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After a moment’s hesitation, he handed his glass to Ben without taking his eyes off Stephanie and strode toward her.

How could she possibly have chosen the direct route across the room without remembering the kissing bough?

She only hoped Viscount Watley would not think…

But why would he? She had made herself perfectly clear back in the summer.

He stopped when he was close to her, all tall, elegant, incredibly handsome masculinity, perfect in every way, in fact. He cupped her shoulders lightly with his hands. She made a conscious effort not to shiver and looked directly into his eyes, since lowering her own out of apparent shyness would be far too juvenile a thing to do and there was nowhere else to look anyway, except perhaps at his intricately tied neckcloth. He was gazing back into her eyes, his face expressionless. Except that the ice that had been in his voice yesterday seemed to hover behind his eyes now.

Time stood still.

So did her heart.

He lowered his head and kissed her on the lips.

It could not have lasted longer than the heartbeat she skipped. But it was certainly more than a light peck. His lips were warm and somehow both soft and firm against her own. And they seemed to remain there forever. She felt the effect of them all the way down through her body to her toes, which curled up inside her slippers.

She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

Incredibly, given her age, it was her first-ever kiss.

Then both time and the beating of her heart resumed with a painful lurch, and she found herself gazing again into those slightly icy eyes of Viscount Watley even as she became aware of applause and some good-natured laughter and a piercing whistle—from Owen?

And it was as though she was seventeen years old again, and all the knowledge and experience and the long, painful work she had done on her self-confidence fled without a trace. He could not help but have noticed the heftiness of her shoulders, the plumpness of her arms, and her childish, round moon face, shining as usual in the candlelight and surely blotched now with ugly blushes. He would be disgusted at having been forced into actually kissing her. Everyone else would be seeing the total disparity in their physical attractions and feeling sorry for her if they were Wares and embarrassed for him if they were Westcotts.

No! She caught herself in the downward-spiraling thoughts. Absolutely not. Not now or ever again. She would not revert to what she had once been.

She smiled brightly and forced her glance to sweep the room. “Well,” she said loudly enough for all to hear. “Happy Christmas, everyone. And thank you, sir.” She swept Viscount Watley an elaborate curtsy and proceeded on her way across the room to talk with Nicholas and Winifred, her head held high.

Thank heaven it was almost time to leave.

—

It was indeed a late bedtime after the Christmas Eve service at Bath Abbey was over, and those of them who were staying at Joel and Camille’s house had to make the seemingly endless journey back up the hill afterward. But the beauty of the service, always one of Bertrand’s favorites, had been a calming reminder after such a busy day of what Christmas was about at its heart. The children had all been as close to angelic as one could expect so late at night. Several of the youngest ones had slept in the arms of parents or grandparents, but Bertrand liked the fact that they had been taken to church anyway when they might so easily have been left behind with their nurses. Even David, swaddled in a warm blanket so only his eyes, nose, and mouth were visible, slept in Justin’s arms without stirring.

“It was a minor miracle,” Estelle said afterward as they all squeezed into the marquess’s carriage.

“A major miracle,” Justin said. “But one does wonder if he will sleep all night.”

Estelle sighed.

Bertrand went directly to his bedchamber after their return. He looked forward to the quiet privacy of his room and the comforting warmth of his bed. At least there was no need to get up early in the morning. Their own family group would gather in his father and Viola’s room at a reasonable hour for the exchange of gifts, but there were no children to wake long before the roosters had given any thought to crowing, sick with excitement over their unopened presents and demanding that their parents wake up and get on with it. David was still blissfully unaware of what Christmas meant to children.

Estelle linked her arm through Bertrand’s as they climbed the stairs together, and paused with him outside his door while Justin, holding the still-sleeping baby, proceeded on his way to their room, chatting with Viola as he went.

“We have scarcely had a moment to ourselves since we arrived in Bath,” Estelle said. “I miss those days of closeness, Bert. Do you?”

“I do,” he said. “But we had to grow up and go our separate ways at some time.”

She pulled a face and looked searchingly into his eyes. “I just wish you had someone, as I do,” she said. “But Bert…Lady Stephanie Ware? She is the one, is she not? The one you would not name a few months ago when you were at Everleigh Park?”

Dash it all! Sometimes it was a downright menace to have a twin. There was no hiding anything from her. He said nothing.

“It did not work out during the summer?” she said.

He was not going to discuss last summer with her. Certainly not standing here in the guttering light of a single candle in a wall sconce nearby when it was well after midnight and they were both dead tired. Not to mention chilly.

“No,” he said curtly. “She was not interested, and by now neither am I. I was never more than vaguely interested, anyway.”