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“Oh, Bert,” she said, and stepped forward to hug him tightly. “I wish love was not sometimes so painful.”

She did not explain whether she was talking about pain she felt for him or pain she imagined he was feeling for Stephanie Ware. He was feeling none at all. Only renewed anger at that bright smile she had flashed about after he had kissed her and the mocking curtsy she had swept him for all to see.

“You had better get to bed, Stell,” he said. “Unlike me, you can no longer ignore all the children until you are ready to get up in the morning. Good night.”

She sighed. “Good night, Bert,” she said, smiling at him as she turned away.

He must do something about this anger. Again.

I was never more than vaguely interested, anyway.

If only that were true.

Ten minutes later, he blew out his candle, pulled the blankets up to his chin, sank into his pillows with a weary sigh, and addressed himself to sleep. Except that sleep did not come. He turned onto his side and tried again. Nothing. He tried on the other side, with the same result. He ended up on his back again, staring up into the darkness. And he thought—inevitably—about that kiss, which really could scarcely be dignified by the name. It had been merely a show for the amusement of their families. He could hardly have refused, after all. Nor could she.

She had stood very still. Her lips had also been still against his. And soft and warm. He had felt her body heat, though he had touched no more than her shoulders and her lips. And he had been aware of the faint scent of rose.

A woman with whom he had once fancied himself in love, though he had never really known her. A woman who had made it crystal clear that she did not share his interest and never would. A woman who had blistered him with a brief sharp-tongued setdown from which he had spent the past few months recovering. With absolute success, he had thought, and had still thought until Aunt Matilda, that meddler extraordinaire, had trapped him into kissing her beneath the mistletoe.

If ever he had felt like throttling someone…He was too tired to know whether it was of Aunt Matilda or Stephanie he was thinking. Perhaps it was both.

And he thought again about that smile and that curtsy. Perhaps—it was possible, even probable—they had been self-defense as much as mockery. Perhaps indeed she had meant no mockery at all. But did it matter? Did he care?

Stephanie Ware was the only eligible young lady among them all now that Winifred was married. Her sister Sarah was still only thirteen or fourteen, and all the other girls were younger. There were four eligible men, however, Peter and Ivan Wayne, Owen, and himself. What evil angel had pointed Aunt Matilda in his direction? Owen, of course, was exempt as Stephanie’s brother, but the other two were perfectly eligible. Peter, he suspected, was actually a bit sweet on her. It was Aunt Matilda who was causing Bertrand this sleepless night, and he resented it and her. He was going to have to start forgetting all over again once Christmas was over and done with. He knew now from bitter experience that it was not always easy to forget.

He laced his fingers behind his head and stared glumly at the ceiling, which he could see now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. Not that there was anything interesting to see up there. No fat cherubs or hovering angels cavorting across a painted sky. Not even any cracks.

Sleep took him unawares just as he was resigning himself to a totally sleepless night.

Chapter Five

The Wares did not leave their hotel early on Christmas morning though they all woke far earlier than they had hoped when Ben’s children, closely followed by Philippa’s and Devlin’s, decided to roar along the corridors in a growing pack, demanding that everyone wake up now if not sooner so they could unwrap their gifts. They piled into their grandmother and Matthew’s room, where the parcels had all been hidden until now. The rest of the adults came soon after, most of them in hastily donned dressing gowns, Jennifer being pushed along in her wheelchair by Ben.

Stephanie could have snatched another hour of sleep, especially as it had seemed to take ages to nod off last night, despite the lateness of the hour and the glow left behind by the service at the abbey. But if she did, she would miss watching the children open their gifts, one of her favorite parts of Christmas. Besides, her gifts for them were still in a basket in her room. She carried them to her mother’s room.

It was almost noon by the time they arrived at the Cunningham house, just minutes after the Westcotts who were staying in Bath. Despite the bustle of the new arrivals and the noisy exchange of Christmas greetings, the house was far more peaceful and organized than it had been yesterday. Christmas should be a day of almost pure relaxation, Joel Cunningham said. The children were almost all in the nursery rooms with their nurses, happily playing with their Christmas gifts. The children from Bath dashed up to join them there, clutching the one gift each had been allowed to bring, shrieking at one another to compare the news of what they had received. They would amuse themselves, unencumbered by adults, for most of the day. Stephanie had been one of those children once upon a time, and she remembered how little adults were needed or even wanted when there were other children and new toys.

The older children and the adults meanwhile settled in the drawing room, where all was warm and cozy and festive with the decorations that had been hung yesterday. Nicholas and Winifred arrived while Stephanie, her mother, and Gwyneth were still standing, talking with Anna and Elizabeth. They were looking remarkably rosy and pleased with themselves, Stephanie thought.

But no, she was not going down that self-pitying loneliness trail again.

Robbie Cunningham, his large dog beside him, had moved to sit near Owen, who was chatting with Lord Molenor’s sons—apparently he had known Peter at Oxford. Josephine Archer and Sarah Cunningham were part of the group too.

Joel Cunningham, his arm loosely about his deaf son’s shoulders, talked with Devlin and Harry and Lydia Westcott while the boy looked about him in apparent contentment. There was, of course, plenty to see, and the smells of their Christmas dinner, mingled with the lovely smoky smell of the burning logs and the pine scent of the boughs that were draped everywhere, would be a delight to the senses even without the medium of sound. And who knew what the inner world of the totally deaf was like? Who was she, Stephanie thought, or anyone else who could hear, to pity him for what seemed to be a dreadful affliction? The boy never looked unhappy.

Mr. Bennington was in conversation with Viscount Dirkson, and Stephanie remembered that they were father and son. Had Mr. Bennington grown up with his father and his father’s family as Ben had grown up with their family? He had been a military man—she had been right about that yesterday. He had been a lieutenant colonel when he brought Harry Westcott—then Major Westcott—home from the wars, severely wounded, and stayed with him during his convalescence. Presumably that was when he had met Abby, Harry’s sister—while he was chopping wood and naked from the waist up and his dog was convincing her that she was about to meet her end.

How fascinating families were with all their twists and turns.

The Marchioness of Dorchester beckoned Stephanie, her mother, and Gwyneth to sit with her and her daughters.

“Do tell us about the choirs in which you sing,” the marchioness said to Stephanie. “Camille has told us that you have a lovely soprano voice. She heard it last summer when she was at Ravenswood with Joel and the children.”

“Oh.” Stephanie laughed. “Thank you, but it is nothing out of the ordinary. I far prefer to blend my voice with others in a choir than to sing solo.” She told them about going to Wales once with the choir from Boscombe to compete at an eisteddfod, or arts festival. “We were very excited when we won. It was all thanks to Sir Ifor Rhys, of course, that we saw such a lovely country and experienced the warmth of a Welsh welcome. We are very fortunate to have him living near Ravenswood and playing the organ at our church.”

“Our closest neighbor, in fact,” her mother added.

“And Lady Stratton’s father, of course,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “You met him and Lady Rhys at the wedding breakfast yesterday, Mama.” But she looked arrested suddenly, her hands clasped to her bosom, and then her eyes lit up. “I have an idea. It is just what we need today.”