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Nicholas and Winifred, who had come up from Bath no longer than ten minutes earlier, were unanimously nominated to be next under the kissing bough.

“Well, that is the best suggestion I have heard today yet,” Nicholas said as he led his bride beneath the bough. He bent her backward at the waist while he kissed her to catcalls and cheers from the onlookers.

There was no sign of Stephanie.

Chapter Four

Stephanie and her sister arrived at the house with the Duchess of Netherby and Lady Hodges, who had become Anna and Elizabeth during the hour they had spent shopping together in Bath after going to look at the famous Pump Room. Stephanie felt immediately that she had stepped into the heart of Christmas. The distinctive aroma of pine and other greenery hit her senses first, and then the richer smells of cooking food, most notably plum pudding and mince pies. A fire crackled its welcome in the vast hearth in the hall, while a number of people were busy twining greenery about the banisters up the staircase and tying bows and bells and other ornaments to it. Most of them turned to call greetings to the new arrivals.

A few moments later, Stephanie stood in the doorway of the drawing room, looking about at all the cheerful chaos of decorations going up there too. Westcotts and Wares shared the tasks as though they had always known one another. A few children helped, while others stood watching or darted about, making noise. Viscount Watley was down on one knee under the central window, arranging the large porcelain pieces of a Nativity scene under the direction of Mrs. Cunningham. His coat, Stephanie saw, was over the back of a nearby chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow.

She turned her eyes sharply away. Why did some men look even more attractive when they were in a state of dishabille?

Sarah Cunningham, her face alight with welcome, rushed toward her and took her arm. “I thought you would never get here,” she said.

The young girl, caught between childhood and young womanhood, had loved to stay close to her older sister, Winifred, and Stephanie last summer at Ravenswood.

“I should have come earlier to help,” Stephanie said.

Sarah laughed. “We are not short of hands,” she said. “Poor Mama was afraid the house was going to be very bare this year, just when we were expecting so many visitors for Christmas. But Papa predicted this.” She gestured about them with her free arm. “Is it not fun?”

It did look as though everyone was enjoying themselves. But Stephanie still felt guilty for not coming sooner to help.

“Perhaps,” she said, “there is still something I can do.”

The answer presented itself in the form of three younger Cunninghams, who dashed up to claim Stephanie as a playmate, a role she had embraced back in the summer.

“Come and play,” Samuel begged.

“Certainly,” she said as a few more young children followed the Cunninghams to gaze hopefully at her. They were probably getting in everyone’s way, Stephanie thought. Here was something she could do to help. “But perhaps we ought to find somewhere quieter. The nursery, maybe?”

There was a chorus of protests against the nursery.

“There is a salon across from here,” Sarah said.

“The salon it will be, then,” Stephanie said.

She led the way, and the children, plus a few more who saw them go, followed along behind her just as though she were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Along with them came a very large shaggy dog, which had been named Beauty by someone with a sense of humor. Seth Bennington explained it was his papa’s, and the dog seemed docile enough to allay Stephanie’s fears. It stretched out on the hearth and endured pats and the occasional hug and kiss with nothing more ominous than a thumping tail.

“I’ll go and fetch some books,” Alice Cunningham said, and went dashing off with a few cousins and Bethan Ware hot on her heels.

For an hour Stephanie read to the children and listened to their excited chatter and settled a few squabbles and played games with them. Eventually a nurse came to take them up to the nursery for their luncheon, and Stephanie was able to join the adults just as they were moving to the dining room.

She was ravenous.

She found herself seated between Harry Westcott, Mrs. Cunningham’s brother, and Mr. Bennington, her brother-in-law and owner of Beauty. She laughed at his story of his first, unfortunate encounter with Abby, his wife, when she had come across him while he was shirtless and chopping wood, and his enormous dog had bounded toward her with an enthusiasm she had mistaken for murderous intent.

“I was fortunate Abby survived her mild heart seizure so she could marry me,” he said.

“She married you, Gil,” Harry said, “because she fell in love with your dog.”

“Humbling, is it not?” Mr. Bennington said.

Viscount Watley, wearing his coat again, was seated farther along the table at the other side. He was smiling as he listened to Gwyneth on his left. Stephanie felt an ache of something and gave her head a firm shake. She must stop wishing she had said yes to that waltz last summer or at least stop wondering what would have happened if she had. Sometimes the smallest, seemingly most insignificant decisions made all the difference.

But all the difference to what?

At least she would have had the memory of having waltzed with him.