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Lady Jennifer played a chord on the pianoforte, and Bertrand turned his attention from all the other members of the two families to focus upon the one of them who was his partner.

She was unsmiling and seemed a little weary as he slid one hand behind her waist and she lifted a hand to set on his shoulder. She looked into his face as she set her other hand in his. And she smiled, and the sparkle came back into her eyes. The weariness vanished. He rather suspected it had taken a great effort to make the transformation, for he was no doubt the last man on earth with whom she wished to be waltzing. The feeling was mutual, of course. The memory of the last time was too painful. But thanks to Aunt Matilda and her single-minded determination to play matchmaker, they were stuck with each other for this final memory they would have of this Christmas.

He wondered if she had ever regretted saying no back in the summer. Or if she regretted having to say yes tonight.

The music was slow, almost dreamy, as promised. Bertrand could not identify either the melody or the composer, but it was music for lovers, and the married couples around them responded to it instantly. They danced closer to each other than would have been judged appropriate in a London ballroom. Or perhaps it was the dimensions of the room—it really was not very large—that forced greater proximity upon them. He doubted there was any space at all between Winifred and Nicholas as they danced and gazed into each other’s eyes.

Bertrand was terribly aware of Stephanie as he waltzed with her and tried to keep the correct distance from her, both physically and emotionally. He led her into sweeping twirls as they followed the other dancers about the perimeter of the floor. He was aware, nevertheless, of her generous curves, of her body heat, of the elusive scent of rose. He was aware of her elevated breathing, of her left hand resting on his shoulder, her right clasping his. She was light on her feet and danced gracefully. She gazed over his shoulder, her bright smile softening after the first minute or so.

He was particularly aware of her hand in his. It was not slender. But it was warm and firm and comfortable. He would like to feel both her hands on him, smoothing over bare skin.

Oh, good Lord!

“Will I see you in London during the spring?” he asked her.

She brought her eyes to his. “I think not.”

He nodded.

“You will be there?” she said.

“Probably,” he said. “I actually enjoy the pleasures of the Season in small doses. I like spending time with friends I would rarely if ever see otherwise. And with family. They are often there in force.” He did not add that this year he would be looking in earnest for a bride with whom he could hope to live the rest of his life in some contentment.

“The great marriage mart.” It was almost as though she had read his thoughts.

“Yes.”

Oh, but mere contentment would not be enough. Not nearly enough. Where would be the passion? He had never until this moment thought of himself as a potentially passionate man. And he did not wish to think of it now. But the thought, apparently, was pursuing him.

How the devil was he going to be able to settle for contentment? Yet it might come down to making a choice between that and loneliness. The devil or the deep blue sea.

“Is there anyone?” He was appalled as he heard himself ask the question. Pray God she would not understand his meaning.

She did.

“No one specific,” she said, her lips scarcely moving.

He nodded. But she had not said no. There was someone, then.

Someone who was not him.

He twirled her about a corner of the room, spreading his hand a little more firmly against her waist, and wondered what it was about Lady Stephanie Ware that had always attracted him and, despite everything, still did. She was not a conventional beauty. He could understand her aversion to the London Season, with its relentless emphasis upon looks and fashion and conformity. For as long as he had known her, Stephanie had kept the same hairstyle, which he would admit had made her look quite rustic in a London ballroom. Not that that was any condemnation in his eyes, but it would have been in those of the vast majority of the ton. He could remember how obvious it had been just during that one ball that she was not being well received by the beau monde. She had looked conspicuously different, the one unforgivable sin in that world. She must have known ahead of time, of course, how unfashionable she was going to look. Her mother would surely have told her and tried to persuade her to try something different. The Countess of Stratton would have added her voice to her mother-in-law’s. Stephanie must have chosen quite deliberately to remain as she was, even having been warned of the consequences.

He could respect, even admire her for, that decision.

He was reputed to be one of the most handsome men in the ton, and when in London he always patronized the very best tailors. He knew he was one of the biggest matrimonial prizes on the market. He knew there was scarcely a young, unmarried lady in England who would not be delighted to snare him as a husband if she were given the chance. Yet Stephanie Ware had never wavered in her lack of interest in him. He supposed he could admire her for that too, however grudgingly.

“It has been a lovely Christmas,” he said lamely.

“It has.” She looked into his eyes again and smiled. A real smile this time, it seemed to him.

Was it sheer perversity on his part that she was the only woman he had ever wanted? And a few months of intense dislike, even hatred, had not been defense enough. It had been obliterated with one simple apology. No, not simple. She had not let herself off easily. She had taken all the blame and admitted the injustice of what she had said on that occasion.

The music ended to sighs from all around them. He could hear Rebecca and Joy openly protesting and Owen laughing good-naturedly.

“Happy Christmas, Stephanie,” Bertrand said softly.

Her smile held, but she did not reply. She looked weary again. She looked as though she might be on the verge of tears.