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And she would not be bothered by this ball of guilt, which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her stomach.

She sat with her mother and the three senior Westcott sisters after luncheon while many of the younger children were napping in the nursery and the adults were relaxing in the drawing room over a cup of tea. She listened with interest to the stories Lady Dirkson and her sisters told of Christmases past when they were young girls. They listened with just as much interest and amusement when Mama told of one Christmas at Ravenswood when Owen was given a miniature trumpet by an elderly great-aunt with no imagination at all and had proceeded to drive them all to distraction for the rest of the day as he blew into it, usually when they were least expecting it.

“Inexplicably, the trumpet was lost overnight and was never found,” Mama said with a twinkle in her eye.

Stephanie had always suspected the thief was Ben, with Devlin as an accomplice.

“Lady Stephanie,” Lady Molenor said, fixing her with a steady gaze, “how old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” Stephanie said.

“And still unmarried?” the dowager duchess said. “Have you never taken her to London for a Season, Lady Stratton? She is the daughter of an earl, after all.”

“To be fair,” Stephanie said, “Mama and Devlin and Gwyneth took me to London when I was nineteen, and I dutifully made my curtsy to the queen and attended one ball, one soiree, and one garden party. I hated every moment and escaped the first chance I had, long before the Season was over. Since then, my family has granted me the freedom to decide for myself what I want to do with my life.”

All three sisters frowned at her, though with concern more than disapproval, it seemed to Stephanie.

“Spinsterhood is not a preferable option,” Lady Dirkson said, shaking her head. “A fact to which I can personally attest. I was in my fifties when I married Charles. There were many dreary years before that.”

Lady Molenor patted her sister’s hand.

Late in the afternoon, a group of children who had come to sing for them arrived from the orphanage in Bath where Anna, the Duchess of Netherby, had grown up. Mr. Cunningham had grown up there too, as well as Winifred until she was nine. The children were packed into four carriages hired by the Duke of Netherby. Under the direction of their teacher, they arranged themselves into two neat lines in the entry hall while both families gathered there, and the children were shushed to an approximation of silence. The larger of two Yule logs was crackling in the wide hearth, providing warmth and a wonderful aroma as well as a cozy, festive atmosphere.

The choir entertained the gathering for half an hour with Christmas carols, one of their number holding a lantern aloft while the rest of the hall was lit only by the fire and a single branch of candles on the hall table.

Stephanie was enchanted. These children had been well trained to sing in time with one another and in two parts. They also sang in tune though they were unaccompanied, not an easy accomplishment for any choir.

The two families stood to listen, most of the adults in couples, Stephanie noticed. Gwyneth leaned back against Devlin. Ben had a hand on Jenny’s shoulder as she sat in her wheelchair. She had a hand over his. Lord Hodges had an arm about Elizabeth’s shoulders, the Marquess of Dorchester too about his wife’s. Lucas was holding Pippa’s hand. Mama had her arm linked through Matthew’s.

And Stephanie felt a sudden and quite unexpected stabbing of loneliness.

Where, oh where, had that come from? Viscount Watley had Sarah on one arm, Josephine Archer, the Duke of Netherby’s eldest daughter, on the other. Owen was with Lord Molenor’s sons. He had one arm about the shoulders of Robbie Cunningham, who had hero-worshiped him a bit back in the summer. Stephanie was standing on one side of Nicholas. He had one arm about Winifred’s waist and the other about hers.

She was not alone and certainly not unloved.

Ah, but she was lonely.

After the carol singing, the children and their teacher were treated to hugs and congratulations and fed mince pies and spicy fruit cake and hot chocolate drinks. They were sent on their way with a small gift each from the Duke of Netherby, wrapped in red paper and tied with a green silk bow. Anna had stopped at a confectioner’s during the morning’s shopping trip. The three large boxes of decadent confections she had purchased, now festively wrapped, were given to the teacher, to be shared with all the children and staff at the orphanage. A couple of the younger choristers bounced up and down in their excitement. The Cunninghams and Nicholas had sent gifts for everyone too, Stephanie knew, to be given out tomorrow.

After dinner, everyone settled in the drawing room again to relax for a few hours before traveling down to Bath Abbey for the Christmas Eve service. It was going to mean a very late night for everyone, especially those who must come back up the hill afterward, but all the preparations had been completed, Camille was pleased to announce, and they could sleep late tomorrow.

“On Christmas morning?” Devlin said incredulously. “Good luck with that to anyone who has young children, late night or not.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the parents among them.

But at least they could relax for a while now. It was Christmas Eve.

And next week a new year would begin, Stephanie thought. Perhaps by next Christmas…But she would not look ahead. She would concentrate instead upon enjoying this Christmas. And she was enjoying it despite that strange, unsettling feeling she had had during the carol singing.

She was sitting in a group with Owen, Matthew, Abby Bennington, and the Earl and Countess of Riverdale—Alexander and Wren. But she turned her head when Nicholas raised his voice to call across the room and ask if he and Winifred could give her and Owen a ride down to Bath in their carriage later. Owen waved his acceptance and continued with the story he was telling. Stephanie had had no real opportunity all day for conversation with her brother and new sister-in-law, yet the day after tomorrow they would be on their way home to London and goodness only knew when she would see them again. She got to her feet to cross the room toward them.

Lord Molenor and Viscount Watley were standing in a group with Ben and Devlin beside the fireplace, in which the Yule log was burning. Stephanie paused when Lord Molenor spoke her name, raising his glass as he did so.

“What a perfect opportunity you present to some fortunate young man, Lady Stephanie,” he said.

“And I am sure Bertrand will be only too happy to avail himself of the invitation,” Lady Dirkson said from her chair close by at the same moment as Stephanie understood what Lord Molenor meant. She had stopped directly under the kissing bough. It seemed to her suddenly that all conversations halted and all eyes swung her way.

“Oh,” she said as she felt her cheeks grow hot. But it was too late to scurry away without making an idiot of herself. Couples had been kissing beneath the bough all day to the good-natured applause of all who witnessed them. Stephanie had been careful to avoid it, though she would have accepted her fate good-naturedly if one of the men had caught her beneath it. Any man except Viscount Watley, that was.