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This year, she knew precisely what her Christmas wish—prayer—would be.

If miracles were truly possible and if God could hear the cry of Joy’s heart, if the stars aligned just right, and if the Almighty bestowed even the tiniest amount of grace upon her, Joy would wish Brandon felt the same way about her as she did him.

How often had she wondered what it would be like to be kissed? More specifically, these past six months, what would it be like to have Brandon settle his sculpted mouth upon hers?

Would his lips be soft?

Firm? Velvety?

What would they taste like?

The spices that always wafted from him?

Coffee?

Perhaps brandy or tobacco?

“Shall we return?” Brandon eyed the sky, a crease drawing his slanted eyebrows together. He met her eyes. “I fear we will be rained upon if we do not hurry.”

“Hmph. A little rain never hurt anyone,” Mrs. Thackpenny declared, beating the pavement with her cane. “In fact, I’d wager it would be quite amusing watching those preening hens ogling you yonder, Doctor Morrisette, wilt from the precipitation.”

The four young women were indisputably lovely in their expensive redingotes and elegant bonnets. Two even carried matching fur-lined muffs and wore half-boots in the same colors—coordinated elegance and perfection.

Joy glanced down at her serviceable steel-gray cloak, noting the carefully stitched repairs and occasional moth hole. Her scuffed half-boots peeked at her from beneath the frayed hem, and she’d knitted her mittens herself from leftover yarn. Her bonnet was the same one she’d had when she left Haven House. A simple navy-blue affair without a single adornment.

Everything she owned was plain and serviceable.

All of which served to make her feel an absolute frump and far beneath the darling debutantes’ touch. Brandon’s too, although he’d never indicated in word or deed that he regarded her as inferior.

It was the knowledge of her paternity that convicted her.

His father was a marquess.

Yours might be as well.

Ah, but that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

Legitimacy trumped all in his world.

Character. Morality. Kindness. Generosity. Integrity.

Every deuced thing—good or bad.

All because of chance or fate, or whatever divine force one wanted to credit with why one person was born into wealth and privilege. And another, through no fault of their own, was cast into poverty and hardship.

The quartet released a chorus of grating giggles, and Joy regarded them, mindful to keep her expression benign. The strain of keeping her facial muscles in a relaxed, pleasant mien might very well lead to the headache of the century, however.

A piercing twist of something which she very much feared might be jealousy twisted in her abdomen. Even her most elegant gown, the blue woolen, was far inferior to the quality of their garments, and her hair had never been arranged into an intricate coiffeur. A simple chignon was all she could manage on her own.

Orphans and lady’s maids don’t dress like the first tulip of fashion.

The truth of that observation only served to remind her of her station.

An unwanted bastard daughter.

Someone’s shame and disgrace, cast off and hidden away.

Yes, but one of her parents—she’d likely never know which—had cared enough to see her raised in comfort and had provided an education and occupation. They must’ve cared a little about her.