent nod that he should sit beside Miss Ambrose at the table. Miss Twitchen sat on his other side, the young girl exchanging a long, meaningful look with Miss Ambrose before smartly turning all her attention to the gentleman farmer who sat on her other side. The look sent Miss Ambrose into blinking blushes, and she stared at her dish of soup as if she had never seen such a thing before.

And perhaps she hadn't. The pea soup had chunks of blue-veined Stilton cheese, half-melted, floating about in it.

"Oh, dear," he said from the side of his mouth. "Cook has been creative."

Her spoon clattered into her dish, and she gave a snort of nervous laughter. She peeked at him, a wary look in her eyes.

Had Miss Twitchen spoken of him earlier, and Miss Ambrose not connected the topic of that conversation to him until that long look? How disappointing. He had started to think he might get through a meal with an attractive female companion and not feel as if she thought he might give her fleas.

For Miss Ambrose was attractive, in those moments she began to relax and the tendons in her neck smoothed out, and the little worried frown between her brows disappeared. He put her age at about twenty, six years younger than he himself, but even for that age there was a remarkable lack of polish and ease about her.

Ah, well. She'd have her London season, and then her unaffectedness would be gone forever in the name of social graces.

"I would have my dinner backward if I could," she suddenly said in a very soft voice.

"How's that?" he asked, glad she was still speaking to him. His meal need not be passed in icy silence, after all. What had that long look with Miss Twitchen meant?

"Dessert and sweatmeats first. I do think pea soup with Stilton should be left as a final deterrent to gluttons who are overlong at table."

For the second time he was surprised by his own laughter. Heads turned in their direction. "Are you going to eat it?" he asked.

"Oh, I must," she said, picking up her spoon. "I could not embarrass Mrs. Twitchen by not doing so. And I am hungry-enough that I don't think even clippings from Cook's toe-nails in the soup could put me off."

He set his own spoon into his bowl, any intention of tasting the vile stuff gone from his mind. "That is a thoroughly repulsive thought."

She glanced at him, a spoonful of green and white at her lips. She raised her brows, then purposefully sucked it in.

For the third time, he laughed.

"Miss Ambrose," Captain Twitchen said, speaking across the intervening diners, interrupting their conversations. "What is it that you are saying to amuse our Mr. Brent so?"

"I really don't know, sir," she said, dipping her spoon back into her soup.

"Damn if it isn't the first time I've seen the man in a good humor. Mr. Brent, what is so funny?"

"You will have to amuse yourself with wondering," Richard said.

"Damn!"

"Captain Twitchen!" his wife admonished from her end of the table.

"But damn, Mary. It must be a confoundingly good joke."

"Direct your attention to the fish, please," Mrs. Twitchen said, and the servants on their silent feet came around and carried off the offending soup, replacing it with a platter of fish that the captain would have to serve to his guests. The man looked somewhat peeved.

The fish was served and eaten, and Richard could not fail to note that Miss Ambrose consumed every sliver of flaky white meat upon her plate. "You enjoyed the fish?" he asked as it was removed and the platters of the main course were arrayed around the table.

"It helped to erase the memory of the soup," she said.

"Where did you come from, Miss Ambrose?" he asked, as he served her from the platters nearest to them. "And no, don't tell me Shropshire. You know that is not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"There, now you're sounding more like the usual young lady, delicately fishing for a compliment."

"I certainly am not! I cannot help if you ask questions of uncertain meaning. I come from Shropshire, and there is very little to add to my history than that."

"Your parents?"

"Deceased."

"Ah."

"'Ah' what, sir?"

"More oysters?"

"Yes, thank you. 'Ah' what?"

"'Ah,' you will be hunting for a husband this season."

"And what girl does not?"

"Have you an inheritance?"

"That is an impertinent question," she replied.

"I thought we were done with illusions of proper conversation, after that mention of Cook's toenails," he said, disappointed that she had retreated behind that false shield of propriety.

She speared a fried oyster on her fork, and met his eyes. "No, I have no inheritance. This is not my gown, nor my jewelry, nor my ribbons, nor my flowers."

"Then 'Ah,' you are going to be whipping your hounds into a fine frenzy to run down and trap a husband, for all that you have a pretty face."

Emotions he could not read flowed across her face. She ate her oyster and speared another. "I shall do my best. Do you have any advice to offer, you who are so worldly?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"Would I dare?" she asked, eating the second oyster and going for a third.

He laughed, genuinely delighted. "You would, wouldn't you? I doubt you are quite so daring as you pretend, though."

"How so?"

She was working her way through the chicken, the lamb, and the stewed venison on her plate. The girl had not been jesting about being hungry. "More oysters?" he asked.

"Please."

He served her, taking all but the last oyster from the dish and depositing them on her plate. "I would wager you are one of those girls who will venture to the edge of propriety, but never take a step beyond. In words you may take a risk, but never in deed."

She finished off the last of the venison and applied herself to the new batch of oysters. "I would not know."

"More pretty obfuscation?"

"No," she said, looking at him with an oyster on her fork, her eyes large and guileless. "I have never had the opportunity to find out." Then she downed the oyster.

He swallowed. Just who was this Miss Ambrose?

Vivian collapsed onto a love seat and with shaking fingers pushed back the limp curls that had begun to fall out near her damp face. The oysters, venison, fish, soup, chicken, four different wines, anchovy toasts, pigeon, tarts, fritters, and a cup of syllabub churned and roiled in her stomach.

"Tea?" Penelope asked.

"Yes, please." Perhaps it would settle her. The women of the party had at last retreated to the drawing room, the men still at the table with their claret. She had half an hour or so to compose herself and prepare for another round with Mr. Brent.

"Here you are," Penelope said, handing her a cup of tea, then sitting down beside her and leaning forward confidentially. "I didn't know you had it in you-what an artful thing you are!"

"I didn't know I had it in me, either," Vivian agreed, raising her cup in quivering fingers and taking a cautious sip.

"He's fascinated by you! Fascinated!"

"What is it that is wrong with him?"

"To be fascinated by you? Heaven only knows, but I won't argue with it."

"That is not what I meant."

"You are a handsome couple. How surprised Mama will be when you marry so shortly after coming to us!"

"Must I ask your mama what it is?"

"What what is? Really, cousin, you are being far too suspicious. Why not enjoy that a well-bred man has taken an interest in you? Though I must say that eating so greedily cannot have helped your cause any. No one could fail to remark upon it."

"'Twas Mr. Brent who insisted on serving me."

"You are not a child. You need not eat everything put before you."

But she did need to. Her nervousness with Mr. Brent had only increased her appetite, and however it had looked she had been unable to stop eating. She felt like a boiled Scottish haggis, ready to burst, and still she could not help thinking of the sweetmeats on the mistletoe pyramid.

"But tell me, you like him, don't you?" Penelope asked.

"I do not know him."

"But your impression so far?"

"He is… unexpected."

There seemed no other way to describe it. Each man who had been introduced to her this evening, she had wondered if he was the one Penelope meant she should snare. There was the gentleman farmer; but no, he had a wife. The vicar, too, and the baronet, of course. There were a few others, local gentry, but as she forced herself to converse with them, all had soon enough revealed themselves as being out of the marriage market, their wives elsewhere in the room.

And then Mr. Brent had been introduced to her, and she had almost lost her voice altogether. He was average in height, with a trim, square build, dark hair, and eyes of a rich coffee brown. His features were unremarkable, his nose perhaps too large, his eyes set too deep, but the animation of those plain features gave him an unquestionable attractiveness. There were those people whose smiles touched only their lips, but with Mr. Brent his whole face creased and crinkled, and his eyes met hers with intensity and intelligence.

She had never had a man look at her with such interest. She had never had anyone give her such flirtatious, individual attention in all the years of her life.

She was shy under his scrutiny and wanted to run. And at the same time she wanted to take no step that might cool that interest in Mr. Brent's eyes.

Luckily her time with Miss Marbury had taught her one thing well, and that was how to humor one bent on being difficult. It was plain that Mr. Brent fancied himself a bit of a rebel, and she had adjusted her behavior accordingly. She had not had time as yet to decide if he was a man worthy of being humored, or one she could, after all, marry. Her words to Penelope had been more bombast than substance, and she was not at all certain that she would have the courage to marry an odious man if given the opportunity.

Being a beggar among relations might not be a pleasant life, but it was the one she knew. Presented with the opportunity of escape, in reality and not just fantasy, she did not know if she was equal to the challenge.

The oysters in her stomach rolled and turned, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her.

"I'm going to be sick," she said, shoving her teacup at Penelope. Then she left her astonished cousin on the love seat, and ran from the room.

Chapter Three

Christmas Day

The Nativity

Haverton Hall

"I do hope Miss Ambrose can make it tonight," Elizabeth said. "I was surprised not to see her in church this morning."

Richard said nothing, pretending to be engrossed in his book. They were in the drawing room, supposedly enjoying a few moments of quiet. The children had been taken upstairs for their naps, and this would be the only lull in the day, for this evening the Twitchens would arrive for a small family dinner, as had been their custom for many years.

"You seemed fond of the girl," his sister's husband, Sir John, said.

Richard grunted and turned a page.

"I thought that was the only reason you came to church, on the chance of seeing her. What, no answer? You, of the famous forthrightness?" Sir John turned to his wife and said in a stage whisper, "By Jove, I think he is smitten with the girl. Have you ever seen him without a reply?"

"I am not smitten with her," Richard snapped, shutting his book and glaring first at his brother-in-law and then at his sister. "A trifle curious, perhaps. But not smitten."

"Mrs. Twitchen told me some of her history," Elizabeth volunteered, then did not continue.

Richard looked at her, grinding his teeth, the two of them in a duel of stubbornness. "Oh, all right!" he said at last. "Tell me what she said."

"Make him admit he's smitten first," Sir John teased.

"I don't think we should push our luck, darling," Elizabeth said. "He looks ready to pop a vessel as it is."

"But he's making a damn fine show. I haven't had this much fun since the vicar got drunk and came here to beg the hand of that upstairs chambermaid."

"Really, dearest," Elizabeth said. "Just because you've been fortunate enough to marry the perfect woman doesn't mean you should make fun of others in their quest for a similar happiness."

Sir John narrowed his eyes and chewed his upper lip, trying and failing to come up with a suitable rejoinder that would not get him into trouble.

"Now, as I was saying," Elizabeth moved on. "Mrs. Twitchen says that Miss Vivian Ambrose is her first cousin twice removed, and comes from one of the weaker branches of the family. She has no fortune or rank, and her parents were killed in a carriage accident when she was a small child. She has spent these last several years as a companion to an elderly aunt, and has not yet been out in society, although she is twenty-five years of age. Mrs. Twitchen is hoping to make the girl a match in London this season. She says she feels rather sorry for the awkward thing."

"She's not awkward," Richard argued, privately surprised at Miss Ambrose's age. She was only a year younger than himself. Her face did not show her years.

"Isn't she? Of course, I had only a few moments to speak with her. She seemed quite shy."

"I wonder if we spoke to the same young lady."

"It may have been weariness I noted," Elizabeth amended. "Mrs. Twitchen said she had been remiss in having the girl attend the dinner party, as she had only arrived that morning. The strain was too much for her, and she was forced to retire after dinner."

"Is that what happened, then?" he asked. He had been disappointed to arrive in the drawing room only to find the young Miss Ambrose missing, and had consequently been unable to think of anything but her the remainder of the evening.

"She was overcome quite suddenly. She seemed fine when she was talking with Miss Twitchen; then all of a sudden she ran from the room, and Miss Twitchen said she had taken ill."

"More likely Miss Twitchen said something to her," Richard said. "She's a little minx, is Penelope Twitchen." He shifted in his chair, reopening his book and pretending once again to read, although his mind was on what the girl likely had said to scare Miss Ambrose off.

He really should stop thinking about the girl. He was only doing himself damage by brooding over her. It used to be that his hopes would rise upon each introduction to a friendly young woman, but as he'd gotten to know them-those who did not spurn his conversation-his expectations had died, hope squeezed from his heart.

Miss Ambrose had, with her oyster gluttony and her taunting, frank remarks, stirred that last drop of hope remaining in him. He was caught between wishing for it to grow and wishing he could drain it onto the muddy ground and stomp it under his boot, so it could no longer cause him pain.

It would be all the better if Miss Ambrose did not come to dinner tonight. He could put an end to this nonsense in both his heart and mind.

The Twitchen carriage bounced and rolled along the lane leading to Haverton Hall, jostling its four occupants, who sat two across, bundled in their coats and hats. Outside the windows, the heavy, overcast sky blotted out the last hints of day, the countryside blanketed in a layer of shadows.

Vivian almost wished she were still ill, so that she did not need to attend this dinner. The nausea from greasy fried oysters was preferable to that induced by nerves. At least one could throw up oysters and be rid of them.

Last night she had not returned to the drawing room after being ill, for how could one come back? What explanation could one give for such an absence?

This morning had seen her confined to her bed while the family went to church. Mrs. Twitchen had fretted, blaming herself for Vivian's illness. "'Twas entirely too much strain for you, poor girl," the lady had apologized. "No, you must stay abed. I won't have you overexciting yourself. You should have rested yesterday, only I gave you no chance."

And so her breakfast and lunch had been sent up to her on a tray, and she had devoured them with good appetite, not having known that this dinner party was waiting for her in the evening. If she had, she'd have rung for a third tray.

The day abed had given her more time than she wanted to brood upon meeting Mr. Brent, however, and to suffer a dozen embarrassments over her own behavior. She ate a butter tart off the plate by her bed each time such a distressing memory came to mind.

Mr. Brent had coaxed her into being naughty, and she had let him do so. However much he might have enjoyed her antics, though, his opinion of her had to be low because of them. She had painted herself as fast and daring, and he had likely believed her, for what evidence had he to the contrary?

Another butter tart helped her worry over the question.

Men did not marry fast women; that was common knowledge. And yet, if that was what intrigued Mr. Brent, what other choice had she than to play that role?

If it was a role. It had come much more easily to her than ladylike behavior, with its subtle rules and unspoken commandments. Perhaps she was a coarse, unrefined woman at heart.

The carriage at last drew up under the porte cochere, and they got down and entered the house. Sir John and Lady Sudley greeted them, servants took their coverings, and they were ushered into the drawing room to pass the time before dinner.

And there was Mr. Brent, looking uncertain, and then their eyes met and for a moment his face lit up, then as quickly composed itself into a bland, noncommittal welcome.

"See if you can make him laugh again," Penelope whispered to Vivian, giving her a playful shove toward him.

"Push me again," Vivian whispered through gritted teeth, "and I'll spill red wine on this dress." It was a periwinkle gown she wore this time, with embroidery and beadwork over the bodice. Penelope had once again done her hair and her face, working with the same care and concentration as if Vivian were a spun-sugar castle to be presented to the king.

"I'm just encouraging you. You need a bit of that, I think," Penelope complained. "Dowdy girls usually do."

"Red wine, and grease from my dinner," she threatened.

"You can overcome many problems of face or figure with a bright personality," Penelope advised in a teasing tone. She seemed to be enjoying this marriage hunt far more than the huntress herself.

"Leave me alone," Vivian said, although Penelope's insults did serve to distract her from the matter at hand.

"And remember, it may be a feast day, but you needn't stuff yourself: we will have had a half-dozen of them by the end of the Christmas season. You're in no danger of starving." Penelope gave her another little shove toward Mr. Brent, and left her. Vivian watched her go, almost wishing she'd stayed, but when she turned she was startled to find Mr. Brent standing before her.

"Miss Ambrose, I was sorry to miss you the remainder of last evening," he said. "And now look, you are being shy with me."

She saw the devilish light in his eyes, and out of the swirling mass of confused choices for how she should behave-innocent or knowing, shy or fast, flirtatious or proper-what came forward was the truth. "I am being shy because I am shy, Mr. Brent."

"You do not seem so to me."

"Only because you make outrageous comments that encourage a similarly outrageous response. You are enough to put any young woman on edge."

"Not any young woman would answer as you just have."

"I don't know any better," she said.

He laughed. "And I pray you never learn. Last night's conversation was one of the most enjoyable I've had in recent memory."

"I had been hoping you would forget it."

"Impossible. And I would never want to."

She blushed, fidgeted, yearned for a bit of spice cake, then looked around for something to comment upon. She was aware of him watching her, taking in each uneasy movement. She combed back through her memory of their conversation at dinner the night before, and finally found something to say.

"You never answered my question last night."

"Which was that?"

"I asked if you had advice for me for hunting a husband during the season," she said, hoping it did not sound as if she were asking advice for hunting him-although that actually was what she was doing. Not that she could use whatever information he gave her; it would be too transparent. Oh, heavens, why had she said anything at all?

"That all depends upon which sort you wish to catch. You must dangle the proper bait for the beast."

"I have only one very poor bit of bait to dangle, and it rules out fortune hunters and social climbers."

"That is a shame. Many a young lady has made her match with such," he said. " London is full of them."

"I was rather counting on an elderly gentleman with a comfortable income."

"Simply because they are aged does not mean they are any less likely to want an heiress," Mr. Brent said. "Their greed does not slow with their limbs."

"Dear me. How about impetuous youths who have already inherited, and so cannot be disowned for making a bad match?"

"Those are difficult to catch, and make poor husbands, being prone to drink and gambling. Like as not you will end up living on credit, and soon enough be bankrupt."

"There is no point in returning from whence I started," she said.

Mr. Brent seemed to be enjoying this vein of conversation. She was almost enjoying it herself. He dared her to say the thoughts that she would normally not utter even to herself. She had spent her life speaking only those words that would please her benefactors, pretending to be much nicer than she knew herself to be, hiding her darkest, most selfish and discontented thoughts for fear they would show on her face and betray her as a woman unworthy of even grudging charity.

"An exceedingly ugly man might prove acceptable," she proposed. "I think I could grow to love him, if he had a sweet temper."

"He will either be so vain as to think himself worthy of a better match, or so shy he will never manage to offer."

"A sick man, then, who needs an heir before he dies?"

"The competition will be fierce. What young lady would not like to be a wealthy widow, free to do as she pleased?"

"That is a harsh view to take," Vivian argued. "I do not believe that one in a thousand young ladies would be so calculating."

"You said yourself you would be willing."

"For the sake of having a husband, not for being his widow. Really, Mr. Brent, you have a jaded view of womankind."

"Not as jaded as I could wish," he said. The next moment dinner was announced, interrupting their conversation and leaving her to wonder what he could possibly mean by such a statement.

The dinner table was too small, the company too cozy and close to engage in suggestive banter. Vivian was seated next to Captain Twitchen, Mr. Brent across from her. The family spoke of relations not present or long dead, dredging up memories in which she could not share.

She kept a vacant smile on her lips and concentrated on dinner.

Mr. Brent caught her eye several times, looking with a questioning brow at her plate, then at the dishes arrayed around the table. She had only to let her gaze linger upon some platter beyond her reach, and he would move it nearer to her. If the captain was engrossed in telling a tale and did not notice she was waiting to be served yet again, Mr. Brent dared her with his eyes to serve herself.

So she did. There were two removes between main courses, and she was almost feeling full by the time dessert was finished and Lady Sudley signaled the ladies' retreat to the drawing room.

The tea had been poured and distributed, and Penelope had gone to the pianoforte to stumble through some of the sheet music there, when two nursemaids appeared in the doorway, white-gowned toddlers and young children around their knees.

"My lady, the children wished to say good night," one of the maids said, as the plump creatures spilled into the room. One went for the spaniel that had been curled harmlessly by the fire; one waddled to Lady Sudley; another sprang to the table where the tea things stood, his small hands reaching up to play with the sugar dish and creamer; and the last wobbled to the pianoforte and added his own notes to Penelope's soon-halted playing.

The spaniel cast a long-suffering look to the adults in the room, then slunk off to hide beneath a divan. Deprived of her target, the little girl of about four years went to join the younger boy at the tea tray.

"She looks more like you every day," Mrs. Twitchen said, nodding toward another girl, who had crawled into Lady Sudley's lap.

"She has her father's sense of mischief, though. Don't you, my naughty pumpkin?"

"Nooo," the girl protested, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck.

Vivian blinked at the four children, trying to match their ages with the length of Lady Sudley's marriage, wondering how she could have produced so many so quickly.

An altercation arose at the tea tray. The boy-not more than two, surely-had a spoon in his fist, and the girl was trying to take it away. The girl wrenched it from his hand, and the boy wailed, then went with flying fists at his sibling.

"William! Sara!" came a harsh male voice from behind Vivian. "Stop it at once!"

"My 'poon! Mine!" William wailed, striking his sister again.

Sara shoved the boy, and he fell onto his round backside. It was not a long distance to fall, but the indignity of it overtook him, and he threw himself face-first to the carpet and howled.

"Sara! What did I tell you?" Mr. Brent said, stepping into the fray. "Give me the spoon."

"But, Papa!"

"At once!"

Sara held tight to it a moment longer, then with a pout handed it over.

"Now apologize to your brother."

Sara knelt down beside the still-howling William and patted his back. "'S'all right, Willie. I'm sorry."

William took a breath and gave a howl of a higher pitch. Sara bent over and looked at her brother face-to-face. He turned to the other side. She followed and put her hands over her eyes.

"Who's that?" she said, taking them away from her face.

William's howls stopped. Sara covered her eyes again.

"Who's that? Is that Willie?" she asked, revealing herself again.

"'S Sara," he said.

Vivian watched wide-eyed as Mr. Brent picked William up from the floor, holding him against his side, over his hip, with the ease of long practice. William flopped against his father with his arms straight at his sides, his still-red face looking down at his sister with an unreadable expression.

"You're overtired, the both of you," Mr. Brent said, then kissed William on the temple and handed him to one of the nursemaids. Sara had her arms raised and waiting, and he picked her up and carried her after the retreating maid. "You cannot simply grab things from people, Sara," he said gently as he went out the door.

Vivian barely noticed as Lady Sudley said good night to the two remaining children, bundling them off with their nursemaid. She was too caught in the utter shock of what she had just learned.

Mr. Brent had children! Was that why Penelope thought him willing to take anyone for a wife, that and his rather questionable social graces? And what of Mrs. Brent; what had happened to her? Was she dead?

Or perhaps-the most shocking possibility of all-the two had divorced. That would explain Penelope's attitude better than anything. She wondered what terrible deeds could have made them choose such a course, if that was in truth what had happened.

The future she had been planning in her mind without knowing, a future where she and Mr. Brent were married and started their own family, fell to pieces. He had already had a family, and would not be looking with any great eagerness to starting yet another. If they had a child, it would be the third for him, and no astounding miracle.

He had a whole history of which she was unaware, a whole life that had been lived before she met him. There had been a woman he had loved and lost, who had borne him children, and who might very well still be heavy in his thoughts.

She was a fool. Of course he had a previous life. Did she think the world had stood still for everyone as she had tended to Miss Marbury all those years?

Mr. Brent was a father. Although she did not guess their difference in ages to be much, the difference in their experiences was. Her naive plans to entice him into marriage now seemed childish and silly. The man had children! He had had a wife once already! And what was Vivian, but awkward and dowdy in her borrowed finery, playing at being fast for his momentary entertainment, making herself an amusement of no value? He must think her a fool.

And even if he did have an interest in her-even if so!- she did not know if she had the strength to be anyone's step-mama.

The captain and Sir John had rejoined them, and by the time Mr. Brent returned from tucking his children into bed she had managed, she hoped, to hide her distress. She volunteered to play when a game of piquet was called for, and smiled blankly at Mr. Brent when he sat across from her.

After the game was finished she found a plate of small lemon tarts on a side table, and ate them, every one.

They had returned to Copley Grange, everyone yawning and speaking of bed, but Vivian followed Penelope into her dressing room nonetheless and badgered her young cousin as she began to undress.

"Why did you not tell me he had children?"

"Oh, la!" Penelope said, waving her hand as if it were nothing. "Two tiny children; they were not worth mentioning. You would not be the first woman to become a stepmother."

"You could have prepared me!"

"I thought it would make a pleasant surprise."

"Pleasant? How could you think so?"

"Dear Vivian, you did say that you wanted to have children, a family of your own. Now here is one ready-made! You needn't ruin your figure in the bearing of them, and they are old enough to speak, which you must admit makes them much more interesting. Think what a lot of fuss and bother you have been saved!"

"But they aren't mine."

"They might as well be. There is no one else being a mother to them."

"What happened to Mrs. Brent?"

Penelope turned away and put her ear bobs in her jewelry box, remaining with her back to Vivian. "I really couldn't say anything about their mother."

"Can't, or won't?"

"I am not certain of the entire tale."

"Is she dead? You can surely tell me that much."

"Really, Vivian. You must stop pestering me with such questions. What does any of that matter? It is Mr. Brent who interests you, not a woman from his past. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, stifling a false yawn, "I really must get to bed."

It was plain she would get no more information from Penelope. She tried for several more minutes anyway, then gave up and went to her room, undressing by the light of a single candle and slipping into the cool sheets of her bed.

She could not sleep. In addition to the lemon tarts, she had drunk four or five cups of coffee-she'd lost count-and in consequence was left with her mind running like a wind-up toy, clickety-clack, around and around and around again.

Little Sara and William. Could she be a mother to two such children? They were as rosy-faced and plump as any others of their ages, as noisy, as troublesome, as sweet, as innocent. There was no reason she should not grow to love them, and young as they were they would call her Mama, having known no other.

It would not be like caring for Miss Marbury had been, that dark and thankless task. Sara and William might love her back, which would be infinite reward for her caretaking.

Still, it was overwhelming to think of becoming a mother of two upon an instant. When she had imagined marriage, she had never imagined that children would already be present, with their demands upon their father's attention. She could never begrudge a child time with its father-not after having been so unhappily without one herself.

Yet she knew it was possible she might be jealous of the time he gave to them. She was ashamed to admit to such a selfish thought, but she would have to overcome it if she were to seriously consider wedding Mr. Brent. Sara and William were not going away, and if she were to be a stepmother she would rather be a loving one than an evil one.

And if she were to bear Mr. Brent children herself, would they be as dear to him as those from his first wife? Or would they be merely number three and number four?

There was so much to consider. Sara and William had shattered her girlish fantasies, and she was faced with the challenges of what a true marriage might entail. Mr. Brent did not smell like moldy potatoes and had more wit than the usual rabbit, but choosing a life with him would not be easy.

There was one bright spot, though.

Whatever dark stains might be attached to Mr. Brent's name-for surely there were stains, if Penelope yet insisted on remaining silent on the question of his past marriage-the stains could not extend to his true character. For all her shock at seeing that he was a father, she had also seen that he loved his children dearly, and they him. He was gentle where another might have been harsh, and his tenderness toward Sara and William touched her heart deeply.

It was that tenderness-toward children she did not know if she had the courage herself to mother-that eased her mind and allowed her to drift into sleep.

Chapter Four

December 26, Boxing Day

The Feast of Saint Stephen the Martyr

"Look, Vivian, it is Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent. What good fortune!" Penelope crowed.

Vivian's fingers tightened on the strings of the boxes she carried. It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, and she, Penelope, and Mrs. Twitchen had descended upon the tradespeople in the village of Corfe Castle to dispense small gifts of money and mincemeat pies, which would be eaten over the remaining days of Christmas. It should be no surprise to find Lady Sudley out with boxes of her own.

Vivian felt the sudden urge to tear open one of the boxes she carried and consume its contents.

Their small group approached Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent, meeting up in the narrow cobbled street in front of the draper's shop. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged,

Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley talking of who they had already been to see.

Vivian met Mr. Brent's eyes. There was a question in his expression, buried but readable to one who was accustomed to observation. She smiled tentatively, and was rewarded by his own smile and a wink, which made her blush and look down.

"Have you been to see the ruins, Mr. Brent?" Penelope asked in a lull between Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley. It was a rather ingenuous question, Vivian thought. The ruins were in plain sight of the village, and no one who had spent time in Corfe Castle could possibly have missed exploring them. "Vivian has not. It would be a pity for her to leave the district without having once set foot in them."

"You should take the young ladies," Lady Sudley said to her brother. "It is a fine day for it. Don't you think it a grand idea, Mrs. Twitchen?"

Penelope's mother made a faint sound of dismay, while smiling in apparently cheerful agreement.

"Then let us take advantage of the weather," Mr. Brent said. "After luncheon?" he proposed to Vivian and Penelope.

"Oh, yes," Penelope answered.

"Miss Ambrose?"

"Certainly," she said, knowing that her face must show her trace of uncertainty at the prospect. Penelope was going to be worthless as a chaperone, that much she knew, and was probably going to try to persuade her to some indiscretion.

They made their good-byes and continued with the distribution of boxes.

"Miss Ambrose-Vivian, dear," Mrs. Twitchen said, as they left the butcher's shop some minutes later. "I do think I ought to warn you-I was remiss in not saying something sooner-only he is brother-in-law to a baronet and the grandson of an earl-but Mr. Brent is not entirely a gentleman, and you should not entertain thoughts-"

"Mama, don't you think we should have a box for Mr. Simms, who ordered that sheet music for me last month?" Penelope interrupted.

"We do have a box for him, darling."

"Do we? No, I don't think we do. I've counted, and we haven't enough."

"Nonsense. Let me check the carriage," Mrs. Twitchen said, leading them back to the vehicle.

"I knew there was something more wrong with him," Vivian whispered to her cousin.

"Don't let Mama fill your head with tales. You seem to like him well enough. Why not judge him by that, rather than stories?"

"They must be terrible stories if your mama wants to warn me away from him."

"She'd be happy enough to have another of the baronet's family as a relation."

"It doesn't sound that way," Vivian said.

"Never mind what she may think. The point is to have you married. You might as well marry Mr. Brent as anyone you would meet in London. I doubt you'll find a richer husband, not without fortune or rank of your own, or a prettier face."

"One would think he would have his choice of young ladies, if he is wealthy," Vivian said, trying to ignore the hurtful comment. While no longer hostile, as she had been upon the day of Vivian's arrival, Penelope still punctuated her kindnesses with instants of thoughtless cruelty.

"Ah, but you are the only choice here. Take advantage of that while you may. I would."

"Yet you do not."

"He's too old for me, and I have to have my season. I wouldn't give that up even for the eldest son of a duke."

She probably wouldn't, either. There were moments Vivian thought nothing mattered to her cousin more than appearing at balls and assemblies in solitary, expensively garbed glory- no matter what it cost, in money or hurt feelings.

"King Edward was murdered here by his stepmother Elfrida in 978," Penelope said as they passed through the arch in the crumbling curtain wall and beheld the hill upon which the ruins of the castle stood. "It was probably just a hunting lodge here at the time. But it was a castle when King John starved twenty-two French nobles to death in the dungeons. It's haunted, you know, by a headless woman in white who floats down the hill and then disappears."

"Who is the ghost?" Vivian asked.

Richard grinned at Penelope's dramatics, and at Vivian's eager interest in spirits. He'd spent little time in Penelope's company in the past, and had assumed her to be a spoiled child with thoughts only for herself. It was surprising that she seemed to have become so quickly attached to her new cousin.

"Some say it is Lady Bankes. She valiantly defended the castle during the civil war, but a member of the garrison betrayed her and let in the parliamentarians. It was they who tore the walls of the castle down, out of pure spite."

"That doesn't account for her losing her head," Richard said. "And I don't know what good it would do to float down the hillside every now and then. Seems a waste of effort, for a ghost."

"Maybe it is Elfrida, then, doomed to roam the scene of her greatest sin," Penelope amended.

"Or maybe it is fog of an evening and a drunken fool. That seems the better explanation, albeit less thrilling."

"Ow!" Penelope exclaimed, stumbling.

Vivian caught at her cousin, helping her keep her balance. "What is it? Are you all right?"

"My ankle. I've twisted it. Help me to that stone over there," the girl said, pointing to a convenient resting place not three steps away.

"Does it hurt? Can you stand?" Vivian asked as she lowered Penelope to the stone.

"It's minor. Just a momentary twist. If I rest here for a spell I should be fine."

"We should take you back to the grange."

"No, no. You and Mr. Brent go up to the ruins. When you return, I promise I shall be quite restored."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Go!"

Vivian frowned at her cousin, then turned to him. She raised her brows in question, and he smiled and shrugged, offering his arm. Penelope's acting would never win her a place on the stage, and it was not difficult to see through her little ploy.

Vivian took his arm, and they started up the narrow, muddy track through the grass. The sky was heavy with clouds, the sun occasionally breaking through in pale yellow, and there was a damp breeze from off the sea a few miles distant. The few remaining segments of castle wall stood like towers against the turbulent skies, and bore the pockmarks of the parliamentarians' destructive forces.

"It's a pity they destroyed it," Vivian said, after they had left Penelope out of earshot on her rock. "It must have been lovely."

"They probably had fun doing it. Boys and men, they both are forever looking for something they can blow up."

"You, too?"

"When I was a boy. My friends and I made a cannon out of an old oak water pipe, and set it off in a field, using a sapling to brace and aim it, and hiding behind a small wall of earth. We were lucky we weren't killed."

"What happened?"

"Damn thing exploded," he said, remembering with a laugh. "The whole cannon: shards of wood everywhere. You'd think we'd been in a sea battle and the deck had been hit-three separate villages heard the blast, and thought Boney had landed and was marching into the countryside. We wouldn't have admitted it was us, only one of my friends got a wedge of oak in his thigh. A hairbreadth to one side, and he would have cut the artery and bled to death."

"Good heavens!"

He shrugged. "Typical for boys. Just as my sister and your cousin are being typical for women, with their matchmaking," he said, taking a risk and wanting to see her reaction.

She gaped up at him.

"Come now, Miss Ambrose. You cannot be unaware of their machinations."

"No," she admitted.

"Did you encourage Miss Twitchen, or was it her own idea?" he asked, breaking all the rules of romantic fencing, and knowing it was unfair of him to do so. He should not ask such a thing without stating his own wishes first. She would be within her rights to abandon him here and go back to rejoin her cousin. Still, he was interested to see if she were as daring as he hoped. He waited to see what she would do.

"What a question!" she said, looking away from him, her bonnet blocking her face from his view.

"Even on such brief acquaintance as we have, you must know that I am not one for veilings of the truth. Will you answer?" he asked, pushing her.

"And leave you with no mystery to solve?" she asked.

"I don't play games," he said, knowing it for a lie, for what was he doing now, if not trying to trick a confession from her?

"I do not think it is a game for a woman to protect the secrets of her heart," she said.

"So you have secrets?" he asked, not believing it, and yet hoping it was true.

"As do you, apparently."

"You think so?" he asked, suddenly feeling exposed. If he said he wanted to know much more about her, if he said he was attracted to her and enjoyed her company, if he was as forthright in matters of the heart as he made such an issue of being in other aspects of his life, would she run or would she stay? "I may have a secret or two," he admitted.

"I have heard hints."

"You have?"

"Of your former wife…"

"Wife? I have had no wife," he said, taken aback by the unexpected turn in conversation.

She stopped and looked to him, confusion in her expression and her tone. "But Sara and William? They are yours, are they not?"

"They are, but I have had no wife." He sighed, feeling his hopes once again draining away. It should get easier to accept rejection over time, and yet it never did. He had attempted to court a handful of women over the past few years, and when they heard what he was about to tell Vivian, they had all turned from him and made it clear that pursuance of his suit would not be welcome. "I thought someone would have told you-last night, surely, if not before."

"You are worrying me, Mr. Brent."

"My children's mother and I were not married. She was my mistress."

"Oh," she said softly, and he saw the hurt of disappointment in her eyes.

"The situation was nothing unusual, I am sorry to say. I am hardly the first man to sire children out of wedlock." The words sounded a miserable excuse even as he said them, as if he were trying to weasel out of his own past. "Sara and William are my heirs. They bear my name, and any woman I marry would have to raise them as her own, beside any children we might have together."

It was that last point that was so unpalatable to gently bred women. Bastards beside their own offspring? Bastards, heirs along with their own children? He could hardly berate them for following dictates of society in which they had been schooled since birth. They could not help their inability to accept bastards into their care.

And he, loving Sara and William as he did, could not accept a woman as wife who would not love his children.

"What of their mother?" Vivian asked softly.

"She is somewhere in London, with a new protector. She broke off our affair shortly after William was born, and did not protest when I demanded the children." He shrugged, beginning to feel angry and defensive on behalf of his offspring. "She sends gifts on occasion, and visits them once or twice a year, although less frequently as time goes on."

"Did you love her?"

"I thought so for a time, but it was based on illusion. I saw her beauty and her charm, and nothing of who she truly was. I was young and stupid, but I would not have Sara and William pay any more of the price for my idiocy than they already must."

"It was… quite remarkable of you to claim them as you have."

"I am their father," he said, the simplicity of the statement his only way to express the strength of the bond he shared with them. "I could not leave them without my name, without my protection, to be raised by strangers or by a mother who paid them little care. And I will not wed a woman who cannot give them the love they deserve. Better that they remain motherless than be subject to an unloving and jealous one."

He met Vivian's troubled gaze, holding it with his own. "Now you are wondering what you are doing here alone with me. I am no marriage prospect, as you were led to believe."

"You have surprised me, that is all," Vivian said, the weakness of her voice belying the words. She tried to smile. "I had been expecting to hear that you were divorced, or had beaten your wife, or that she had thrown herself from a window in despair of being married to you."

"That would have been better?"

"No, only more expected," she said, and to his astonishment her strained smile stretched to one more natural, as if she could almost see humor in the situation. Where, he did not know.

"I say, I don't look like a wife beater, do I?" he asked.

"I would not know. But perhaps you are someone a woman would throw herself from a window to avoid."

"I think some have tried."

"Perhaps if you made a habit of being more polite in your speech, a little more fawning and gracious, they might ponder longer before the leap."

"I prefer to have the truth laid out plain and unadorned, and let people think what they may." They resumed walking up the hill toward the ruins, skirting at least for the moment the subject of his past mistress. He did not fool himself into thinking it was an issue she could so easily overlook, and wondered what thoughts would eat away at her later, when she had time to think it through.

"Yes, you seem to have made a special effort to make yourself as blunt in your speech as possible."

"You are well matching me in that," he said, enjoying the banter, and willing to endure whatever arrows she chose to shoot at him as long as she kept talking.

"Only because it seems to be what you respond to best."

"Then you admit to humoring me, for your own ends."

"And what if I do? Don't we all do that?" she asked, slightly out of breath from the climb. Even through her breathing he could hear the trace of bitterness in her voice.

They had reached the top of the hill, and the heart of the ruins. He stopped so that she could catch her breath, and so that they could both take in the stone walls that rose and tilted and tumbled around them.

"It should have been time that did this," he said, gesturing to the stones around them, "not men."

"It does take away the romance," she agreed.

He led her in a slow circuit of the ruins, and paused with her at an opening in the stones that looked down over the valley and the village of Corfe Castle, gray against the green of the rolling hills.

"Do you always humor those around you?" he asked, not willing to let that bitterness escape unexplored.

"I haven't had much choice," she said, still looking down upon the view.

"It seems a hard way to live, always pleasing others and never yourself."

"One becomes trained in it," she said, "like a cook or a seamstress. It becomes one's work, for it is how one earns one's bread."

"That hardly seems to be a wise thing to admit."

"I am being honest about my dishonesty," she said, and looked up at him with confusion. "Only, with you, the more I seek to be as straightforward as you wish, the less I know if I am seeking to please you, or to please myself. I am growing to like saying what I think."

"And did you calculate that that is precisely the right thing to say to me?" he asked lightly, although his heart was thumping in his chest. It was so long since he had been with someone who could speak plainly to him of her thoughts. He had told himself for nearly two years that if he could find a woman who cared more for the honesty of her heart than for appearances, he would find a woman with whom he could share his life.

He wanted a wife. He wanted someone with whom to grow old, and watch their children grow. He wanted someone to pull into his arms at night, and sleep warm against him. He wanted someone who knew him completely, and whom he could know to the depths of her being. Life was not meant to be lived alone.

"Do stop thinking about yourself and what a grand matrimonial catch you are," she said, stepping away and finding a seat on a fallen bit of wall.

His lips parted in surprise, her words like cold rain against the warmth of his desires. They reminded him that he had not won her yet.

"Are you now thinking that you have created a monster?" she asked. "So be it. My nerves are worn from this, this…" She paused, waving her hand around. "Whatever you call this interplay between men and women. You don't have anything to eat, do you?"

"No, I'm sorry," he said, smiling to himself. Perhaps he should carry a pocketful of treats and win her that way. Would that do it?

She put her hand over her stomach and frowned. "That's all right. I don't think I'm as hungry as I thought." She cocked her head, staring at him in surprise. "Actually, the more I say what is on my mind, the less hungry I become. It seems quite beneficial."

"It's what I've come to believe."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he fidgeted under her assessing gaze. He sat down beside her, if only to escape such frank scrutiny. She had managed to turn the tables neatly upon him, taking on the role of frank examiner that he was accustomed to having as his own.

"I think there's a touch of self-righteousness to your honesty," she said.

"Self-righteousness?" he repeated, appalled.

"Dear me, have I gone too far, and shared too much truth?"

"I am not self-righteous," he said in a priggish tone that seemed to prove the opposite.

"Self-righteous and a bit of a coward," she continued, "as much so as I am."

He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling more uncomfortable by the moment. "Explain yourself."

"All this honesty-you think it makes you unassailable because you are virtuous." The accusation came in a straightforward manner, and she caught him with her eyes. "You use your bluntness to guard yourself, and scare people away."

"Nonsense."

"I am not berating you for it."

"I did not say you were. I'm saying it's nonsense. I say what I think because I'm tired of hypocrisy, not because I want to frighten people." As he spoke, he became aware that he was protesting too much, aware that he would not be defensive if she had not come close to a truth he would rather not examine.

"Mmm."

"You don't believe me?"

"You know your reasoning better than I," she said, in a tone that suggested very much the opposite.

"I'm not trying to scare you now," he said, and laid his hand over hers.

She laughed nervously, moving her hand beneath his as if she might pull it away. "Aren't you?"

Maybe he was. Maybe he was trying to keep her from seeing clearly into him before he was ready to reveal all his faults and weaknesses. He wanted her to see the better side of him, to focus her attention on what he could offer her rather than what he might lack.

The best defense was an offense, was it not?

He picked up her gloved hand, feeling its fine trembling. He watched her expression, her lips parting, her eyes on their two hands. Her nervous expectation was contagious, and he found his own heart beating rapidly; he was frightened that she would pull away, yet he wanted more than anything to continue.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. She jerked her hand, and he tightened his grip, not letting her go.

"Mr. Brent…" she said.

"Richard. My name is Richard." Let her say his name; let her accept him. Let this grow to be more than a brief acquaintance.

He opened her hand and laid her palm against his cheek, then turned his face so that he could kiss the inside of her wrist where it was left exposed at the edge of her glove.

She caught her breath.

He drew in the faint scent of her, mingled with the leather and the wool, delicate and feminine and ineffably precious. This was something he wanted in his life for more than an afternoon.

He pushed up her sleeve an inch, and followed it with his lips, then painted a stroke upon her soft skin with the tip of his tongue, losing himself in the velvety smoothness and warmth.

"Mr. Brent!" The words were breathless, and again she tried to pull her hand away, and again he stopped her.

"Richard. Call me by my Christian name."

"You must stop," she said. But the words were half-hearted.

He sucked against her wrist, using his tongue to rub her, willing her to feel the same heat that was growing in him, willing her to feel the beginnings of a bond between them and the promise it might hold for the future.

"You must… Richard…" she said, and when he looked up at her from under his brows he saw that her eyes were half-closed, and she was leaning toward him.

He began to slowly peel her glove down her hand, exposing its heel and the base of her thumb. He slid his finger under the thin leather, rubbing against the palm of her hand, which was damp and warm in the confines of the glove. Her fingers curled inward, and her breathing quickened.

"This is indecent," she whispered. Her pupils had grown into black pools against the sea green irises. She wet her lips.

He peeled the glove another two inches, to the base of her fingers, and kissed the palm of her hand. He scraped against her skin with his teeth, and then with the tip of his tongue penetrated into the tight vee exposed between each finger, imagining behind his closed eyes his tongue working more intimate places than her hand, imagining his mouth at the warm heart of her, making her moan with pleasure in the dark confines of his bed.

He felt his own body responding to the feel of her skin against his tongue, and to the sound of her quickened breathing. He wanted more than her hand: he wanted much more than any young lady would permit upon such short acquaintance, however bold she tried to be.

If he allowed this to go any further he might truly scare her away, and that was something he was not willing to risk.

He kissed her palm once more, then reluctantly pulled the glove back down her hand. He released her, then gently brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek, as if his hand could kiss her for him.

"Your cousin will be wondering what has become of us," he said softly.

"Will she?" she asked, as if lost in a dream.

"She will, and she's likely half-frozen by now, which serves her right for pretending to be hurt." He stood and helped Vivian to her feet.

"I do not regret that she did. Good gracious," Vivian said, looking down at her gloved hand. "I had never thought of such a thing happening to my hand."

He laughed, and laid his own hand over hers in the crook of his arm. He felt hopeful, and giddy with it. A quiet voice warned that it was wisest to go slowly, that it was too soon to know if they were right for one another, but he ignored it.

For this one moment, he would allow himself to hope.

Chapter Five

December 27

The Feast of Saint John the Evangelist

"Vivian, my dear," Mrs. Twitchen said. "I am so glad to have found you alone."

Vivian was curled into a corner of a window seat, pillows beneath and around her to ward off the chill through the glass, a book in her lap to make it seem she was otherwise occupied than watching the drive in hopes that Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent might come to call.

Penelope was upstairs, fussing over whether or not to change the trim on her white presentation gown. She had forestalled all her mother's attempts at speaking on the topic of Mr. Brent, but as Mrs. Twitchen sat herself down on the window seat Vivian felt no quiver of foreboding.

Richard had already explained about Sara and William's mother, in more detail than Mrs. Twitchen would share. She could understand why Mrs. Twitchen had been concerned, but she thought that she would, in time, be able to overcome the discomfort the thought of that fallen woman brought her.

Jealousy nibbled at her heart when she thought of the woman he had loved and who had given him children who were the center of his world. By his own admission the woman was beautiful and charming, and though he discounted those traits as valueless, she knew she would be tempted to hold herself against them in weak comparison, and to wonder if Richard had any last ember of feeling for the woman.

She would be strong, though; she would not let such thoughts destroy her confidence. It was as Penelope had said: he would value Vivian as Vivian valued herself. She would not let thoughts of the former mistress destroy her chance at happiness.

To let the past eat at her would be to invite a lifetime of distress, if it should happen that she and Richard were to wed. The woman, having not had the good grace to die or move to South America, would be making regular, if infrequent, appearances in Sara's and William's lives. Which meant-if Vivian became Mrs. Brent-in her own life, as well.

It was not a pleasant thought.

Neither was it an undigestible thought. There was much she could swallow if it meant becoming Mrs. Brent, and she was almost embarrassed to admit that a fair deal of the persuasion had been done by Richard's mouth on her hand.

She had relived a dozen times his seduction of her hand, and with each remembrance her body flushed anew with pleasure, her blood warming and tingling in intimate places. She schemed in her mind for how they might next find a private moment together, when he could again take her hand and ravish it.

Or ravish all of her. Let him have her! Then they would have to marry, and she would rush to the prize without having to play all the steps in the game. Only the prize was no longer marriage for the sake of marriage, but was Richard himself.

She saw his tenderness for his children; she saw his vulnerability that he hid behind his blunt words; she saw that his scandalous decisions regarding his children were the only choices that had true honor to them, not the false honor of society. He was a good man, with a true and gentle heart.

And he made her body feel things she would not speak of to Penelope or Mrs. Twitchen for all the cakes in France.

She was so consumed with thoughts of Richard that she had eaten only half the gingerbread on her plate. It sat now in a pool of lemon sauce on the small table with her cold cup of tea.

"Is something amiss?" she asked Mrs. Twitchen, as the woman sat next to her in the window seat. She pulled up her feet to make more space.

"Nothing so far, I do hope, and it is my duty to prevent what I may. Only this is so very awkward and embarrassing, Mr. Brent being a relative of sorts. And from such a good family! One hesitates to say anything against him, yet I feel I must, I simply must warn you away from him."

"Is it the mother of his children that distresses you?"

"You know about that, then?" the lady asked, surprised.

"He told me himself."

"Then he told you as well about the other woman, the young lady of good family whom he jilted?"

Vivian sucked in a breath, taken by the same surprise with which one slips and falls on the ice.

"I see he did not," Mrs. Twitchen said. "Dear me, I do hate telling such tales, and about one almost in my own family! It was a horrible scandal. They were engaged, and he broke it off without explanation. The girl's father sued for breach of contract, and besides for paying her a settlement Mr. Brent was forced to put an apology accepting all blame in the Gazette. Of course, no one will have anything to do with him now."

"Surely he had some reason?"

"If he did, he never spoke publicly of it. And who would dare to ask?"

"I can hardly warrant that he is guilty of such a thing," Vivian said, willing herself to disbelieve.

"Mr. Brent may have kind places in his heart, but that does not mean you can trust him. Men are not always what they seem when they have their eye on a young woman and are pursuing her. Remember, even a tyrant like Napoleon probably had one or two good traits amidst all the rest, and I imagine he could be as charming as any other when he pleased."

"Mr. Brent does not seem like such a man," Vivian said faintly, her view of him turned upside down, tumbling away from the image she had built, all her growing affections now in peril of destruction.

"Be careful, my dear," Mrs. Twitchen said. "My husband and I are in agreement. We don't want to see you hurt, or what chances you have at making a match ruined."

"Thank you," Vivian said.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon staring out the window at nothing. And eating gingerbread.

Chapter Six

December 28

The Feast of the Holy Innocents

The great hall at Haverton rang with the excited shouts and laughter of children. The puppet show had just finished, and now the thirty or so children were going at the sweets and the games. Adults milled among them, imposing the barest sense of order.

"It's a Sudley tradition on Innocents' Day," Penelope said, standing beside Vivian as they observed the chaos. "I remember coming here as a child, myself. All the children of the parish are invited, no matter who their parents might be. Mama never liked me playing with the common children, but it didn't bother me overmuch that they were present, and really, it was easy enough to stay away from them."

Watching the children, Vivian thought they showed far less snobbishness than Penelope. The well- and poorly dressed played games and ran around with the same shrieking joy, and those who stuck to their own kind seemed to do so only because they were known friends.

Her eye lit upon Richard keeping an eye on William, who was trying to play with boys larger than himself. Her heart contracted, and she felt suddenly wistful, wondering what it would have been like to grow up protected by such a loving hand. She had never met a man like Richard Brent, who was so closely involved in the rearing of his children.

Mrs. Twitchen had tried to warn her away from him, and the tale of the jilting preyed upon her mind, adding its weight to the mistress and the children as things she would have to accept, but she had to believe that once she heard Richard's side, he would prove to have had good reason for his actions.

Surely there must have been good reason? She could not have been so wrong about him, could she?

The tables of sweets beckoned to her, and she excused herself from Penelope and wound her way toward them.

Three or four women guarded the tables, ensuring that greedy fingers did not wreak havoc. They talked among themselves, and nodded their greetings to Vivian as she looked over the goods on offer.

"They're darlings, but it's a bit of a madhouse, don't you think?" someone said beside her.

She turned to see Lady Sudley. "It's a lovely idea," she said, feeling a little shy.

"And no doubt every child will go home sick from overeating and excitement." And then to Sara Brent, who had appeared at her side, reaching for a jam tart, "Sara! Little elf, what are you up to?"

"Papa said I could have some," Sara said, her hand hovering over the prize.

"Did he? Well, I suppose that's all right then," Lady Sudley consented. "Miss Ambrose, this is Sara Brent."

"Hello, Miss Brent," Vivian said, waggling her fingers at the girl.

Sara said nothing.

"Sara, Miss Ambrose is going to watch after you for a bit. Do be good for her," Lady Sudley said. And then to Vivian: "You don't mind, do you? There is so much for me to oversee…" She trailed off, looking at Vivian expectantly.

"No, not at all," Vivian agreed.

"Splendid," Lady Sudley said, and with that the woman glided off.

Sara looked up at her, then grabbed the jam tart and took a bite.

"Is it good?" Vivian asked. If it had been anyone's child but Richard's, she would have been at ease, for it would not have mattered if they did or did not like each other. But with this child it did matter, and in consequence she was tense.

Sara nodded.

"Then maybe I'll have one." She picked up one of the small plates and put a tart on it. It looked small and alone on the plate. She put another beside it.

Sara watched her with interest.

"What about those things with the sugar on them, do they look good to you?"

Sara chewed her tart and nodded again.

"I think so, too." She added one to her plate. "The bits with the sausage?"

Sara made a face.

"No, no good, I agree. Who wants sausage when they can have… lemon!"

"I like marchpane," Sara said.

"So do I! Oh, marchpane is an excellent choice. Will you choose a piece for me?"

Sara complied. "The little cakes are pretty."

"So they are," Vivian said. "Which do you think is prettiest?"

They went down the length of two tables, Vivian grabbing a second plate to hold all the treats that Sara chose. The overseeing women gave her questioning looks that she tried to ignore.

"Are you going to eat all that?" Sara asked her in amazement when both small plates were piled high.

"Yes, I believe I will."

"Papa won't let me eat so many."

"I'm a big girl, and I can eat as many as I wish, but maybe I need some help. Would you like to help me?"

Sara nodded and followed her over to some empty chairs. There the girl soon began directing Vivian in which to eat when, and nibbled two or three treats herself.

The plates were nearly empty, and she and the little girl, she thought, were on fine and comfortable terms when Richard found them.

"Papa! Miss A'brose ate this many!" Sara said, holding her two hands out, the fingers spread. "She ate more than Stinky!"

"Stinky?" Vivian asked.

"Our old greedy dog at my house in Wiltshire," Richard explained.

"Stinky ate my supper, and he ate Willie's pudding, and he runs around the floor going snort snort snort," Sara said, imitating the grunting dog. "He'll eat anything, even green meat-"

"I think Miss Ambrose understands," Richard interrupted, biting his lip.

"Cook yells at Stinky. He goes to the kitchen and steals things. He's a very bad dog. He eats horse poo."

"Oh. Ah. I see," Vivian said.

"Then he licks my face," Sara said. "Ewww!"

"But you love Stinky, don't you?" Richard asked his daughter.

"He smells bad. Can we go home now, Papa?"

"Soon, sweeting. In another week."

"I'm going to go play now," Sara said, and slid off her chair.

"Excuse yourself," Richard reminded the girl.

"Your pardon," Sara said to Vivian, then the child gave her a quick curtsy and ran off.

"Horse poo?" Vivian said faintly. She had thought she and Sara were getting along so well, and here the girl had been wondering if she would eat horse manure off the ground, given the chance.

"She's really very fond of Stinky," Richard said. He sat down beside her, and reached for the one remaining tart on her plate. "May I?"

"Please." She doubted she would ever be able to eat in public again. And maybe that was for the best.

She felt the questions she needed to ask in the back of her throat, waiting to come out, but couldn't bring herself to do so just yet. Instead she watched the children as Richard ate the tart. "Sara seems a very bright child," she said into the brief silence.

"She is, and cheerful. She has enough willful mischief in her that I will have a head of white hair before she is grown and wed."

"And William?"

"He is quieter, more subdued. He'll spend his time reading dreary philosophy, I imagine, and have to be pushed to court a girl."

"He's a handsome little boy. I think he will set hearts aflutter, if he is brooding and introspective as a man. The young ladies will be unable to resist."

"Poor little fellow."

"You don't think he would enjoy the attention?" she asked.

"Perhaps. He might surprise me." Richard was quiet for a long moment, his gaze on the playing children. "There are times my heart almost breaks, thinking of them growing up, and suffering the pains the world has to offer. Their hurts now are so small, and so easily soothed compared to what they will endure when they are older."

"They will have you to help them," she said, lightly touching his arm and drawing his attention. "And while their hurts may grow greater, so will their strength."

He laid his hand over hers, on his forearm. "You had to quickly grow strong, didn't you? When your parents were killed."

She dropped her eyes, not eager to share that pain that she thought deeply buried, but which at times like this could emerge as easily as if it were just beneath the surface. "That was more than any child should be asked to bear." She made herself smile, and met his eyes again. "But I survived."

He lifted her hand off his arm, raised it to his lips, and, heedless of the roomful of people, let his lips graze her knuckles before releasing her. "And you are beautiful in your strength," he said. The look he gave her seemed to say a million things, all of them new to her and oh so wonderful.

She clasped her hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling, and felt her cheeks and neck heat with embarrassment.

She was falling in love with this man. The realization hit her fully, and it scared her.

She had no experience with romantic love, but she felt herself teetering on its brink, and with her fall would go any last vestige of sense or practical hesitation. She did not want to ask about the woman he had jilted-she wanted to assume the best of him-but if she was wrong it might be her own heart that would be crushed in reward for her ignorance.

For as she felt her heart opening to love, she felt how very fragile and defenseless it was. She had only herself to guard and protect it.

"I need to ask you a personal question, Richard," she said. Children still shrieked and played a few feet from them, and she welcomed their presence as a damper against whatever reaction he might have.

"Anything."

Mrs. Twitchen appeared, forestalling the question. "Vivian, dear, here you are," she said.

Richard stood, bowing in greeting. "Mrs. Twitchen, a pleasure to see you."

"Good day, Mr. Brent. You will excuse me if I take my cousin away from you? I fear we must be going."

"Might I have a few moments?" Vivian asked.

"I'm afraid not, my dear," Mrs. Twitchen said, and her expression said she would not be dissuaded. "We really must go."

Vivian had been wrong in thinking she had only herself to guard her heart. Mrs. Twitchen stood before them as resolute as an armored knight, waiting to carry her to safety.

And so, unsatisfied by her lack of answers, yet touched by Mrs. Twitchen's concern, Vivian made her good-byes.

Chapter Seven

December 31

New Year's Eve

It had been three days since she had seen Richard, and her body yearned for him as if he were her other half. She had never before understood what people meant when they said such things, but now she did. It was shocking, but she felt ripped in two, and as if she could not rest until he was with her again. His clever words, his gentleness with his children, his honesty-all these things played in her mind and far outstripped all the bad things that had been said about him. She loved him.

Worse, she did not know if he felt the same way. For an hour after leaving Haverton Hall on Innocents' Day she would have said yes, he did. Yes, he was beginning to care for her as she did for him. But then the doubts had crept in, carried by the unasked, and therefore unanswered, question about the jilted fiancee. Perhaps that girl, too, had thought that he was falling in love with her, and had been surprised to find herself discarded.

Oh, dreaded time apart, that let her mind form horrid futures as often as happy ones! She had doubts and fears and hopes, and no one with whom to discuss them except Penelope, who listened avidly but was too inexperienced herself to have worthwhile advice to offer. The girl's unexpected sympathy was welcome, but did little to soothe.

What could she do? Would she dare to try to catch Mr. Brent in a compromising position to force him to marry her? She supposed that it wouldn't force anything. He had reneged on a promise of marriage before… Still, if they just had time together, Vivian was certain the union would work. She was sure that she could love Mr. Brent's children. That would be easy, as easy as loving Richard himself.

The mirror was revealing the effects of her anxiety: one week in the Twitchen household, and already the hollows and bony protuberances of her face and figure were beginning to soften. She was eating herself to calmness.

"What are you doing, hiding away over here?" Penelope asked, pulling back the curtain that half hid her where she sat in the window seat, looking out at the night and eating a dish of cheese and spiced nuts she had put together as a post-dessert dessert.

"Just thinking."

"Come out of there. People are arriving, and Mama will be playing the piano for dancing."

"Has Mr. Brent…?" she asked, perking up.

"Not yet. I assume he will be here soon, though, and you don't want him to find you with your teeth full of cheese."

Vivian self-consciously put a fingernail to the groove between her front teeth.

"Emily is here, too. You remember, the vicar's daughter. She wants to do fortune-telling for our future husbands."

"I thought you did that with her on Christmas Eve."

"It didn't work. Come with us; maybe it will work with you there."

"All right." Vivian gave in, emerging from her hideaway. Penelope and her silly friend were not the company she desired, but they were better than sitting and stewing in her own thoughts. After all, she wouldn't want Richard to arrive and think she had been waiting for him like a girl with nothing else to occupy her mind. It was New Year's Eve!

The church bells rang out midnight, and the countryside echoed with clanging pans, bells, shouts, and the blasts of guns. It was the first day of the new year, the Eighth Day of Christmas, and the Feast of the Circumcision, and the celebration was all around. Richard waited in the darkness down the drive from Copley Grange, watching as the guests went back inside as the sounds faded away.

The door was closed, and then a minute later it opened again and was left ajar, warm yellow candlelight spilling out into the blue-black winter night. He knew that in back a door had been opened and shut, letting the old year out, and now the front door was letting in the new.

And he would be the man who did First Footing at Copley Grange. The first visitor through the door in the new year, if a dark-haired male, would bring good luck to the house, according to the superstition. He double-checked his satchel with its required gifts, and headed up the drive.

A smiling maid closed the door behind him when he entered, and he made his way to the drawing room.

"Hurrah!" the cheer went up when he stepped inside. The enthusiastic greeting surprised him, and he felt a flush of surprised embarrassment. It had been so long since he had felt truly welcome in any home but his sister's, he had forgotten what it felt like.

He grinned and gave a courtly bow. In stately manner he walked up to Captain Twitchen, standing by the fire, and drew out of his satchel the first of the gifts, a hunk of coal.

"To keep your home warm," he said, handing the captain the black lump.

"Hear, hear!" the gathering cheered.

Richard turned to Mrs. Twitchen and took out the next gift, a round loaf of bread. "To keep you fed."

Mrs. Twitchen curtsied and accepted, amid another cheer.

"And lastly…" Richard said, putting his hand into the satchel and holding it there for a moment, building the suspense, although they all knew what was coming. He pulled out the bottle of whiskey and held it high, then bowed again and presented it to Captain Twitchen. "For your happiness and your health throughout the new year!"

The final presentation was met with a final cheer and a round of applause. Captain Twitchen slapped him on the back, then went to work opening the bottle and sharing the blessings with the male guests.

Still feeling self-conscious in a way his usual bluntness never made him feel, Richard cast his eyes over the room, his gaze lighting upon Vivian. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling, her face aglow. He would like to think it was aglow for him. She was the reason he had persuaded himself to this display of good fellowship, in hopes of impressing her with his long-dormant social graces.

Sara had not been able to stop talking about "Miss A'brose," who had impressed her greatly with her sweet tooth. He himself had been content to let Sara prattle, his own thoughts on how close he had felt to Vivian as they sat and talked on Innocents' Day.

He had known Vivian for only a week, and yet his hopes were quickly growing that this Christmas he had been gifted with the wife he wanted. What did the shortness of the time matter, when you had found the one with whom you were meant to be?

He made conversation with those near him, listening with half an ear as Captain Twitchen, the whiskey bottle turned over to another for distribution, jingled a purse of coins that he then gave to his wife. "Money for pins, my dear," the captain said.

Would that next year he himself had a wife to whom to give pin money, a wife who would laugh and thank him as Mrs. Twitchen thanked her husband now. Vivian.

He moved through the guests, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries until at last he found his way to her. She ducked her head, a blush on her cheeks, then looked quickly up at him, smiling.

"When will you stop being shy with me upon greeting?" he asked, feeling his own heart pick up its pace, his growing attachment to her leaving his heart vulnerable to the slightest sign of rejection. To want was to risk being denied.

"I could not say. You have surprised me tonight. I would never have expected you to be first through the door."

"You cannot have thought I would let the new year begin without seeing you," he said, then waited an eternity in the space of a heartbeat for her response.

"I had hoped you would not," she answered quietly.

He laughed with relief. He put her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her to a quieter end of the room, where they stood near a bust of a long-dead Twitchen ancestor, pretending to examine it.

"There's a cobweb in your hair," he said, spotting the wisp of gray, and brushing it away with his fingertips. "What have you been doing?"

"Fortune-telling in the cellar. Penelope and the vicar's daughter insisted I come with them."

"Why the cellar?"

"My guess is because it is dark and cold and suitably unnerving. They had a silver dish full of water, in which they dropped a ring, and we sat around it in the light of single candle, waiting for…"

"Waiting for?" he prompted.

"For the faces of our future husbands to appear," she said, as if embarrassed to admit it. "Someday Sara will do the same thing with her friends, I imagine."

"And did his face appear?" he asked, moving slightly closer.

"I don't know. It was so dark and cold, and we sat for so long, my mind began to wander."

"Where did it wander?"

"Everywhere," she said.

"Did it wander to me?"

She met his eyes: they were as wide and wary as he knew his own to be. "Would you want it to?"

He reached down and took her hand, and after a glance around the drawing room to check that none were watching, led her through a nearby door that went to the library. She came willingly. The chamber was dimly lit by candles in wall sconces, and it was cool after the body-heated warmth of the drawing room. The voices from the party were but a murmur through the heavy door.

He slowly backed Vivian up against a wall of books, standing with his feet to either side of hers, close enough to touch but not doing so.

"I want your mind wandering to me in every free moment of your day. I want you to think of me upon rising in the morning, and to find me in your dreams at night."

"You're already there," she whispered, and the words sent a joyous thrill through his heart, frightening in its intensity.

He knew it was foolish to rush things, that he risked scaring her away, but he had to know for certain. To know the depth of her feelings. To know if she was the one. He bent down his head and kissed her. No lady concerned with appearances would stand for such in the middle of a party.

At first her lips were motionless under his-she was likely shocked-but as he continued the kiss she responded, tentatively mirroring his own movements. He pressed up close against her, gently pinning her to the bookcase, until he could feel each soft curve of her body against his own. He deepened the kiss, and she made a small noise in the back of her throat.

He lifted his mouth from hers, his hips still pressed against her lower belly. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," she said, and her slender arms wrapped around his neck.

She wanted him. Against all possibility, all doubt, she wanted him.

He had found the place he belonged, and was finally free. The joy of it sent him wild. He let loose the reins on his desire, exploring her mouth, her neck, the exposed swell of her breasts, each touch making him hungrier for the next. He breathed in the warm, faintly musky scent of her, and then trailed his tongue up to the hollow at the base of her throat where he pressed gently until he could feel the beat of her heart with his lips.

She was his heart, his desire.

He worked his way up and let his tongue play at the sensitive place behind her earlobe, while his hand went down to cup her buttock and pull her against him, where he could press the firmness of his arousal against the softness of her body.

Her breathing was a soft panting against his ear, and he could feel her trembling even as she pressed herself to him.

He fastened his mouth over hers once more and thrust with his tongue in frantic substitute for how he longed to thrust inside her.

She made a soft sound of pleasure, and he felt her fingers working their way into his hair, gripping tight. He pulled her away from the bookcase and backed her slowly to the library table until she bumped up against it. He boosted her up the few inches until she was sitting on its surface.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a whisper.

"Exactly what I wish."

"Good."

Had she said that or sighed? He wasn't sure. He chuckled and parted her knees so he could stand between them, then brought her tight against him. Her eyes widened, and then she wrapped her arms back around his neck and pulled him down on top of her.

He had one hand lost in her hair, the other on her bare thigh, his mouth sucking at her breast and her legs wrapped around his still-clothed hips when the library door opened. The sounds of the party flooded in upon them, accompanied by an outraged gasp.

Vivian heard it as well and reacted with the reflexes of a startled cat, thrusting Richard off her and scrambling to disentangle her legs from his person as he helped her to pull down her skirts. A quick glance told him it was Captain Twitchen who had discovered them.

There could have been no worse-or better-person to walk through that door. Richard felt a perverse, happy satisfaction stirring within him.

"Mr. Brent!" Captain Twitchen sputtered, then shut the door behind him, blocking off the sounds of the party and the possibility of witnessing eyes. "How dare you, sir! How dare you!"

"My deepest apologies, sir."

"A guest in my home, and this is how you repay my hospitality!"

Vivian gave a soft whimper. Richard put his arm around her, pulling her to his side, concerned for her embarrassment. He would not let her be shamed. "It was a transgression against the kindness you have always shown me, and unforgivably ill-mannered," he said. "I hope that you will allow me to make the proper amends."

Captain Twitchen seemed not to have heard. "I never listened to the rumors about you, never let them cloud what I thought I saw before me. But damned if I shouldn't have paid attention. Mrs. Twitchen was right, and even if you are my nephew's brother-in-law, you are unfit for decent company. Vivian! Go to your room, girl, and stay there."

Richard felt her start under his arm, but he held her more firmly. "What we have to say concerns her, as well."

He saw he'd made a mistake when the captain's face, already red, took on a deeper, almost purple shade of rage. His feeling of satisfaction and confidence assumed the barest quiver of uncertainty.

"Contradict my orders, will you? In my own house! My own house!"

"I should go," Vivian whispered.

He did not want her to have to stand here and suffer as a target of Captain Twitchen's fury. The man might say something hurtful. "Perhaps for the moment," he whispered back.

She started to slip away from him, and he bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. "Not to worry. You'll be called back down within the hour, I promise."

She cast him a quick glance-was it one of hope and uncertainty?-and he smiled in reassurance.

Once she was safely from the room, Captain Twitchen lent full force to his ire. "Now, sir, are we going to settle this like gentlemen?"

"That is indeed my intention."

"Pistols or swords?"

Richard felt a sinking in his gut. Soothing Captain Twitchen was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

An hour passed, and there was no call for Vivian to come down. She paced her bedchamber, she listened at her door for footsteps or the distant sound of voices, she watched from her window as guests left in pairs and in groups. She built up the fire in the grate, and wished that there was something to eat.

Horrible, to have been seen by Captain Twitchen with her bare legs wrapped around Richard, flat on her back, his mouth at her breast. She knew that she had briefly entertained causing such a scandal, but… The sickening embarrassment of it made her stomach churn. Far worse, was not knowing what was presently happening down in the library.

Another quarter of an hour passed. Was Richard still here? He must be. He and Captain Twitchen must still be arguing. She rubbed her forehead; the muscles there were sore from her frown of worry. Richard had given every indication that he would ask permission to wed her. Captain Twitchen couldn't possibly refuse, could he? Surely his pride could not be so severely offended.

And if it were?

She would marry Richard despite the captain's objections. She would abandon all family ties, if that was what it took. It would be cruel repayment for the generosity the Twitchens had shown her, but there was no other choice. She had to have Richard. She would have him.

Only, if she could, she would do so without breaking her ties to her cousins. She found herself surprised. In the short time she had been with them, she had grown fond of them all-Mrs. Twitchen with her social ambitions and motherly heart; Captain Twitchen and his blunt good cheer; even Penelope had become something of a friend, despite her selfishness.

But the one thing Vivian knew about this life was that caring ties to others were more precious than gold, more precious than titles or gowns or beauty. She would not easily give up even the meager ones she had with the Twitchens.

And she would never give up the one she had now with Richard. Never.

Another half hour passed. She was torn between the need to find out what was happening and the fear of interrupting and somehow spoiling whatever advantage Richard may have gained.

She went to the window and gazed down at another pair of partygoers as they departed. She could feel the cold of the night seeping through the glass.

A knock on her door turned her around, and Mrs. Twitchen entered. She rushed towards her cousin, then stopped as she read the distress upon the woman's face.

"Is Mr. Brent still here?" she asked.

"He is, but not for much longer if Captain Twitchen has anything to say about it."

"Tell me, what is happening?"

"This is a fine mess you've managed to get yourself into," Mrs. Twitchen said in a stern voice that quavered on the last word. "A fine mess. I can only be thankful that we are yet in the country, and that it was the captain who came in upon you, and not one of our neighbors-else I don't know how we would have been able to save you from a future with that man."

"The captain hasn't refused Mr. Brent, has he? Surely he could not have!"

"Mr. Brent has nearly caused my husband to fight a duel, that's what he has done! The foolish man!" Mrs. Twitchen wrung her hands and then burst into tears, sinking into the chair by the fire.

Vivian didn't know which man Mrs. Twitchen meant was the foolish one, but she felt a wave a guilt wash over her at the sight of the woman's distress. She went and knelt by her side, and laid her hand on the woman's knee.

"Hush, now. Hush," she said. "Mr. Brent would never engage in the nonsense of a duel."

"Nonsense? This from you, sitting there with your honor in shreds!" Mrs. Twitchen dropped her hands from her wet and reddened face. "Captain Twitchen has more honor in him than Mr. Brent could ever dream of, and knows a coward and a sneak when he sees one. We won't be letting you throw your life away on such a man, that we won't!"

Vivian sat back on her heels, taking her hand from Mrs. Twitchen's knee. She steadied herself to disagree. "Mr. Brent is the most honorable man I have ever known. It may be a peculiar sort of honor, but it is true and deep, and I love him for it. I will marry him, with or without the blessing of you and Mr. Twitchen." She bit her lip. "But I would rather have it."

Mrs. Twitchen's expression softened to one of pity. "You are not thinking clearly, child. Don't think that because I'm old I do not know what you are feeling, the passions that are in your heart. And that is how I know that this is a time when you must rely on those older and wiser than yourself, who can see with clear eyes. Mr. Brent is a scoundrel, and will bring you nothing but unhappiness. It is too late to save you from the pain of an entanglement with him, but we can at least save you from public dishonor."

She had lived long enough by the rules and wishes of others. No more! "I am well past my majority. I can make up my own mind in this."

"Have you forgotten the engagement Mr. Brent broke in the past? Do you not think that other young woman felt as passionately as you do now?"

"I am sure there must have been a good reason behind that." And she was.

"How can you know?" Mrs. Twitchen asked. "You have known Mr. Brent little more than a week. I have been with the captain nigh on two decades, and still do not know him entirely. Anyone can be charming for a week, my dear. Let his history speak to you of who he truly is."

Vivian shook her head and stood. "It is his very history that tells me he is a man worthy of love. You cannot dissuade me from what my heart knows is true." She marched to the door and laid her hand upon the knob.

"Vivian, darling." Mrs. Twitchen rose and came toward her, hands fluttering. "Can you at least give us this one night? Can you at least sleep upon it, and let us know that you have considered fully?"

Vivian took in Mrs. Twitchen's frantic concern, her distress, and wavered. She let her hand fall from the knob. If waiting one night was all that the Twitchens required of her, she would be heartless not to give it. Such was not so much to ask. The bond she felt with Richard would not suffer for a handful of hours apart.

"I will sleep upon it."

Mrs. Twitchen nodded and opened the door herself to go. She was through it and pulling it closed when she paused and turned, her face in the narrow space between door and jamb.

"Forgive me, child. I do this for your own good."

Vivian lunged for the knob, but was too late. The door slammed, and the key turned in the lock from the other side.

She was a prisoner once again, to another's idea of how she should live.

Chapter Eight

Twelfth Night

The few bits of Christmas greenery in her room had been taken down and were waiting now in a dried-out pile to be fed into the fire. Her hopes of a marriage to Richard Brent might as well burn along with it.

Vivian had been locked in her room for five days now, allowed to send no letters nor receive them, and even Penelope was forbidden from visiting. Vivian saw Mrs. Twitchen daily, and suffered through her lectures and, more dangerously, the growth of the seeds of doubt that the woman planted and watered so carefully.

Richard wanted her. She knew he did. He had offered for her, she was sure of it. Did he love her enough to continue to fight for her, whatever the obstacles?

He had never said he loved her. But he must, he surely must! He had given her every indication. She could count her own love for him as nothing, if she could not trust that he would hold steady to his purpose and free her.

The isolation was making her mind play tricks, and she had no biscuits or tarts with which to soothe herself. They were cold meals that were brought to her by Mrs. Twitchen, with nothing of pleasure to be found in them.

As the days passed, her mind turned in upon itself, reluctantly treading garden rows of doubt. She pulled each plant that showed signs of green, whacked them with her hoe, scuffed them over with her shoe, but Mrs. Twitchen always came back to nurse them to health.

Richard Brent was an honest man. He was an honorable man. He would not abandon her. She must hold tight to that truth.

From her window she had twice seen him come to the house, and leave shortly thereafter, always pausing to gaze up at her window, where she stood with her fingers against the glass, as if she could reach through and touch him. But then Captain Twitchen would emerge from the manor and shoo Richard away, preventing any exchange of words between them.

She had not seen him for two days now. Was he himself beginning to doubt the wisdom of pursuing this course? Had the captain convinced him that it would be better for her to marry another, that she would be happier with a man with an unsoiled reputation?

She would not be able to bear it if it were so.

She wished she had lain with him as a wife, there upon the library table, for all to see. There would have been no question then of what their future would be. If she ever saw him again, she knew precisely what she'd do.

He had tried reason. He had tried patience. He had put to use all his powers of persuasion, and all to no effect. He had run out of gentle options, a realization that had come to him upon receipt early yesterday of Penelope's letter:

Dearest Mr. Brent,

Forgive me for writing to you so, but I feel you must be told: my cousin is being fed only crusts of bread. She has no coal to keep her warm, and is threatened with beatings if she does not give up her insistence that she be allowed to wed you. My father has threatened to send her to a Catholic convent in France, where you would never see her again. I fear for her health-nay! I fear for her very life. She will be dead of grief within a fortnight if she is not saved. I have heard many things about you, but I trust they are not true. Here is your chance to prove yourself.

Yours Faithfully,

P.

Of course he knew she was exaggerating-he doubted very much that Vivian would be sent to a French convent, no matter the provocation-and he was somewhat annoyed by Penelope's allusion to his past, but Vivian was confined to her room, that he knew. And he very much doubted that pastries and cakes would be part of the meals sent up to one suffering such a punishment.

His Vivian, without a pudding. What misery must she be suffering! He smiled sadly at the odd thought.

And what might she begin to think, as the days passed and he left her languishing, the only words she heard those painting him as the darkest blackguard. His smile vanished. Might she not begin to think that he had abandoned her? Might she not begin to wonder if the Twitchens were right and if their reasons were ones to which she should listen? Especially since they were so intent upon protecting her that they would lock her up?

That sweet passion she had given him in the library might even now be dying.

He could not let that happen. The time for diplomacy had passed, and it was now time for action. That was the reason he was now creeping toward Copley Grange in the dead of night with a satchel slung over one shoulder and a rope around the other. In a vest pocket he carried a special license to marry, which he had ridden all the way to Dorchester to obtain.

The windows were dark at the grange, as he hoped they would be. He took a handful of gravel from the drive; such stones were the time-honored choice of swains for waking maidens in their bowers. He stood beneath Vivian's window and tossed them at the glass, one by one, wincing at each plink of sound.

He was only on his third stone when she appeared, a pale wraith behind the glass. She must have been awake. A moment later she opened the window.

"Richard!" she whispered.

"Shhh! Stand back. I'm going to toss up the end of a rope." He wasn't going to give her the chance to tell him to go away. He was going to rush up, sweep her off her feet, and carry her to safety. This was something he'd always wanted, and he'd finally found someone who was worth his affection. He wasn't going to let her escape-no matter what happened.

He coiled several lengths of his line into a loop heavy enough to throw, and when she had moved away he gave it a heave.

And missed. The rope fell down the side of the house and into the shrubberies.

"Damn!"

"Where's the rope?"

"Shh!" He scrounged around in the bushes, untangling the line, hoping no one in the house heard him thrashing through the branches like a deranged animal.

Coils once again in hand, he gave them another heave, and this time they sailed through the window. He heard the thunk as they hit the floorboards, and grimaced.

Vivian appeared again in the window. "What now?"

"Tie it off to the leg of your bed."

"Right." She disappeared, and the dangling rope jerked and swayed in the faint moonlight as she set to work. "Done," she said, appearing again.

He pushed through the shrubberies to the wall of the house, and gave the rope an experimental tug. It felt sound. He jumped up and grabbed as high as he could on the rope, and was rewarded with a groaning screech from above and a slow sinking back to the ground.

"The bed! It's moving!" Vivian whispered.

"Damn! Is there anything heavier in the room?"

"No, nothing. But wait, I think I can brace it."

He waited while she did so, flinching with each sound of dragging furniture, expecting at any moment to see the front door open and an outraged Captain Twitchen appear with pistol in hand. The man would certainly shoot him.

"All right! I think I've got it, but I'm going to have to go sit on the chair."

He didn't inquire what she meant, he just climbed. The rope held, sinking only a few inches, the sounds from the room mere creaks of strained wood rather than groans. His head was almost at the sill when he suddenly dropped several inches. That, and the cry from Vivian were his only warning before he began to fall.

He caught himself by one hand on the sill, releasing the rope that snaked past him and tumbled to the ground. With a grunt of effort he pulled himself up to the window, Vivian grabbing his arm and helping him to where he could straddle the sill.

"My knot gave out," she said.

"I gathered." He released a shaky breath, peering back down at the twenty foot drop to the ground, and to the shadows where their escape route lay twisted in the dirt.

He turned to Vivian. Her hair was down, thick and dark against the white of her nightgown. A nightgown under which, he suspected, she wore nothing at all.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. She looked surprised, bewildered, and awfully pleased.

"Penelope wrote and said you were being starved. I've brought you tarts and cakes." He swung his other leg inside, then took the satchel off and opened it, holding it out for her to see.

"You risked your life to bring me pastries?" She looked a bit sheepish, but moved closer, brushing against him, the satchel ignored. He could smell a hint of flowery soap, and under it the scent that was Vivian's alone.

"I came to take you away." He dropped the sack to the floor and wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her close. Her flesh was soft and warm under his hand. "Only, I seem to be proving an inept rescuer. I don't know how I'm going to get you safely to the ground without the rope."

"Don't you?"

He was about to say "No, I don't," but then she kissed him and was touching him everywhere, and suddenly there were more important things to do than talk. His other arm went around her, and they stumbled backwards, tripping over the chair laid on its back on the floor as a brace, barely making it to the bed before falling together, sinking into its deep mattress.

Vivian was going to be his wife. If he could not take her through the window, he would take her here, on the bed. Then she would be his forever, and no one could put a door between them ever again.

Chapter Nine

The Feast of the Epiphany

"It's almost morning."

"It was the nightingale you heard, and not the lark," Vivian said, and giggled at her paraphrase of Juliet's famous words. She stretched as she lay naked against him, loving the feel of her skin touching his, then threw a leg over his thigh.

"Perhaps you're right." He lay his hand on her leg, his palm gliding up to her buttock.

"Don't move," she said, and slipped from beneath his hand. She found the satchel and brought it back to the bed. "I'm hungry."

"After what we just did, I am not surprised."

She dug a tart out of the satchel and handed it to him. He took it, and she found a half-crushed pastry for herself and downed it. "Heavens, that tastes good." She found another and devoured it while he laughed.

"I have a confession to make," he said, as she handed him a small cake.

She stopped chewing, her heart skipping a beat, a sudden fear taking hold of her. "What is it?" She almost didn't want to hear the answer.

"I seduced you for my own selfish reasons."

"Oh?"

"I was afraid I might not manage to get you out of this house, so I made you mine to be certain Captain Twitchen could not separate us again."

She released her breath and smiled, then started to laugh.

"What?"

"You!" she said, her relief making her giddy.

"Why are you laughing?"

His frown made her laugh all the harder. Then she said, "You didn't seduce me, I seduced you!"

"Nonsense."

She leaned close, her breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed him. Five minutes later they emerged from a tangle of limbs, sheet, and satchel, hearts thumping with newly aroused passion.

"I seduced you," she said again.

He shrugged, and she could see he was trying to subdue a smile. "All right. But why would you try?"

"For the same reason you gave, and-" she started, and then cut herself off, not knowing if she should continue.

"And what? Speak your heart, Vivian. You know you can always do that with me."

"And I wanted to be sure you could not be rid of me."

He pushed himself upright and grasped her by the shoulders. "Rid of you? I would never want to be rid of you. What could have possibly given you such an idea?"

"Mrs. Twitchen told me about your broken engagement to that other girl," she said weakly.

"Oh, Vivian." He pulled her to him and held her cradled against his chest. "I caught my fiancee pinching Sara, and calling her a little bastard. She had pretended to me that she adored the children, and I had not been wise enough to see the lie."

"She hurt Sara?" Vivian asked in horror, trying to look up at him and seeing only the hard line of his jaw. "How could she? How could anyone?"

"She thought she had the right."

"Why then did you take the blame for breaking the engagement?"

"Because I did break it. She would have gone through with the marriage."

"But the public apology…" she asked, confused.

"I thought it easier to give them what they asked. I did not need vengeance: I just wanted to be free of her."

"I am so sorry."

"It was not one of the happier times of my life, and I'm afraid it has attached itself to my name. People think I have no honor."

She reached up and lay her hand against his cheek, coaxing him to look at her. "You are the most honorable man I have ever known."

He met her gaze, his dark eyes sheened with tears. "I love you," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You do not know how long I have waited to find you, Vivian Ambrose."

"And I you, my love."

And that was when the door opened, and with a gasp and a cry Mrs. Twitchen fainted to the floor.

"I think it was only that special license in Mr. Brent's jacket that kept Papa from shooting him," Penelope said, putting the finishing touches to Vivian's hair. "I have never seen him so angry! And the words he used! So vulgar! I'll have a hard time of it in London, with the way he'll be watching me after all this, afraid I'll come to the same bad end. I suppose I deserve it."

"Do you think he'll allow you to visit me?"

"He'll soften in time. Mr. Brent is, after all, a good catch once you overlook a few small details." She paused to examine her work. "There. All done. You look like a princess, as every bride should."

Vivian grasped Penelope's hand, and held it. "Thank you. For everything."

"It's only a gown."

Vivian squeezed her hand and released it, both of them knowing that it was more than the gown that she meant.

And yet, the gown was the gift that, from Penelope, was worth more than all the treasures of the Indies. It was her court presentation gown she had given to Vivian, in which to be wed.

Vivian rose, and together they left the room and walked down the hall to the head of the stairs. Penelope stood to the side and nodded for Vivian to go first, sole focus of the eyes of those who waited below.

She felt like an angel, the heavy white silk of the gown flowing round her in crystal-shimmering waves. She knew she had been blessed, for never in her life had there been a Christmas season as this, where the dearest wishes of her heart had come true.

She descended to the earth, and to the arms of the man she loved. And her family was there to see.