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The trouble with beaches, she thought now as she turned around, was that one could be unaware of just how far one had walked along them. Penallen must be at least a mile away, perhaps even two, and she was starting to feel hungry. She hoped there would be some breakfast left for her by the time she got back there.

Oh, the humiliating memory of how the summer had ended!

She had been right back to hating herself and was only now recovering—if she could only keep her mind off the details. And the guilt. For this time, it was not self-hatred over her appearance that bothered her but guilt over what she had done.

She, who was never impolite to anyone, as a matter of upbringing and principle, had been downright vicious to Viscount Watley, though he had done nothing to deserve her loss of temper. She had been unjust to him too and had not apologized afterward.

She had always loved the summer fetes at Ravenswood, though they were not annual events any longer. She had been enjoying this one more than ever, if that was possible. She had spent the morning trying to be everywhere at once, including at the maypole to watch the dancers and then to try her hand at it herself. She had even enjoyed the moment at which she had finally—finally!—discovered an imperfection in Viscount Watley when he had been about to bring the whole dance to an ignominious halt by moving with his ribbon under her arm instead of over it. She had stopped him, and of course he had proved to be a thorough good sport in addition to everything else and had thanked her and laughed with her. It had been, truth to tell, the best moment of the day to that point. She had been dazzled and exhilarated by the whole experience, which had lasted perhaps three seconds.

But then, not too long afterward, she had been about to dash back to Ravenswood after singing with the choir at the church so she would not miss the start of the archery contest when she had been waylaid by Viscount Watley, who had asked if he might accompany her—just as though she needed a bodyguard for such a short distance. She had agreed, though. There had been no reason not to, after all. She had even been rather proud of the way she had almost relaxed with him and engaged in light conversation, just as though he were any regular person. But then he had spoiled everything by asking her to reserve a dance for him at that evening’s ball. A waltz, to be more specific.

She could not explain why she had reacted as she had. She loved waltzing. There was surely no more romantic dance in existence. Not that there had ever been any romance involved in any of the waltzes in which she had participated, it was true. But…Well, she could not explain it. It would not have hurt her to agree to waltz with Viscount Watley. Or simply to make light of his request and suggest that he ask her again when the time came. No one ever reserved dances at village balls, after all. Perhaps he would have taken the hint and not renewed his request during the evening. Or she could have disappeared until it was too late. She had not responded either way, however.

Or she could have danced with him and had her private moment of romance. She had enjoyed that brief encounter at the maypole, after all, and hugged the memory of it to herself afterward, even when she was in the church singing.

Instead, she had given in to an uncharacteristic flaring of temper and had been rude to him. Not only had she refused the dance, but she had also told him to leave her alone, then and forever. She had gone further. She had turned downright unkind—and unjust—by accusing him of being arrogant and assuming that he could always have his own way simply by expecting and demanding it. Or something like that. Mercifully, perhaps, she had never been able to recall her exact words.

But they had been effective. He had recoiled and turned all stiffly formal and cold as he apologized and assured her he would never bother her again. He had even bowed to her, if she remembered correctly.

It had been easily the worst moment of her life. She never lost her temper. She never lied out of a vicious intent to wound. Though she could no longer make that claim for herself, could she?

And she had not apologized.

She really, really did not want to encounter Viscount Watley ever again in this lifetime. Nor did she want to keep thinking about him and remembering the humiliation of her long obsession with him.

It still persisted in the form of guilt. It was not his fault, after all, that he was perfect while she was not. She had to confess that he had never flaunted his perfections. In addition to all else, he was a modest man.

Unfortunately, it was going to happen. Encountering him again, that was.

Her brother Nicholas had fallen in love with Winifred Cunningham during the summer. Stephanie could not be more delighted. She and Winifred had become friends during those weeks, and Stephanie liked her enormously. Winifred was what she always thought of as a genuine person, with no glamour in her appearance and no artifice in her manner, but endless energy and kindness, especially to her numerous brothers and sisters, some of whom struggled with handicaps, like Andrew, who had been born deaf and had no way to communicate with the world beyond his own head except a little through the sort of sign language Winifred had devised with him. She had endless patience and loved unconditionally, her parents having loved her that way when they took her from an orphanage and adopted her when she was nine. And now she loved Nicholas, Stephanie’s brother.

Normally Stephanie would be eagerly looking forward to attending their wedding in Bath a few days before Christmas. She was going to love having Winifred as a sister-in-law. And of course she was looking forward to it. But her eagerness was marred by the certain knowledge that Viscount Watley would be there too. He had a family connection to Winifred, his father having married her grandmother, Mrs. Cunningham’s mother. Both Viscount Watley and his twin, now the Countess of Brandon, would almost certainly be at the wedding, then. Apparently, the larger family, the Westcotts, were much like the Wares in the way they flocked together to celebrate landmark family occasions.

And the wedding was not all. Most of the guests on both sides who were direct family were going to stay to celebrate Christmas together. The Wares and the Westcotts. Stephanie and Viscount Watley. It was a horrid prospect. Two of her favorite events, family weddings and Christmas, both loomed in the not-too-distant future with a heavy black cloud hovering above them. And it was all her own fault that it was going to be so painful. She was going to have to smile her way through those days and pretend to be fully enjoying herself without a care in the world while assiduously avoiding Viscount Watley and wondering if she could offer him an apology without making matters worse. Oh, she was going to have to be the world’s best actress.

And it was very probable that he downright hated her. She could not blame him if he did.

The sun had just broken free of a sizable cloud and was sparkling off the sea. It was going to be a lovely day. And she was not the only one up now. There was Joy at the top of the path to the house, all thin and gangly and eagerly waving to Stephanie before hurtling down the path toward her, arms out to the sides.

“Aunt Edith is going to be ready soon to give you your first crochet lesson, Aunt Stephanie,” she cried. “I am going to help because I already know how, though I prefer knitting.”

“I will need some breakfast first to fortify me,” Stephanie said. “I hope you left me some.”

“Of course we did, silly,” Joy said, taking Stephanie by the hand as she turned to climb back up the slope with all the energy of youth. “Though Mama says Robert eats enough to feed a horse. Do you think a horse likes toast and jam?”

“Oh.” Stephanie groaned loudly. “Do not mention toast and jam when we are still so far from the house.”

“With loads of butter soaked in and strawberry jam with chunks of strawberries left in it,” Joy said, dwelling upon each word and giggling when Stephanie groaned again.

Chapter Three

Stephanie was sitting inside Bath Abbey, awed by the soaring magnificence all around her. What a wonderful place to get married—in Bath itself, which she had explored yesterday with Owen, steep hills and all, and in this church, which lifted one’s spirit to the heavens.

She was surrounded by the comfort of family and family friends, all of them hushed to near silence. The wedding service was about to begin.

Oh, how she loved weddings!

She adored Nicholas, whom she saw all too rarely because he had been a cavalry officer and away with his regiment for long stretches of time since she was nine years old. He was large and handsome and cheerful and gregarious. He looked positively gorgeous this morning in full scarlet dress uniform. And she loved Winifred too. She thought of her as a friend, even though they had been acquainted only since last summer. Today, wise woman, Winifred was dressed with a simplicity characteristic of her in a white velvet dress and cloak, her hair confined in its usual neat knot at the back of her head, though it was higher than usual and had been threaded with pale green and white winter greenery to match the sheaf she held over one arm. Slight of build and of only medium height, she looked almost ethereal in the ornate setting of Bath Abbey and against the bright scarlet and gold of Nick’s uniform. In Stephanie’s opinion, they made a breathtaking couple, seemingly opposites in every imaginable way but somehow perfectly suited to each other.