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“I am hungry enough to eat a horse,” Owen said as they approached the dining room together.

“Alas,” she said, “a goose will have to do instead.”

“Sad,” he said.

There was a prolific array of other dishes besides, and in such heaping quantities that one wished one’s stomach would expand just for this occasion only so one might do justice to everything—and leave room for the Christmas pudding.

Chapter Six

Stephanie was already standing by the pianoforte when Bertrand arrived in the music room two minutes early for their practice. She was looking through a pile of music and talking at the same time to the Countess of Stratton, her sister-in-law, who had been practicing on the harp.

“I will leave the two of you to it,” the countess said, smiling at Bertrand. “Half an hour goes by in the blink of an eye.” She left the room without further ado, leaving behind a silence broken only by the sound of turning pages.

Stephanie was wearing a plain, high-waisted, high-necked, long-sleeved dress of pale blue wool today. Usually she wore styles that were more flowing, perhaps to disguise her generous size, which she had found so bothersome when she was younger. This dress, however, showed her curves, full breasts, shapely hips, sturdy legs. Why did so many women believe that extreme slenderness was the ultimate in feminine beauty? Her golden blond braids were catching the winter sunshine from the window, and Bertrand found himself wondering just how long her hair was, and how thick it was when hanging loose down her back. Would it be straight or wavy? He guessed the latter since she kept it braided. Did she ever wear it in a different style? In bed, perhaps?

But those were not imaginings to be encouraged or indulged in, especially at this particular moment. There was serious business to concentrate upon.

“I thought perhaps this,” she said without looking up from the sheet of music she had picked from the pile.

He strode toward her and looked over her shoulder.

“ ‘Es Ist ein Ros Entsprungen,’ ” she said.

“What does that mean?” he asked. He was fluent in French, but to his shame, he knew very little German.

“A rose has sprung to life,” she said. “It has a fairly simple tune, though the timing can be modified in places for the singer.”

“You mean my part is easy?” he said. “Will I be able to play it with more than one finger? Even with two hands, perhaps?”

“I do hope so,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at him, a thread of humor in her face, but she whisked her head back around immediately as though she had just remembered who he was.

“The rose has sprung from the root of Jesse, symbolic of the father of King David and therefore an ancestor of Jesus,” she said. “The rose is said to be Mary. So it is a song suitable for a Christmas evening.”

“Is there no English translation?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Not to my knowledge.”

“It is a lovely story,” he said. “Perhaps you should tell it to the audience tonight before singing it.”

“That is a good idea,” she said. “I will do it. I am sorry you were forced into this.”

“Into accompanying you?” he said. Yes, he was sorry too. “I should warn you about Aunt Matilda. She loves nothing more than to be given a chance to organize the lives of those she believes cannot organize them for themselves.”

“Winifred told me last summer about her and her sisters,” she said. “She sounded very fond of them nevertheless.”

“Oh, we all are,” he said. “They always mean well. Becoming a member of the Westcott family, however, is not for the faint of heart. Perhaps we should start our practice while there is still time left in our half hour?”

He moved around the pianoforte to sit on the bench. He took the offered music from her and propped it on the stand before him. It did not look difficult, fortunately. Half an hour was not long to learn a challenging new piece of music well enough to accompany a soloist.

She was standing behind his shoulder so she could see the music and read the words. He wished he was not so aware of her as a woman. She even smelled of that faint rose scent again. He would probably always associate it with her. And he wished like the devil he had not been forced to kiss her last evening. He had not touched any part of her except her shoulders and her lips, but he had felt her with every part of his being.

He did not want a return of any of the feelings he had had for her up until that one fateful day last summer.

Anyway, this was business, he reminded himself again. He played the music through once quietly to get the feel of it.

“What tempo do you want?” he asked.

“Not fast and lively,” she said. “Rather slow, actually, but without dragging. It is not a jolly song but more of a contemplative one. It is the feeling that goes into it more than the actual music that gives it its beauty.”