t was Hannah's particular torture to have been cast as chaperone, and therefore be forced to sit beside Natalie during the musical soirée that evening, while Rafe Bowman took Natalie's other side. The entwined harmonies of two sopranos, a baritone, and a tenor were accompanied by piano, flute, and violins. Many of the older children had been allowed to sit in rows at the back of the room. Dressed in their best clothes, the children sat straight and did their best not to fidget, whisper, or wiggle.

Hannah thought wryly that the children were behaving far better than their parents. There was a great deal of gossiping going on among the adults, especially in the lulls between each musical presentation.

She observed that Rafe Bowman was treating Natalie with impeccable courtesy. They seemed charmed by each other. They discussed the differences between New York and London, discovered they had similar tastes in books and music, and they both passionately loved riding. Bowman's manner with Natalie was so engaging that if Hannah had never encountered him before, she would have said he was the perfect gentleman.

But she knew better.

And Hannah perceived that she was one of many in the room who took an interest in the interactions between Bowman and Natalie. There were the Blandfords, of course, and the Bowman parents, and even Lord Westcliff occasionally glanced at the pair with subtle speculation, a slight smile on his lips. But the person who paid the most attention was Lord Travers, his expression stoic and his blue eyes troubled. It made Hannah's heart ache a little to realize that here was a man who cared very much about Natalie, and with very little encouragement would love her passionately. And yet all indications pointed to the fact that she would probably choose Bowman instead.

Natalie, you're not nearly as wise as you think you are, she thought wistfully. Take the man who would make sacrifices for you, who would love you for who you are and not for what he would gain by marrying you.

The worst part of Hannah's evening came after the entertainment had concluded, when the large crowd was dispersing and various groups were arranging to meet in one location or another. Natalie pulled Hannah to the side, her blue eyes gleaming with excitement. "In a few minutes, I'm going to sneak away with Mr. Bowman," she whispered. "We're going to meet privately on the lower terrace. So make yourself scarce, and if anyone asks where I am, give them some excuse and—"

"No," Hannah said softly, her eyes turning round. "If you're seen with him, it will cause a scandal."

Natalie laughed. "What does it matter? I'm probably going to marry him anyway."

Hannah gave a stubborn shake of her head. Her experiences with Bowman had left no doubt in her mind that he would take full advantage of Natalie. And it would be Hannah's fault for allowing it to happen. "You may meet him on the lower terrace, but I'm going with you."

Natalie's grin faded. "Now you've decided to be a vigilant chaperone? No. I'm putting my foot down, Hannah. I've always been kind to you, and you know you're in my debt. So go off somewhere and do not make a fuss."

"I'm going to protect you from him," Hannah said grimly. "Because if Mr. Bowman compromises you, you will no longer have any choice. You'll have to marry him."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to consider a betrothal without finding out how he kisses." Natalie's eyes narrowed. "Don't cross me, Hannah. Leave us alone."

But Hannah persevered. Eventually she found herself standing unhappily at the side of the lower terrace while Natalie and Rafe Bowman conversed. Bowman seemed unperturbed by Hannah's presence. But Natalie was furious, her voice lightly caustic as she observed aloud that "One can never talk about anything interesting when a chaperone is present," or "Some people can never be gotten rid of."

Having never been the focus of such brattiness from Natalie before, Hannah was bewildered and hurt. If Hannah was in Natalie's debt because the girl had always been kind to her, the reverse was also true: Hannah could have made Natalie's life far less pleasant as well.

"Don't you find it irksome, Mr. Bowman," Natalie said pointedly, "when people insist on going where they're not wanted?"

Hannah stiffened. Enough was enough. Although she had been charged with the responsibility of looking after Natalie and chaperoning her, she was not going to allow herself to be subjected to abuse.

Before Bowman could say anything, Hannah spoke coolly. "I will leave you with the privacy you so clearly desire, Natalie. I have no doubt Mr. Bowman will make the most of it. Good night."

She left the lower terrace, flushed with outrage and chagrin. Since she could not join any of the gatherings upstairs without raising questions concerning Natalie's whereabouts, her only options were to go to bed, or find some place to sit alone. But she was not in the least sleepy, not with the anger simmering in her veins. Perhaps she could find a book to keep her occupied.

She went to the library, peeking discreetly around the door-jamb to see who might be inside. A group of children had gathered in there, most of them sitting on the floor while an elderly bewhiskered man sat in an upholstered chair. He held a small gold-stamped book in his hands, squinting at it through a pair of spectacles.

"Read it, Grandfather," cried one child, while another entreated, "Do go on! You can't leave us there."

The old man heaved a sigh. "When did they start making the words so small? And why is the light in here so poor?"

Hannah smiled sympathetically and entered the room. "May I be of help, sir?"

"Ah, yes." With a grateful glance, he rose from the chair and extended the book to her. It was a work by Mr. Charles Dickens, titled A Christmas Carol. Published two years earlier, the story of redemption had been an instant sensation, and had been said to rekindle the cynical public's joy in Christmas and all its traditions. "Would you mind reading for a bit?" the old man asked. "It tires my eyes so. And I should like to sit beside the fire and finish my toddy."

"I would love to, sir." Taking the book, Hannah looked askance at the children. "Shall I?"

They all cried out at once. "Oh, yes!"

"Don't lose the page, miss!"

"The first of the three spirits has come," one of the boys told her.

Settling into the chair, Hannah found the correct page, and began.

"Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?" asked Scrooge.

"I am.";

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

"Who, and what are you?" Scrooge demanded.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.";

Glancing around, Hannah bit back a grin as she saw the children's mesmerized faces, and the delighted shivers that ran through them at her rendition of a ghostly voice.

As she continued to read, the magic of Mr. Dickens's words wrought a spell over them all and eased the doubt and anger from Hannah's heart. And she remembered something she had forgotten: Christmas wasn't merely a single day. Christmas was a feeling.

IT CERTAINLY WOULD HAVE BEEN NO HARDSHIP TO KISS LADY Natalie. But Rafe had refrained from taking any such liberty, mainly because she seemed so determined to entice him into it.

After Hannah had left the lower terrace, Natalie had been defensive and sheepish, telling him that men were fortunate not to require chaperones everywhere they went, because at times it could be maddening. And Rafe had agreed gravely that it must indeed be quite inconvenient, but at the same time Miss Appleton struck him as tolerable company.

"Oh, most of the time Hannah is a dear," Natalie said. "She can be rather bourgeois, but that is only to be expected. She comes from the poor side of the family, and she's one of four unmarried sisters, no brothers at all. And her mother is deceased. I don't mean to sound self-congratulatory, but had I not told Father I wanted Hannah as my companion, she would have suffered years of drudgery looking after her sisters. And since she never spends a shilling on herself—she sends her allowance to her father—I give her my castoffs to wear, and I share nearly everything that's mine."

"That is very generous of you."

"No, not at all," she said airily. "I like to see her happy. Perhaps I was a bit harsh on her a few moments ago, but she was being unreasonable."

"I'm afraid I have to disagree," Rafe told her. "Miss Appleton is a good judge of character."

Natalie smiled quizzically. "Are you saying that she was correct in her assessment of you?" She drew closer, her lips soft and inviting. "That you're going to make the most of our privacy?"

"I hate to be predictable," he told her regretfully, amused by her frowning pout. "Therefore... no. We should probably take you upstairs before we cause gossip."

"I have no fear of gossip," she said, laying her hand on his arm.

"Then you clearly haven't yet done anything worthy of being gossiped about."

"Perhaps it's only that I haven't been caught," Natalie said demurely, making him laugh.

It was easy to like Lady Natalie, who was clever and pretty. And it would be no hardship to bed her. Marrying her would hardly be a difficult price to pay, to get the business deal he wanted with his father. Oh, she was a bit spoiled and pettish, to be sure, but no more than most young women of her position. Moreover, her beauty and connections and breeding would make her a wife whom other men would envy him for.

As he walked with her toward the main entrance hall, they passed by the open door of the library, where he had conversed recently with his father. A very different scene greeted his gaze now.

Warm light from the hearth pushed flickering shadows to the corners, spreading a quiet glow through the room. Hannah Appleton sat in a large chair, reading aloud, surrounded by a group of avidly listening children.

An elderly man had nodded off by the hearth, his chin resting on the ample berth of his chest. He snuffled now and then as a mischievous boy reached up to tickle his chin with a feather. But the boy soon left off, drawn into the story of Ebenezer Scrooge and his visitation by a Christmas spirit.

Rafe had not yet read the wildly popular book, but he recognized the story after hearing a few lines. A Christmas Carol had been so quoted and discussed that its ever-growing fame had become rather off-putting to Rafe. He had dismissed it as a bit of sentimental candy floss, not worthy of wasting his time with.

But as he watched Hannah, her face soft and animated, and heard the lively inflections of her voice, he couldn't help being drawn in.

Accompanied by the Spirit of Christmas Past, Scrooge was viewing himself as he had been as a schoolboy, lonely and isolated during the holidays until his younger sister had come to collect him.

"Yes!" said the child, brimful of glee. "Home, for good and all... Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you..."

Becoming aware of their presence in the doorway, Hannah glanced up briefly. She flashed a quick smile at Natalie. But her expression was more guarded as she looked at Rafe. Returning her attention to the book, she continued to read.

Rafe was aware of that same warm, curious pull he felt every time he was near Hannah. She looked adorably rumpled, sitting in the large chair with one slippered foot drawn up beneath her. He wanted to play with her, kiss her, pull that shiny hair down and comb his fingers through it.

"Let's leave," Natalie whispered beside him.

Rafe felt a mild sting of annoyance. Natalie wanted to go somewhere else and continue their earlier conversation, and flirt, and perhaps have a taste of the adult pleasures that were so new to her, and so damnably familiar to him.

"Let's listen for a moment," he murmured, guiding her into the room.

Natalie was too clever to show her impatience. "Of course," she returned, and went to arrange herself gracefully in the unoccupied chair by the hearth. Rafe stood at the mantel, leaned a shoulder against it, and glued his gaze to Hannah as the story continued.

Scrooge witnessed more from his past, including the merry Fezziwig ball. A mournful scene followed, in which he was confronted by a young woman who had loved him but was now accepting that his desire for riches had surpassed all else.

"...if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl... choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were..."

"Spirit!" said Scrooge in a broken voice, "remove me from this place."

Rafe disliked sentiment. He had seen and experienced enough of the world to resist the pull of maudlin stories. But as he stood listening to Hannah, he felt unaccountable heat spreading through him, and it had nothing to do with the crackling fire in the hearth. Hannah read the Christmas story with an innocent conviction and pleasure that was too genuine for him to resist. He wanted to be alone with her and listen to her low, charming voice for hours. He wanted to lay his head in her lap until he could feel the curve of her thigh against his cheek.

As Rafe stared at her, he felt the quickening of arousal, the rising warmth of tenderness, and an ache of yearning. A terrible thought had sprung to his mind, the wish that she were Bland-ford's daughter instead of Natalie. Sweet God, he would have married her on the spot. But that was impossible, not to mention unfair to Natalie. And thinking it made him feel every bit the cad that Hannah had accused him of being.

As Hannah finished the second chapter, and laughingly promised the clamoring children that she would read more the following night, Rafe made an unselfish wish for someone else for the first time in his life... that Hannah would someday find a man who would love her.

AFTER PRAISING THE SINGERS AND MUSICIANS FOR THEIR FINE performance, and leading a group of ladies into the parlor for tea, Lillian returned to the drawing room. Some of the guests were still congregated there, including her husband, who stood in the corner speaking privately with Eleanor, Lady Kittridge.

Trying to ignore the cold needling in her stomach, Lillian went to Daisy, who had just finished talking with some of the children. "Hello, dear," Lillian said, forcing a smile. "Did you enjoy the music?"

"Yes, very much." Staring into her face, Daisy asked bluntly, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. Nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

"Whenever you smile like that, you're either worried about something, or you've just stepped in something."

"I haven't stepped in anything."

Daisy regarded her with concern. "What is it, then?"

"Do you see that woman Westcliff is talking to?"

"The beautiful blond one with the smashing figure?"

"Yes," came Lillian's sour reply.

Daisy waited patiently. "

I suspect..." Lillian began, and was startled to feel her throat closing and a hot pressure accumulate behind her eyes. Her suspicion was too awful to voice.

Her husband was interested in another woman.

Not that anything would come of it, because Westcliff was a man of absolute honor. It was simply not in him ever to betray his wife, no matter how acute the temptation. Lillian knew that he would always be faithful to her, at least physically. But she wanted his heart, all of it, and to see the signs of his attraction to someone else made Lillian want to die.

Everyone had said from the beginning that the earl of West-cliff and a brash American heiress were the most improbable pairing imaginable. But before long Lillian had discovered that beneath Marcus's outward reserve, there was a man of passion, tenderness, and humor. And for his part, Marcus had seemed to enjoy her irreverence and high-spirited nature. The past two years of marriage had been more wonderful than Lillian could have ever dreamed.

But lately Westcliff had started paying marked attention to Lady Kittridge, a gorgeous young widow who had everything in common with him. She was elegant, aristocratic, intelligent, and to top it all off, she was a remarkable horse-woman who was known for carrying on her late husband's passion for horse breeding. The horses from the Kittridge stables were the most beautiful descendants of the world's finest Arabians, with an amiable sweetness of character and spectacular conformation. Lady Kittridge was the perfect woman for Westcliff.

At first Lillian had not worried about the interactions between Lady Kittridge and her husband. Women were always throwing themselves at Westcliff, who was one of the most powerful men in England. But then a correspondence had begun. And soon afterward he had gone to visit her, ostensibly to advise her on some financial matters. Finally Lillian had begun to experience the pangs of jealousy and insecurity.

"I... I've never been able to quite make myself believe that Marcus is truly mine," she admitted humbly to Daisy. "He is the only person, aside from you, who's ever truly loved me. It still seems a miracle that he should have wanted me enough to marry me. But now I think... I fear... he might be tiring of me."

Daisy's eyes turned huge. "Are you saying you think that he... and Lady Kittridge..."

Lillian's eyes turned hot and blurry. "They seem to have an affinity," she said.

"Lillian, that is madness," Daisy whispered. "Westcliff adores you. You're the mother of his child."

"I'm not saying that I think he's unfaithful," Lillian whispered back. "He's too honorable for that. But I don't want him to want to."

"Has the frequency of his... well, husbandly attentions... lessened?"

Lillian colored a little as she considered the question. "No, not at all."

"Well, that's good. In some of the novels I've read, the unfaithful spouse pays less attention to his wife after he begins an affair."

"What else do the novels say?"

"Well, sometimes a cheating husband may wear a new scent, or start tying his cravat in a different way."

A worried frown gathered on Lillian's forehead. "I never notice his cravat. I'll have to start looking at it more closely."

"And he develops an untoward interest in his wife's schedule."

"Well, that doesn't help—Westcliff has an untoward interest in everyone's schedule."

"What about new tricks?"

"What kind of tricks?"

Daisy kept her voice low. "In the bedroom."

"Oh, God. Is that a sign of infidelity?" Lillian gave her a stricken glance. "How do the bloody novelists know these things?"

"Talk to him," Daisy urged softly. "Tell him your fears. I'm sure Westcliff would never do anything to hurt you, dear."

"No, never deliberately," Lillian agreed, her smile turning brittle. She glanced at a nearby window, out at the cool black night. "It's getting colder. I hope we'll have snow for Christmas, don't you?"