lthough Hannah and Natalie had tacitly decided to put their tiff of the previous evening behind them, the relations between them were still cool the next day. Therefore, Hannah was relieved not to be included when Natalie and Lady Blandford went with a group of ladies on a festive carriage ride through the countryside. Other women had elected to stay at Stony Cross Park, conversing over tea and handiwork, while a sizable contingent of gentlemen had left for the day to attend an ale festival in Alton.

Left to her own devices, Hannah explored the manor at her leisure, lingering in the art gallery to view scores of priceless paintings. She also visited the orangery, relishing the air spiced with citrus and bay. It was a wonderfully warm room, with iron grillwork vents admitting heat from stoves on a lower floor. She was on her way to the ballroom when she was approached by a small boy whom she recognized as one of the children she had read to.

The boy appeared apprehensive and uncertain, hurrying through the hallway in an erratic line. He was clutching some kind of wooden toy in his hand.

"Hello. Are you lost?" Hannah asked, squatting to bring herself to face level with him.

"No, miss."

"What is your name?"

"Arthur, miss."

"You don't seem very happy, Arthur. Is there anything the matter?"

He nodded. "I was playing with something I shouldn't, and now it's stuck and I'll get thrashed for it."

"What is it?" she asked sympathetically. "Where were you playing?"

"I'll show you." Eagerly he seized her hand and pulled her along with him.

Hannah went willingly. "Where are we going?"

"The Christmas tree."

"Oh, good. I was just heading there."

Arthur led her to the ballroom, which, fortunately for both their sakes, was empty. The Christmas tree was quite large, glittering with decorations and treats on the bottom half, but still unadorned on the upper half.

"Something has stuck in the tree?" Hannah asked, perplexed.

"Yes, miss, right there." He pointed to a branch well over their heads.

"I don't see any... Oh, good Lord, what is that?"

Something dark and furry hung from the branch, something that resembled a nest. Or a dead rodent.

"It's Mr. Bowman's hair."

Hannah's eyes widened. "His toupee? But why... how..."

"Well," Arthur explained reasonably, "I saw him taking a nap on the settee in the library, and his hair was dangling off him, and I thought it might be fun to play with. So I've been shooting it with my toy catapult, but then it went too high, up into the Christmas tree, and I can't reach it. I was going to put it back on Mr. Bowman before he woke, I truly was!" He looked at her hopefully. "Can you get it down?"

By this time Hannah had turned away and covered her face in her hands, and she was laughing too hard to breathe. "I shouldn't laugh," she gasped, "oh, I shouldn't..."

But the more she tried to stifle her amusement the worse it got, until she was forced to blot her eyes on her sleeve. When she had calmed herself a bit, she glanced at Arthur, who was frowning at her, and that nearly set her off again. With a potential thrashing in store, he didn't find the situation nearly as amusing as she did. "I'm sorry," she managed to say. "Poor Arthur. Poor Mr. Bowman! Yes, I'll fetch it down, no matter what I have to do."

The hairpiece had to be retrieved, not only for Arthur's sake, but also to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment.

"I already tried the ladder," Arthur said. "But even when I got to the top, I still couldn't reach it."

Hannah viewed the nearby ladder appraisingly. It was an extending ladder, an A-frame made of two sets of steps with a third, extendable ladder braced between them. One would slide the middle ladder up or down to adjust the overall elevation. It had already been raised to full height.

"You're not very big," Arthur said doubtfully. "I don't think you can reach it, either."

Hannah smiled at him. "At least I can give it a try."

Together they repositioned the ladder close to one of the seating niches in the wall. Hannah took off her shoes. Taking care not to step on the hem of her own skirts, she gamely climbed the ladder in her stocking feet, hesitating only briefly before continuing up the extension. Higher and higher, until she had reached the top of the ladder. She reached for the toupee, only to discover with chagrin that it was approximately six inches out of her reach.

"Blast," she muttered. "It's almost within my grasp."

"Don't fall, miss," Arthur called up to her. "Maybe you should come down now."

"I can't give up yet." Hannah looked from the ladder to the overhanging ledge that surmounted the wall niche. It was about a foot higher than the top rung of the ladder. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "if I were standing on that ledge, I think I could reach Mr. Bowman's hairpiece." Carefully she levered herself up and crawled onto the ledge, pulling the mass of her skirts along with her.

"I didn't know ladies as old as you could climb," Arthur commented, looking impressed.

Hannah gave him a rueful grin. Minding her footing, she stood and reached for the drooping locks of the unfortunate toupee. To her disappointment, it was still too high. "Well, Arthur, the bad news is that I still can't reach it. The good news is, you have a very effective catapult."

The boy heaved a sigh. "I'm going to get a thrashing."

"Not necessarily. I'll think of some way to retrieve it. In the meantime—"

"Arthur!" Another boy appeared at the ballroom entrance. "Everyone's looking for you," he said breathlessly. "Your tutor says you're late for your lessons, and he's getting crosser and crosser by the second!"

"Oh, thunderbolts," Arthur muttered. "I have to go, miss. Can you get down from there?"

"Yes, I'll be fine," Hannah called down to him. "Go on, Arthur. Don't be late for your lessons."

"Thank you," he cried, and hurried from the room. His companion's voice floated in from the hallway. "Why is she up there...?"

Hannah inched toward the ladder slowly. Before she climbed back onto it, however, the middle extension collapsed, a loud clack-clack-clack echoing through the ballroom. Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at the A-frame stepladder, which was now far, far below her.

"Arthur?" she called, but there was no response.

It dawned on Hannah that she was in a fix.

How had her peaceful morning come to this, that she was stuck halfway up the side of the ballroom with no way to get down, and the manor mostly empty? In trying to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment, she had brought no end of it on herself. Because whoever found her was certainly not going to be quiet about it, and the story would be repeated endlessly until she was the laughingstock of the entire holiday gathering.

Hannah heaved a sigh. "Hello?" she called hopefully. "Can anyone hear me?"

No response.

"Bollocks," she said vehemently. It was the absolute worst word she knew.

Since it appeared she might be in for a long wait before someone came to rescue her, she considered lowering herself to sit on the ledge. But it was rather narrow. If she lost her balance, she was undoubtedly going to break something.

Bored and mortified and anxious, she waited, and waited, until she was certain that at least a quarter hour had passed. Every few minutes she called for help, but the manor was deadly silent.

Just as she felt the gnawing of acute self-pity and frustration, someone came to the doorway. She thought it was a servant at first. He was dressed with shocking informality in black trousers and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. But as he entered the room with a relaxed saunter, she recognized the way he moved, and she closed her eyes sickly.

"It would be you," she muttered.

She heard her name spoken in a quizzical tone, and opened her eyes to view Rafe Bowman standing below her. There was an odd expression on his face, a mixture of amusement and bafflement and something that looked like concern.

"Hannah, what the devil are you doing up there?"

She was too distressed to reprove him for using her first name. "I was fetching something," she said shortly. "The ladder collapsed. What are you doing here?"

"I was recruited by the wallflowers to help decorate the tree. Since the footmen are all occupied, they had need of tall people who could climb ladders." A deft pause. "You don't seem to qualify on either account, sweetheart."

"I climbed up perfectly well." Hannah was red everywhere, from her hairline to her toes. "It's merely coming down that poses a problem. And don't call me 'sweetheart,' and... what do you mean, wallflowers?"

Bowman had gone to the ladder and had begun to ratchet up the middle extension. "A silly name my sisters and their friends call their little group. What were you fetching?"

"Nothing of importance."

He grinned. "I'm afraid I can't help you down until you tell me."

Hannah longed to tell him to go away, she would prefer to wait for days before accepting his help. But she was getting tired of standing on the blasted ledge.

Seeing her indecision, Bowman said casually, "The others will be coming in here momentarily. And I should probably mention that I have an excellent view up your skirts."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Hannah tried to gather her dress more closely around her, and her balance wobbled.

Bowman cursed, his amusement vanishing. "Hannah, stop. I'm not looking. Be still, damn it. I'm coming up there to get you."

"I can do it by myself. Just set the ladder close to me."

"Like hell. I'm not going to risk you breaking your neck." Having extended the ladder to full length, Bowman ascended it with astonishing swiftness.

"It might collapse again," Hannah said nervously.

"No, it won't. There's an iron locking bracket on either side of the middle ladder. They probably weren't snapped into place before you climbed up. You should always make certain both brackets are locked before using one of these things."

"I don't plan to climb anything ever again," she said with vehement sincerity.

Bowman smiled. He was at the top of the ladder now, one hand extended. "Slowly, now. Take my hand and move carefully. You're going to put your foot on that rung and turn and face the wall. I'll help you."

As Hannah complied, it occurred to her that the logistics of getting down were a bit more difficult than going up had been. She felt a rush of gratitude toward him, especially since he was being far nicer than she would have expected.

His hand was very strong as it closed around hers, and his voice was deep and reassuring. "It's all right. I have you. Now step toward me and put your foot—no, not there, higher—yes. There we are."

Hannah went fully onto the ladder, and he guided her down until his arms closed on either side of her, his body a hard, warm cage. She was facing away from him, staring through the rungs of the ladder, while he was pressed all along her from behind. As he spoke, his breath was warm against her cheek. "You're safe. Rest a moment." He must have felt the shiver that went through her. "Easy. I won't let you fall."

She wanted to tell him that she wasn't at all afraid of heights. It was just the strange sensation of being suspended and yet held, and the delicious scent of him, so clean and male, and the brace of muscles she could feel through the thin linen of his shirt. A curious heat began to unfold inside her, spreading slowly.

"Will the ladder hold both of us?" she managed to ask.

"Yes, it could easily hold a half-dozen people." His voice was quietly comforting, the words a soft caress against her ear. "We'll go down one step at a time."

"I smell peppermint," she said wonderingly, twisting enough to look at him more fully.

A mistake.

His face was level with hers, those eyes so hot and dark, his lashes like black silk. Such a strong-featured face, perhaps the slightest bit too angular, like an artist's line sketch that had not yet been softened and blurred. She couldn't help wondering what lay beneath the tough, invulnerable façade, what he might be like in a tender moment.

"They're making candy ribbons in the kitchen." His breath was a warm, sweet rush of mint against her lips. "I ate a few of the broken pieces."

"You like sweets?" she asked unsteadily.

"Not usually. But I'm fond of peppermint." He stepped to a lower rung, and coaxed her to follow.

"The hairpiece," Hannah protested, even as she descended with him.

"The what?" Rafe followed her gaze, saw his father's toupee dangling from a branch, and made a choked sound. Pausing in his descent, he lowered his head to Hannah's shoulder and fought to suppress a burst of laughter that threatened to topple them both from the ladder. "Is that what you were trying to reach? Good God." He steadied her with one of his hands as she searched for her footing. "Putting aside the question of how it got there in the first place, why were you risking your pretty neck for a wad of dead hair?"

"I wanted to save your father from embarrassment."

"What a sweet little soul you are," he said softly.

Fearing he was mocking her, Hannah stopped and twisted around. But he was smiling at her, his gaze caressing, and his expression set off a series of hot flutters in her midriff. "Hannah, the only way to spare my father embarrassment is to keep him from finding that damned toupee again."

"It's not very flattering," she admitted. "Has anyone told him?"

"Yes, but he refuses to accept the fact that there are two things money can't buy. Happiness, and real hair."

"It is real hair," she said. "He just didn't happen to grow it himself."

Bowman chuckled and guided her down another rung.

"Why isn't he happy?" Hannah dared to ask.

Bowman considered the question for so long that they had reached the floor by the time he answered. "That's the universal question. My father has spent his entire life pursuing success. And now that he's richer than Croesus, he's still not satisfied. He owns strings of horses, stables filled with carriages, entire streets lined with buildings... and more female companionship than any one man should have. All of which leads me to believe that no one thing or person will ever be enough for him. And he'll never be happy."

Once they were on the ground, Hannah turned to face him fully, standing in her stocking feet. "Is that your fate as well, Mr. Bowman?" she asked. "Never to be happy?"

He stared down at her, his expression difficult to interpret. "Probably."

"I'm sorry," she said gently.

For the first time since she had met Bowman, he seemed robbed of speech. His gaze was deep and dark and volatile, and she felt her toes curl against the bare floor. She experienced the feeling she sometimes had when she'd been out in the cold and damp, and came inside for a cup of sugared tea... when the tea was so hot that it almost hurt to drink it, and yet the combination of sweetness and searing heat was too exquisite to resist.

"My grandfather once told me," she volunteered, "that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying."

Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.

"Does that work for you?" he asked huskily. "The not trying?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I don't think I can stop." His tone was reflective. "It's a popular belief among Americans, you know. The pursuit of happiness. It's in our Declaration, as a matter of fact."

"Then I suppose you have to obey it. Although I think it's a silly law."

A swift grin crossed his face. "It's not a law, it's a right."

"Well, whatever it is, you can't go looking for happiness as if it were a shoe you lost under the bed. You already have it, you see? You just have to let yourself be." She paused and frowned. "Why are you shaking your head at me like that?"

"Because talking with you reminds me of those embroidered quotes they're always putting on parlor pillows."

He was mocking her again. If she'd been wearing a pair of sturdy boots, she would probably have kicked him in the shins. After giving him a scowl, she turned to look for her discarded shoes.

Realizing what she wanted, Bowman bent to pick up her slippers. In a lithe movement he knelt on the floor, his thighs spread. "Let me help you."

Hannah extended her foot, and he placed the slipper on her with care. She felt the light brush of his fingers on her ankle, the smooth fire racing from nerve to nerve until it seemed her entire body was alight. Her mouth went dry. She looked down at the broad span of his shoulders, the way the heavy locks of his hair lay, the shape of his head.

He lowered her foot to the floor and reached for the other. It surprised her to feel the softness of his touch. She had not thought a large man could be so gentle. He fitted the shoe onto her foot, discovered that the top edge of the leather upper had folded under in the back, and ran his thumb inside the heel to adjust it.

At that moment, a few people entered the room. The sound of female chatter stopped abruptly.

It was Lady Westcliff, Hannah saw in consternation. How must the scene have appeared to them?

"Pardon us," the countess said cheerfully, giving a look askance at her brother. "Are we interrupting something?"

"No," Bowman replied, rising to his feet. "We were just playing Cinderella. Have you brought the rest of the decorations?"

"Loads of them," came another voice, and Lord Westcliff and Mr. Swift entered the room, carrying large baskets.

Hannah realized she was in the middle of a private gathering... there was the other Bowman sister, Mrs. Swift, and Lady St. Vincent, and Annabelle.

"I've enlisted them all to help finish the decorating," Lillian said with a grin. "It's too bad Mr. Hunt hasn't arrived yet... he would hardly need a ladder."

"I'm nearly as tall as he is," Bowman protested.

"Yes, but you don't take orders nearly so well."

"That depends on who gives the orders," he countered.

Hannah broke in uncomfortably, "I should go. Excuse me—"

But in her haste to leave, she forgot all about the A-frame ladder directly behind her. And as she turned, her foot caught on it.

In a lightning-fast reflex, Bowman grabbed her before she could fall, and pulled her against his solid chest. She felt the flex of powerful muscle beneath his shirt. "If you wanted me to hold you," he murmured in a teasing undertone, "you should have just asked."

"Rafe Bowman," Daisy Swift admonished playfully, "are you resorting to tripping women to gain their attention?"

"When my more subtle efforts fail, yes." He released Hannah carefully. "You don't have to leave, Miss Appleton. In fact, we could use another pair of hands."

"I shouldn't—"

"Oh, do stay!" Lillian said with enthusiasm, and then Annabelle joined in, and then it would have been churlish for Hannah to refuse.

"Thank you, I will," she said with a sheepish smile. "And unlike Mr. Bowman, I take orders quite well."

"Perfect," Daisy exclaimed, handing Hannah a basket of handkerchief angels. "Because with the exception of the two of us, everyone else here loves to give them."

IT WAS THE BEST AFTERNOON RAFE HAD SPENT IN A LONG TIME. Perhaps ever. Two more ladders were brought in. The men wired candles onto the branches and hung ornaments where directed, while the women passed decorations up to them. Friendly insults flew back and forth, not to mention flurries of laughter as they exchanged reminiscences of past holidays.

Climbing the tallest ladder, Rafe managed to snatch the dangling toupee before anyone else saw it. He glanced at Hannah, who was standing below. Surreptitiously he dropped it to her. She caught it and shoved it deep into a basket.

"What was that thing?" Lillian demanded.

"Bird's nest," Rafe replied insouciantly, and he heard Hannah smother a laugh.

Westcliff poured an excellent red wine and passed glasses around, even pressing one on Hannah when she tried to refuse.

"Perhaps I should water it," she told the earl.

Westcliff looked scandalized. "Dilute a Cossart Gordon '28? A sacrilege!" He grinned at her. "First try it just as it is, Miss Appleton. And tell me if you can't detect flavors of maple, fruit, and bonfire. As the Roman poet Horace once said, 'Wine brings to light the hidden secrets of the soul.' "

Hannah smiled back at him and took a sip of the wine. Its rich, exquisite flavor brought an expression of bliss to her face. "Delicious," she conceded. "But rather strong. And I may have secrets of the soul that should remain hidden."

Rafe murmured to Hannah, "One glass won't overthrow all your virtues, much to my regret. Go ahead and have some."

He smiled as she colored a little. It was a good thing, he thought, that Hannah had no idea how badly he wanted to taste the wine on her lips. And it was also fortunate that Hannah seemed to have no idea of how much he desired her.

What puzzled him was that she wasn't using any of the usual tricks women employed... no flirtatious glances, no discreet strokes or caresses, no suggestive comments. She dressed like a nun on holiday, and so far she hadn't once pretended to be impressed by him.

So the devil knew what had inspired all this lust. And it wasn't the ordinary sort of lust, it was... spiced with something. It was a steady, ruthless warmth, like strong sunlight, and it filled every part of him. It almost made him dizzy.

It was rather like an illness, come to think of it.

As the wine was consumed and the decorating continued, the large room echoed with laughter, especially when Lillian and Daisy tried to harmonize a few lines of a popular Christmas carol.

"If that sound were produced by a pair of songbirds," Rafe told his sisters, "I would shoot them at once to put them out of their misery."

"Well, you sing like a wounded elephant," Daisy retorted.

"She's lying," Rafe told Hannah, who was stringing tinsel below him.

"You don't sing badly?" she asked.

"I don't sing at all."

"Why not?"

"If one doesn't do something well, it shouldn't be done."

"I don't agree," she protested. "Sometimes the effort should be made even if the results aren't perfect."

Smiling, Rafe descended the ladder for more candles, and stopped to look directly into her ocean-green eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yes."

"I dare you, then."

"You dare me to what?"

"Sing something."

"This moment?" Hannah gave a disconcerted laugh. "By myself?"

Aware that the others were observing the interaction with interest, Rafe nodded. He wondered if she would take the dare and sing in front of a group of people she barely knew. He didn't think so.

Flushing, Hannah protested, "I can't do it while you're looking at me."

Rafe laughed. He took the bundle of wires and candles she handed to him, and obediently went up the ladder. He twisted a wire around a candle and began to fasten it to a branch.

His hands stilled as he heard a sweet, soft voice. Not at all distinguished or operatic. Just a pleasant, lovely feminine voice, perfect for lullabies or Christmas carols or nursery songs.

A voice one could listen to for a lifetime.

Rafe listened to her, barely aware of the two or three candles snapping in his grip. This was getting bloody ridiculous, he thought savagely. If she became any more adorable, endearing, or delectable, something was going to get broken.

Most likely his heart.

He kept his face calm even as he struggled with two irreconcilable truths—he couldn't have her, and he couldn't not have her. He focused on marshaling his breathing, stacking his thoughts into order, pushing away the mass of unwanted feeling that kept flooding over him like ocean waves.

Finishing the verse, Hannah looked up at Rafe with a self-satisfied grin, while the others clapped and praised her. "There, I took your dare, Mr. Bowman. Now you owe me a forfeit."

What a smile she had. It set off sparks of warmth all through him. And it took all his self-control to keep from staring at her like a lovestruck goat. "Would you like me to sing something?" he offered politely.

"Please, no," Lillian cried, and Daisy added, "I beg you, don't ask him that!"

Descending the ladder, Rafe came to stand beside Hannah. "Name your forfeit," he said. "I always pay my debts."

"Make him pose like a Grecian statue," Annabelle suggested.

"Demand that he give you a l-lovely compliment," Evie said.

"Hmmm..." Hannah eyed him thoughtfully, and named a popular parlor-game forfeit. "I'll take a possession of yours. Anything you happen to be carrying right now. A handkerchief, or a coin, perhaps."

"His wallet," Daisy suggested with glee.

Rafe reached into his trouser pocket, where a small penknife and a few coins jingled. And one other object, a tiny metal figure not two inches in height. Casually he dropped it into Hannah's palm.

She regarded the offering closely. "A toy soldier?" Most of the paint had worn off, leaving only a few flecks of color to indicate its original hues. The tiny infantryman held a sword tucked at his side. Hannah's gaze lifted to his, her eyes clear and green. Somehow she seemed to understand that there was some secret meaning to the little soldier. Her fingers curved as if to protect it. "Is he for luck?" she asked.

Rafe shook his head slightly, hardly able to breathe as he felt himself suspended between an oddly pleasurable sense of surrender, and an ache of regret. He wanted to take it back. And he wanted to leave it there forever, safe in her possession.

"Rafe," he heard Lillian say with an odd note in her voice. "Do you still carry that? After all these years?"

"It's just an old habit. Means nothing." Stepping away from Hannah, Rafe said curtly, "Enough of this nonsense. Let's finish the blasted tree."

In another quarter hour, the decorations were all up, and the tree was glittering and magnificent.

"Imagine when all the candles are lit," Annabelle exclaimed, standing back to view it. "It will be a glorious sight."

"Yes," Westcliff rejoined dryly. "Not to mention the greatest fire hazard in Hampshire."

"You were absolutely right to choose such a large tree," Annabelle told Lillian.

"Yes, I think—" Lillian paused only briefly as she saw someone come into the room. A very tall and piratical-looking someone who could only be Simon Hunt, Annabelle's husband. Although Hunt had begun his career working in his father's butcher shop, he had eventually become one of the wealthiest men in England, owning locomotive foundries and a large portion of the railway business. He was Lord Westcliff's closest friend, a man's man who appreciated good liquor and fine horses and demanding sports. But it was no secret that what Simon Hunt loved most in the world was Annabelle.

"I think," Lillian continued as Hunt walked quietly up behind Annabelle, "the tree is perfect. And I think someone had very good timing in arriving so late that he didn't have to decorate even one bloody branch of it."

"Who?" Annabelle asked, and started a little as Simon Hunt put his hands lightly over her eyes. Smiling, he bent to murmur something private into her ear.

Color swept over the portion of Annabelle's face that was still exposed. Realizing who was behind her, she reached up to pull his hands down to her lips, and she kissed each of his palms in turn. Wordlessly she turned in his arms, laying her head against his chest.

Hunt gathered her close. "I'm still covered in travel dust," he said gruffly. "But I couldn't wait another damned second to see you."

Annabelle nodded, her arms clutching around his neck. The moment was so spontaneously tender and passionate that it cast a vaguely embarrassed silence through the room.

After kissing the top of his wife's head, Hunt looked up with a smile and extended his hand to Westcliff. "It's good to be here at last," he said. "Too much to be done in London—I left with a mountain of things unfinished."

"Your presence has been sorely missed," the earl said, shaking his hand firmly.

Still holding Annabelle with one arm, Hunt greeted the rest of them cordially.

"St. Vincent is still away?" Hunt asked Evie, and she nodded. "Any word on the duke's health?"

"I'm af-fraid not."

Hunt looked sympathetic. "I'm sure St. Vincent will be here soon."

"And you're among friends who love you," Lillian added, putting her arm around Evie's shoulders.

"And there is v-very good wine," Evie said with a smile.

"Will you have a glass, Hunt?" Westcliff asked, indicating the tray on a nearby table.

"Thank you, but no," Hunt said affably, pulling Annabelle's arm through his. "If you'll pardon us, I have a few things to discuss with my wife." And without waiting for an answer, he dragged Annabelle from the ballroom with a haste that left no doubt as to what would happen next.

"Yes, I'm sure they'll be chatting up a storm," Rafe remarked, and winced as Lillian drove her elbow hard into his side.