And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Glancing upward as she finished reading A Christmas Carol, Hannah saw the rapt faces of the children, their eyes shining. There was a brief silence, the shared pleasure of a wonderful story tinged with the regret that it had to end. And then they were all standing, moving about the room, their faces sticky with milk and cookie crumbs, their small hands clapping enthusiastically.

There were two imps on her lap, and one hugging her neck from behind the chair. Hannah looked up as Rafe Bowman approached her. The rhythm of her heart went wild, and she knew her shortness of breath had nothing to do with the small arms clamped around her neck.

His gaze strayed to her disordered clothes and tousled coiffure. "Well done," he murmured. "You've made it feel like Christmas. For everyone."

"Thank you," she whispered, trying not to think of his hands on her skin, his mouth—

"I need to talk to you."

Carefully Hannah dislodged the children from her lap and disentangled the arms from her neck. Standing to face him, she tried in vain to straighten her dress and smooth her skirts. She took a deep breath, but her voice emerged with a dismaying lack of force. "I... I don't see how any good could come of that."

His gaze was warm and direct. "Nevertheless, I'm going to talk to you."

The words from his letter drifted through her mind. "I want to kiss every soft place of you..."

"Please not now," she whispered, with her face flushing and an ache rising in her throat.

Reading the signs of her distress, he relented. "Tomorrow?"

"I need too much of you..."

"Yes," she said with difficulty.

Comprehending how deeply his presence unnerved her, Rafe gave her a slight nod, his jaw firming. It seemed there were a dozen things he wanted to say, words hovering impatiently on his lips, but something... compassion or pity perhaps... afforded him the necessary self-restraint.

"Tomorrow," he repeated quietly, and left her.

NANNIES AND NURSERYMAIDS CAME TO COLLECT THE CHILDREN, and Hannah went out into the hallway in a daze of misery.

No one had ever told her that love could make every cell in one's body hurt.

She was becoming fairly certain that she would not be able to attend Rafe and Natalie's wedding, that all the events of their married life, the births of children, the celebrations and rituals, would be impossible for her to tolerate. She would stew in jealousy and despair and resentment until she disintegrated. The common wisdom for a woman in her situation was that someday she would meet another man, and she would forget all about Rafe Bowman. But she didn't want another man. There was no one else like him.

I'm doomed, she thought.

With her head lowered, she plowed along the hallway, intending to go to her room, where she could mope and cry in private. Unfortunately, walking with one's head down meant one could not precisely see where one was going. She nearly collided with a woman approaching from the opposite direction, someone who walked with a distinctively long, free stride.

They both stopped abruptly, and the woman reached out to steady Hannah.

"My lady," Hannah gasped, recognizing Lillian. "Oh... I'm so sorry... I beg your pardon..."

"No harm done," the countess assured her. "My fault, actually. I was hurrying to tell the housekeeper something before I had to meet my sister, and—" She paused and stared at Hannah closely. "You look ready to cry," she said bluntly. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Hannah said brightly, and a few hot tears spilled out. She sighed and bent her head again. "Oh, bollocks. Forgive me, I must go—"

"You poor thing," Lillian said with genuine sympathy, seeming not at all shocked by the profanity. "Come with me. There's a private parlor upstairs where we can talk."

"I can't," Hannah whispered. "My lady, forgive me, but you're the last person I can confide in about this."

"Oh." The countess's eyes, the same velvet brown as her brother's, widened slightly. "It's Rafe, isn't it?"

More tears, welling up no matter how tightly she closed her eyes against them.

"Is there a friend you can talk to?" Lillian asked softly.

"Natalie is my best friend," Hannah said between sniffles. "So that's impossible."

"Then let me be your friend. I'm not sure I can help—but at least I can try to understand."

They went to a cozy parlor upstairs, a private receiving room decorated in a plush, feminine style. Lillian closed the door, brought Hannah a handkerchief, and sat beside her on the settee. "I insist that you call me Lillian," she said. "And before either of us says a word, let me assure you that everything in this parlor will remain completely private. No one will know."

"Yes, my—Lillian." Hannah blew her nose and sighed.

"Now, what happened to make you cry?"

"It's Mr. Bowman... Rafe..." She could not seem to put her words in the proper order, and so she let them tumble out, even knowing Lillian would never be able to make sense of them. "He is so... and I've never... and when he kissed me I thought no, it's merely infatuation, but... and then Mr. Clark proposed, and I realized I couldn't accept because... and I know it's too soon. Too fast. But the worst part is the letter, because I don't even know who he wrote it for!" She went on and on, trying desperately to make herself understood. Somehow, miraculously, Lillian managed to make sense of the mess.

While Hannah poured out the whole story, or at least an expurgated version, Lillian gripped her hands firmly. As Hannah paused to blow her nose again, Lillian said, "I'm going to ring for tea. With brandy."

She pulled the servants' bell, and when a maid came to the door, Lillian cracked it open and murmured to her. The maid went to fetch the tea.

Just as Lillian returned to the settee, the door opened, and Daisy Swift poked her head inside. She looked mildly surprised to see Hannah sitting there with Lillian. "Hello. Lillian, you were supposed to play cards."

"Hang it, I forgot."

Daisy's brown eyes were filled with curiosity and sympathy as she glanced at Hannah. "Why are you crying? Is there something I can do?"

"This is a very private and highly sensitive matter," Lillian told her. "Hannah's confiding in me."

"Oh, confide in me, too!" Daisy said earnestly, coming into the room. "I can keep a secret. Better than Lillian, as a matter of fact."

Without giving Hannah a chance to respond, Daisy closed the door and came to sit beside her sister.

"You are to tell no one," Lillian said to Daisy sternly. "Hannah is in love with Rafe, and he's going to propose to Lady Natalie. Except that he's in love with Hannah."

"I'm not sure about that," Hannah said in a muffled voice. "It's just... the letter..."

"Do you still have it? May I see it?"

Hannah regarded her doubtfully. "It's very private. He didn't want anyone to read it."

"Then he should have burned the damn thing properly," Lillian said.

"Do show us, Hannah," Daisy urged. "It will go no further, I promise."

Carefully Hannah pulled the scrap of parchment from her pocket and gave it to Lillian. The sisters bent over it intently.

"Oh, my," she heard Daisy murmur.

"He doesn't mince words, does he?" Lillian asked dryly, her brows lifting. She glanced at Hannah. "This is Rafe's handwriting, and I've no doubt he was the author. But it is unusual for him to express himself in such a manner."

"I'm sure he knows many pretty phrases to attract women," Hannah mumbled. "He's a rake."

"Well, yes, he's a rake, but to be so open and effusive... that's not like him. He's usually—"

"A rake of few words," Daisy finished for her.

"My point is, he was clearly moved by a very strong feeling," Lillian told Hannah. She turned to her younger sister. "What do you think, Daisy?"

"Well, reading such sentiments from one's brother is slightly revolting," Daisy said. "Wine and honey, et cetera. But regardless of that, it's clear that Rafe has fallen in love for the first time in his life."

"The letter may not have been meant for me—" Hannah began, when the door opened again.

It was Evie, Lady St. Vincent, her red hair arranged in a loose chignon. "I've been looking for you," she said.

"We haven't seen you for days," Lillian said. "Where have you been?"

Evie's color deepened. "With St. Vincent."

"What have you been... Oh, good God. Never mind."

Evie's gaze fell on Hannah. "Oh, dear. Are you all right?"

"We're discussing something highly private," Daisy told her. "Hannah's in love with Rafe. It's a secret. Come in."

Evie entered the room and sat in a nearby chair, while Lillian succinctly explained the situation. "May I see the letter?" she asked.

"I don't think—" Hannah began, but Daisy had already given it to her.

"Don't worry," Lillian murmured to Hannah. "Evie's better than anyone at keeping secrets."

After Evie had finished reading, looking up with round blue eyes, Hannah said morosely, "It may not have been intended for me. It could just as easily have been written for Natalie. Men adore her. They're always proposing to her, and she manages them so well, and I can't manage them at all."

"N-no one can manage men," Evie told her firmly. "They c-can't even manage themselves."

"That's right," Lillian said. "And furthermore, any woman who thinks she can manage men shouldn't be allowed to have one."

"Annabelle can manage them," Daisy said reflectively. "Although she would deny it."

There was a brief tap at the door.

"The tea," Lillian said.

However, it was not a maid, but Annabelle Hunt. "Hello," she said with a smile, her gaze sweeping across the group. "What are we doing?" As she looked at Hannah, her expression softened with concern. "Oh, you've been crying."

"She's in love with Rafe Bowman," Evie said. "It's a s-secret. Come in."

"Tell no one, Annabelle," Lillian said severely. "This is confidential."

"She's not very good with secrets," Daisy said.

"I am, too," Annabelle said, coming into the parlor. "At least, I am good at keeping big secrets. It's the little ones I seem to have a problem with."

"This is a big one," Lillian told her.

Hannah waited with resignation as the situation was explained to Annabelle.

Receiving the letter, Annabelle scanned the scorched parchment, and a faint smile came to her lips. "Oh, how lovely." She looked up at Hannah. "This was not meant for Lady Natalie," she said decisively. "Hannah, Rafe's attraction to you has not gone unnoticed. In fact, it has been discreetly remarked upon."

"She means everyone's gossiping about you," Daisy said to Hannah.

"I believe," Annabelle continued, "that Rafe likes Lady Natalie—there is certainly much about her to like. But he loves you."

"But it's impossible," Hannah said, her face drawn with miserable tightness.

"Impossible that he could love you?" Daisy asked. "Or impossible because of the infernal deal that Father has set up for him?"

"Both," Hannah said dolefully. "First, I don't know if what he feels for me is merely infatuation..." She paused to blot her burning eyes.

" 'Ask me an hour from now,' " Annabelle read softly from the letter. " 'Ask me a month from now. A year, ten years, a lifetime...' That's not infatuation, Hannah."

"But even if it's true," Hannah said, "I would never accept him, because he would lose everything, including his relationship with his father. I would not want him to make such a sacrifice."

"Neither should Father," Lillian said darkly.

"Perhaps I should mention," Daisy volunteered, "that Matthew is determined to have it out with Father on this issue. He says Father can't be allowed to run to such excesses. Limits must be set, or he'll try to trample over everyone. And since Matthew has a great deal of influence with Father, it's very possible that he can make him retract his demands."

"But no matter what," Annabelle told Hannah, "you have nothing to do with the relationship between Rafe and his father. Your only obligation is to make your feelings known to Rafe. Out of love for him—and for your own sake as well—you must give Rafe a choice. He deserves to know your feelings before he makes important decisions about his future."

Hannah knew that Annabelle was right. But the truth was not exactly liberating. It made her feel hollow and small. She drew the toe of her shoe on a flowered medallion pattern on the carpet. "I hope I can be that brave," she said, more to herself than to the others.

"Love is worth the risk," Daisy said.

"If you don't tell Rafe," Lillian added, "you'll regret it forever. Because you'll never know what might have happened."

"Tell him," Evie said quietly.

Hannah took an unsteady breath, looking at the four of them. They were a peculiar group, all so bright and pretty, but... different. And she had the feeling that these women encouraged each other's eccentricities, and relished their differences. Anything could be said or done among them, and no matter what it was, they would accept and forgive. Sometimes, in some rare and wonderful friendships, the bond of sisterly love was much stronger than any blood tie.

It felt nice to be around them. She felt comforted in their presence, especially when she looked into the Bowman sisters' familiar dark eyes.

"All right," she told them, her stomach dropping. "I will tell him. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow night is the Christmas Eve ball," Annabelle said. "Do you have a nice gown to wear?"

"Yes," Hannah replied. "A white one. It's very simple, but it's my favorite."

"I have a pearl necklace you could borrow," Annabelle offered.

"I have white satin gloves for her," Daisy exclaimed.

Lillian grinned. "Hannah, we'll adorn you more lavishly than the Christmas tree."

The maid brought in tea, and Lillian sent her back for extra cups. "Who wants tea with brandy?" Lillian asked.

"I do," said Daisy.

"I'll take m-mine without the brandy," Evie murmured.

"I'll take mine without the tea," Annabelle said.

Moving to the space beside Hannah, Daisy gave her a fresh handkerchief, and put her arm around her shoulders. "You know, dear," Daisy said, "you're our first honorary wallflower. And we've brought very good luck to each other. I have no doubt it will extend to you, too."

SLIGHTLY TIPSY FROM A GLASS OF STRAIGHT BRANDY, LILLIAN SAID good night to the wallflowers, including their newest member. They all left the Marsden parlor to go to their rooms. Wandering slowly toward the master's suite, Lillian pondered her brother's situation with a troubled frown.

Lillian was a straightforward, blunt-spoken woman, who far preferred to handle a problem by bringing it out into the open and dealing with it directly. But she understood that this matter must be handled with discretion and sensitivity. Which meant she needed to stay out of it. And yet she longed for Rafe to find the happiness he deserved. Even more, she longed to shake her stubborn ass of a father and command him to stop manipulating the lives of everyone around him.

She decided to talk to Westcliff, who could always be counted on for comfort and common sense. She could hardly wait to hear his opinions on the matter of Rafe and Hannah and Lady Natalie. Guessing that he would still be downstairs with the guests, she headed toward the grand staircase.

As she reached the top of the grand staircase and prepared to descend, she saw her husband standing in the entrance hall below, talking to someone.

Lady Kittridge... again.

"Marcus," she whispered, feeling a sick pang of jealousy. Followed swiftly by rage.

By God, this was not to be endured. She would not lose her husband's affections to someone else. Not without a fight. Her hands clenched into fists. Although every instinct screamed for her to storm downstairs and jump between her husband and the blond woman, she managed to restrain herself. She was a countess. She would do the dignified thing, and confront Marcus in private.

First she went to the nursery to say good night to little Merritt, who was snuggled in a lace-trimmed crib, with a nurserymaid watching over her. The sight of her precious daughter calmed Lillian somewhat. She smoothed her hand lightly over the baby's dark hair, drinking in the sight of her. I'm the mother of his child, she thought vehemently, wishing she could hurl the words like daggers at the glamorous Lady Kittridge. I'm his wife. And he hasn't fallen out of love with me yet!

She went to the master bedroom, bathed and changed into a nightgown and velvet dressing robe, and brushed out her long sable hair.

Her heart began to thump madly as Marcus entered the room. He paused at the sight of her, the long locks of hair flowing down her back, and he smiled. Here in private, his autocratic demeanor faded away, and the all-powerful earl became a warm, loving, very mortal man.

He stripped off his coat and dropped it onto a chair. His cravat followed, and then he came to stand beside her.

Lillian closed her eyes as his hands came to her head, fingers sliding gently through her loose hair, and his fingertips massaged her temples. She was acutely aware of him, the coiled power of his body, and the dry, sweet outdoors scent of him, like fresh-cut hay. He fascinated her, this complex man with complex needs. Having been raised with the unstinting criticism of her parents, it was no wonder that she occasionally doubted her ability to be enough for Marcus.

"Are you tired?" he asked in that gravel-wrapped-in-velvet murmur, so distinctive and pleasant.

"Just a little." She sighed as his hands slid to her shoulders, working the tension from them.

"You could just lie back and let me have my way with you," he suggested, his dark eyes glowing.

"Yes, but... there is something I must talk with you about first." Damn it, there was a quaver in her voice, despite her attempt to sound calm and dignified.

Marcus's expression changed as he heard the distress in her tone. He pulled her up to face him, and he stared down at her with instant concern. "What is it, my love?"

Lillian took a deep breath. Another. Her fear and anger and worry were so great, it was hard to force the words out. "I... I should not stand in the way of your... pursuits outside of marriage. I know that. I understand how it is with your kind... I mean, you've done it for centuries, and I suppose it was too much for me to expect that you—that I—would be enough. All I ask is that you be discreet. Because it isn't easy to watch you with her—the way you smile, and—" She stopped and covered her face with her hands, mortified to feel tears springing to her eyes. Bloody hell.

"My kind?" Marcus sounded bewildered. "What have I done for centuries? Lillian, what the hell are you talking about?"

Her woeful voice filtered out from behind her hands. "Lady Kittridge."

There was a short, shocked silence.

"Have you gone mad? Lillian, look at me. Lillian—"

"I can't look at you," she muttered.

He gave her a little shake. "Lillian... Am I to understand that you think I have a personal interest in her?"

The note of genuine outrage in his question made Lillian feel the tiniest bit better. No guilty husband could have feigned such baffled anger. On the other hand, it was never a good idea to provoke Marcus. He was usually slow to anger, but once it started, mountains trembled, oceans parted, and every creature with an instinct for self-preservation fled for cover.

"I've seen you talking with her," Lillian said, taking her hands down, "and smiling at her, and you've corresponded with her. And—" She gave him a look of miserable indignation. "You've changed the way you tie your cravat!"

"My valet suggested it," he said, looking stunned.

"And that new trick the other night... that new thing you did in bed..."

"You didn't like it? Damn it, Lillian, all you had to do was tell me—"

"I did like it," she said, turning scarlet. "But it's one of the signs, you see."

"Signs of what?"

"That you've tired of me," she said, her voice cracking. "That you want someone else."

Marcus stared at her and let out a string of curses that shocked Lillian, who had a fairly good command of filthy language herself. Seizing her arm, he pulled her with him out of the bedroom. "Come with me."

"Now? Like this? Marcus, I'm not dressed—"

"I don't give a bloody damn!"

I've finally driven him mad, Lillian thought in alarm, as he tugged and pulled her along with him, down the stairs and through the entrance hall past a few bemused-looking servants. Out into the biting December cold. What was he going to do? Toss her off the bluff? "Marcus?" she asked nervously, hurrying to keep pace with his ground-eating strides.

He didn't answer, only took her across the courtyard to the stables, with their central courtyard and drinking fountain for the horses, into the warm central space with rows of superbly appointed horse stalls. Horses stared at them with mild interest as Marcus pulled Lillian to the end of the first row. There was a stall with a large, cheerful red bow tacked at the top.

The stall contained an astonishingly beautiful Arabian mare about fourteen hands high, with a narrow, eloquent head and neck, large lustrous eyes, and what appeared to be perfect conformation.

Lillian blinked in surprise. "A white Arabian?" she asked faintly, having never seen such a creature before. "She looks like something out of a fairy tale."

"Technically she's registered as a gray," Marcus said. "But the shade is so light, it looks like pale silver. Her name is Misty Moonlight." He gave her a sardonic glance. "She's your Christmas present. You asked if we could work on your riding skills together—remember?"

"Oh." Lillian was suddenly breathless.

"It's taken me six damn months to make the arrangements," Marcus continued curtly. "Lady Kittridge is the best horse breeder in England, and very particular about whom she'll sell one of her Arabians to. And as this horse had been promised to someone else, I had to bribe and threaten the other buyer, and pay a bloody fortune to Lady Kittridge."

"And that's why you've been communicating so often with Lady Kittridge?"

"Yes." He scowled at her.

"Oh, Marcus!" Lillian was overcome with relief and happiness.

"And in return for my pains," he growled, "I'm accused of infidelity! I love you more than life. Since I met you, I've never even thought of another woman. And how you think I could have the desire for someone else when we spend every bloody night together is beyond my powers of comprehension!"

Realizing that he had been mortally offended and his outrage was increasing by the second, Lillian offered him a placating smile. "I never thought you would actually betray me that way. I was just afraid that you found her tempting. And I—"

"The only thing I find tempting is the idea of taking you to the tack room and applying a saddle strap to your bottom. Repeatedly. With vigor."

Lillian backed away as her husband approached her menacingly. She was filled with a combination of giddy relief and alarm. "Marcus, everything's settled. I believe you. I'm not at all worried now."

"You should be worried," he said with chilling softness. "Because it's clear that unless there are consequences for this lack of faith in me—"

"Consequences?" she squeaked.

"—this problem may arise again in the future. So I'm about to remove all doubt about what I want, and from whom."

Staring at him with wide eyes, Lillian wondered if he was going to beat her, ravish her, or both. She calculated her chances of escaping. Not good. Marcus, with his powerful but agile build, was superbly fit and accomplished. He was as fast as lightning and could probably outmaneuver a hare. Watching her steadily, he removed his waistcoat and tossed it to the hay-covered floor. Picking up a horse blanket from a folded stack, he spread it over a pile of hay.

"Come here," he said quietly, his expression implacable.

Her eyes went huge. Wild, half-hysterical giggles rose in her throat. She tried to stand her ground. "Marcus, there are some things that shouldn't be done in front of children or horses."

"There are no children here. And my horses don't gossip."

Lillian tried to dart past him. Marcus caught her easily, tossing her onto the blanket-covered hay. And as she yelped and protested, he tore the nightgown from her. His mouth crushed over hers, his hands sliding over her body with insolent demand. A cry snagged in her throat as he bent to her breasts, clamping the tips gently with his teeth, then soothing the little aches with his tongue. He did all the things that he knew would arouse her, his lovemaking gentle but ruthless, until she gasped out a few words of surrender. Unfastening his trousers with a few deft tugs, he thrust deeply inside her with primitive force.

Lillian shivered in ecstasy and gripped his muscular flexing back. He kissed her, his mouth rough and greedy, his body moving in a powerful rhythm. "Marcus," Lillian gasped, "I'll never doubt you again... oh, God..."

He smiled privately against her hair and pulled her hips up higher against his. "See that you don't," he murmured. And long into the night, he had his way with her.