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“Dancing.” A few angels bounced on the spot and set their wings to jiggling. The wise woman tossed her crown in the air and clapped her hands. One angel was wailing because for the moment he had lost sight of his mama and papa.

Bertrand smiled at the sight of Stephanie holding David, who had been sleeping on Justin’s lap a few moments ago. He was gazing solemnly at her while she congratulated her actors as they made their way back to the salon.

His anger with her was all gone, it seemed. It was a huge relief. He did not enjoy hating people. Indeed, he could not even think of anyone else he had hated ever. Even his father. Those feelings had always been too complicated and too painful to be given a name.

Oh, this had indeed been the best of Christmases despite moments of discomfort.

And it was not quite over yet.

There was the dancing still to come.

—

David blew a bubble and laughed when it burst.

Stephanie laughed too and rubbed noses with him.

“You have been tireless today, Stephanie,” Estelle, Countess of Brandon, said from beside her. “How brilliantly you and Winifred organized the pageant. I would not have thought it possible.”

“Neither did we half an hour ago when everyone was panicking,” Stephanie said. “Was not Robbie wonderful?”

“Camille and Joel have done wonders for him,” Estelle said, taking David, who had held out his arms to her. “For all their children, actually. I do not know how they do it. Love alone does not seem quite a strong enough answer, does it?”

“I think they see the very best in the children, and the children see themselves reflected in their eyes,” Stephanie said. “If that makes sense. But no, I do not know either. I fell in love with all the Cunninghams when they were at Ravenswood last summer.”

“I heard they had a great time there,” Estelle said. “Winifred certainly did. And Bertrand too.”

Stephanie smiled.

“I wish Christmas would allow a little more time for personal conversation,” Estelle said. “I would love to get to know you better, Stephanie. Perhaps some other time. We are almost bound to meet again.”

“Yes,” Stephanie said. But they needed to leave the room so it could be cleaned up and made ready for the dancing. “I enjoyed your pianoforte duet.”

The countess laughed. “We could not resist a bit of tomfoolery,” she said. “We never could. Bertrand was not supposed to encroach upon my half of the pianoforte this evening with his little improvisation on the low notes. So of course, for very pride’s sake, I had to do my part with the treble trills on his half. Poor Mozart. I hope we did not quite murder his memory.”

“No more than the three sisters murdered Shakespeare’s,” Stephanie said.

The countess winced. “As bad as that?” she said, and they both laughed.

And there, Stephanie thought as she hurried away to help angels divest themselves of their wings and listened to one of the shepherdesses scold the shepherd who had added a speaking part to what was supposed to have been a silent pageant. There! She liked Estelle Wiley, Countess of Brandon, who had intimidated her almost as much as her brother at that ghastly ball in London. And Bertrand had just been humanized even more than he had this afternoon. Those parts of the duet they had played that everyone had most enjoyed had been added during the performance, threatening the whole, and Bertrand was the one who had started it.

It was just the sort of thing Owen would do to her.

She really did not want to start liking either one of them too much, though. They were part of that little corner of her world she had not yet conquered. The corner in which perfection reigned and threatened her imperfection.

It was far safer to keep her distance from them, physically, emotionally, and every other way.

“We are going to dance,” Josephine Archer said as she pirouetted in the middle of the salon, her arms raised gracefully over her head. “This is the best Christmas ever.”

Chapter Eight

Some of the smallest children were put to bed in the nursery, though most of them would be carried carefully out to carriages later for the journey back to their hotels in Bath. A few remained stubbornly awake and ready to dance. Many of the older children had been taught the steps of most well-known country dances and were eager to perform them at a grown-up ball.

Jennifer Ellis had volunteered to play the pianoforte since she was not able to dance herself. She was seated at the instrument, practicing quietly, when everyone returned after the half-hour break. Ben was leaning on the pianoforte, watching her. Her wheelchair had been moved aside, and the floor had been swept clean of stray pieces of straw, one wise person’s crown, and an angel wing. The chairs had been moved back against the wall.

Stephanie was flushed and happy. Christmas was not quite over, and really it had been a wonderful day, all things considered. The Wares and the Westcotts had mingled well. There had been none of the awkwardness there sometimes was when two families, mostly strangers to one another, were forced into each other’s company. There had been busy spells and times for relaxation. There had been feasting and conversation and laughter against all the visual delights of the decorations and the enticing aromas of live greenery, rich foods, and burning wood.

She had even enjoyed the walk outside. The crisp winter air had felt good, and the sight of hoarfrost on the trees and the white stately buildings down in Bath, all of them seen against the backdrop of blue sky and sunshine, had been breathtaking. So, in a different way, had that absurd, laughter-filled chase up the hill. It was a pity the outing had ended as it had—with her feeling horribly embarrassed and taking flight. Even so, she felt a little more at ease with Viscount Watley now than she ever had before. She had even been able to stand beside the pianoforte tonight, facing out to the audience, and concentrate on her singing without being constantly aware that he was behind her, that she was fully visible to him in all her physical imperfections—in her daringly formfitting dress, which she had worn today in defiance of her usual practice of disguising her size as best she could beneath flowing layers.