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“Is that even possible, Elizabeth?” the duchess had asked in mock exasperation. It was obviously a rhetorical question.

“Oh, I will look at them with you, Lady Hodges,” Pippa had said. “We will resist—or not—together.”

Stephanie was promising nothing.

—

On Christmas Eve all attention at the Cunningham house in the hills above Bath turned away from the wedding and toward Christmas instead. Everyone who was staying in the city itself was expected to arrive by noon to help with the herculean task of preparing the house in just one day. There could be no real celebration of Christmas, according to Camille, if the house was not properly decked out for the occasion. It was fortunate they did not, at least, have to worry about the food preparations. Through the year, the house was used for all sorts of arts-related conferences and retreats, and their cook was perfectly capable of taking care of the meal planning and preparation with the assistance of her regular staff and the extras who were employed whenever large numbers were staying at the house.

Bertrand thought all the work would be fun since there were going to be more than enough willing hands and Camille and Joel were not the sort to panic easily. The two families would mingle and surely enjoy one another’s company. Some of the children might get underfoot since there would be large numbers of them and it was doubtful they would be confined to the nursery rooms. That was just not the Cunningham way, Bertrand had observed during the few days since his arrival. Children were to be enjoyed. The nursery rooms were, in fact, probably the most neglected in the house. But some of the children were as eager to help as the adults.

Before the morning was half over, a large foraging party of mostly men and assorted youths and children fanned out into the hills, gathering holly and ivy and mistletoe and pine boughs in vast quantities and hauling them back to the house on wagons and in arms. Joel Cunningham, with his son Robbie and his brother-in-law Gil Bennington, chopped wood before Joel staggered inside with the Yule log for the fireplace in the drawing room and Gil brought the even larger one for the enormous fireplace in the tiled hall. Camille went with an army of mostly women and children up to the attics to find boxes of bells and balls and angels and bows and other ornaments to mix in with the greenery after it had been draped over mantels and the tops of windows and doorframes and pictures and wound about banisters.

Bertrand went up to help bring the boxes down. The heaviest contained the porcelain Nativity scene that was Camille’s pride and joy. She fussed over him as he picked it up, worried at first that he would hurt his back and then that he would drop the box and shatter all her treasures. He deliberately staggered on the stairs coming down and laughed as she shrieked and would have punched him in the shoulder if she had not remembered at the last moment what he was carrying.

His father was balanced on a chair in the drawing room, draping holly over the lintel above one of the windows and complaining about being pricked even through the gardener’s gloves Joel had loaned him. Viola and her daughter Abby hovered below the chair, their arms half spread as though they thought they could catch him if he fell. The Dowager Countess of Stratton and Lydia Westcott were unpacking one of the boxes and plumping up ribbon bows that had been flattened inside. A few children were darting about on a game of tag while others were gazing at the slow transformation of the house into a Christmas wonderland.

Aunt Matilda, Viscountess Dirkson, had taken charge of making the kissing boughs, one for the music room, another for the entry hall, and a third, the grandest of them, for the drawing room. It had always been her task for as far back as anyone could remember, and she would not be denied this year. Not that Camille had made any attempt to do so. Instead, she had smiled indulgently at her aunt, whom she knew of old, and left her to it at a large table that had been set up in the salon that was used as a lecture hall during retreats. Gathered around the table were a few other ladies and a number of the children, including Andrew, the Cunninghams’ deaf son, with whom Aunt Matilda showed great patience as she demonstrated what she wanted him to do.

Bertrand helped his father drape greenery in places too high to be reached without a ladder. He lifted a few children to set ornaments in places way above their heads, while Owen and Ivan Wayne galloped from room to room with a succession of shrieking children astride their backs, arms locked about their necks.

It was more or less a normal Westcott Christmas. Noisy and chaotic, that was. By some miracle, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, including the Wares, who were possibly accustomed to a far more organized and restrained holiday. Though Bertrand did remember how they had all played with their children at Ravenswood last summer when other families would have left them to the care of governesses and nurses, preferably out of the sight and hearing of their adult guests.

Christmas had always been a somewhat cheerless occasion when he and Estelle were growing up, their Aunt Jane having viewed it as primarily a religious festival. They had attended church during the evening of Christmas Eve and again on Christmas morning, and extra prayers and Bible readings and quiet times of reflection as a family together at home had been spread over the rest of the day. Gift giving had been kept to a minimum, as had feasting and decorations in the home, since they were reminders of pagan winter festivals with which Christmas had become unfortunately associated over the years. Decorations had been confined almost exclusively to an old painted wooden Nativity scene, which made its appearance every year. Bertrand had not hated Christmas, but it had never been a memorable day, as had the Christmases after his father married Viola.

Stephanie Ware had still not arrived, though he had been expecting her all morning. Not that he dreaded seeing her today quite as he had yesterday at the wedding. But she had smiled brightly, albeit a bit stiffly at him when they came face to face at the wedding breakfast, and he had been able to greet her amicably enough in return. The whole encounter had been civil and soon over, thanks to Estelle and her unconscious interruption when she stepped forward to hug Stephanie. Perhaps now he could finally put aside the hatred that had been festering inside him for the past few months.

She had been positively vibrant yesterday and looking dazzlingly pretty in a blue, turquoise, and sea green dress that had flowed about her, flattering her full figure. She had been openly enjoying herself and talking with everyone. Peter Wayne, seated beside her for the breakfast, had looked a bit smitten.

Bertrand had resented her enjoyment and the ease with which she mingled with everyone. But he had put the resentment firmly aside. More than anything he wanted to prove in the next few days that he was indifferent to her. Not attracted and not filled with hatred. Just…well, indifferent. He wanted a clear head and an unbruised heart to take with him to London when he went there after Easter for the Season.

She arrived eventually in a group with her sister and Anna, Duchess of Netherby, and Elizabeth, Lady Hodges. They had been looking in on the famous Pump Room and doing some shopping, Elizabeth explained.

Stephanie stood in the doorway of the drawing room, looking around at all the chaos within with bright, interested eyes.

“I love Christmas,” Bertrand heard her tell young Sarah Cunningham, who had linked arms with her.

He turned his attention back to the Nativity scene he was setting up by one of the windows while Camille demanded that one of the shepherds—no, not that one, Bertrand, the one who is kneeling—be turned one degree to the left and Joseph be moved one inch—no, maybe half would be enough—closer to Mary.

When he straightened up after the job was done to her satisfaction, Stephanie had disappeared. So had most of the younger children. She had taken them, Camille explained, to one of the empty salons to play with them.

“She is so good with children,” she said. “Sarah has gone too.”

“Allow me,” Bertrand said, stepping forward as Aunt Matilda and Wren, Countess of Riverdale, carried in a large, ornately decorated kissing bough, into which and from which mistletoe had been woven and hung in great profusion. He climbed the ladder again while Owen held it steady, and he secured the bough to the center of the carved rosette in the middle of the ceiling. Ivan, who was on the tall side, was able to walk back and forth beneath without either ducking his head or brushing it against the mistletoe.

“It is quite high enough for a couple to stand upright beneath,” he said as Bertrand climbed down the ladder.

Everyone in the room applauded as Owen carried the ladder out of the way.

“Well done, ladies—and Bertrand,” Joel Cunningham said. “It is a work of art.”

Aunt Matilda beamed her thanks and pleasure. According to a Westcott tradition, which had begun seven years ago after her marriage to Charles, Viscount Dirkson, they were the first to use it. Dirkson stepped forward to lead his wife beneath the bough and claim his kiss with lingering thoroughness while she, looking inordinately pleased, protested that she was far too old for such nonsense. Everyone in the drawing room stopped what they were doing to applaud again or whistle.

“Everyone will be delighted to know,” Charles said, his arm still about Aunt Matilda’s waist, “that the kissing bough works perfectly. Well done indeed, Matilda, my love, and everyone who helped make it.”

“I helped, Great-Uncle Charles,” Alice Cunningham cried, shooting a hand in the air. “And Andrew did.”

Bertrand exchanged a grin with his sister, who had been another of those helpers.