Amy was very obviously enjoying herself. The lure of a great house on the eve of Christmas could not hold her from a day spent in the village with her new friends.

Lord Clancy and Sir William retired to the billiard room after luncheon. The ladies sat in a salon with their needlepoint and embroidery while Mr. Rockford entertained them with stories of a recent visit to Paris and a not so recent one to Wales. The marquess's aunts, seated one each side of the fire, soon nodded off to sleep, lulled by the heat and the particular drowsiness that afternoon brings-and perhaps by the droning voice of the lone gentleman in the room too.

Judith was upstairs in the nursery, reading a story to Rupert and hoping that Kate would have a sleep since she was likely to have a late night. Rupert sat still at her feet and listened, playing with the ears of the collie stretched out before him as he did so, though all morning he had been restless and

had demanded a dozen times at the very least to know when the children would be arriving to stay.

The Marquess of Denbigh had some errands to run, he had announced at luncheon. He always delivered a basket of food to all the cottagers on his estate each Christmas Eve and always put a personal gift of a few gold coins inside each. This year the task of delivering the baskets was complicated by the snow, but it could be done nevertheless. He would not delegate the task to his servants, knowing that his people set great store by his visits. Besides, he would deprive himself of some pleasure if he neglected to go.

He set out in one of the sleighs, delivering baskets to the closest of the cottages first. It was not a fast job. He did not refuse a single invitation to step inside the cottage to take refreshments. He grinned to himself as he turned the horses' heads for home again and another load of Christmas offerings. There was always the danger on the afternoon of Christmas Eve that he would become too drunk to attend church in the evening. Everywhere he went he was offered either ale or cider, and always a generous mugful because he was the marquess and must be suitably impressed.

Two footmen carefully loaded the sleigh for his second run. But he hesitated before taking his place again, and glanced with indecision at the house. It would not really do. he thought. He was enjoying his afternoon, enjoying the smiles on the faces of his cottagers and their somewhat flustered conversation. He was enjoying the widening eyes of all the children as he handed each a coin.

He should not spoil the atmosphere of Christmas. He should not bring darkness to his mood.

He frowned, something fluttering at the edge of his memory. And then he remembered the fortune-teller out on the ice of the River Thames. He remembered her telling him that there was darkness in him as well as a great deal of light and that Christmas might save him from being swamped by the darkness. He shrugged. He had never given heed to such nonsense. But he remembered that afternoon with some pleasure.

And he found himself running up the steps to the house, peering into the salon, and then taking the stairs two at a time to the nursery floor. He knocked at the door and let himself in.

She was sitting in a rocking chair by the window, wearing the simple blue wool dress that she had been wearing that morning. Her daughter was asleep in her arms, one small hand spread on her bosom. Her son was on his stomach on the floor at her feet, his legs bent at the knees, his feet waving back and forth. He was tickling (he collie's stomach.

The marquess felt a stab of some indefinable longing. It was such a very quiet, contented domestic scene.

Rupert jumped to his feet and ran toward the marquess. The collie tore after him, barking at this promise of a new game. "Are they here?" the boy asked.

Lord Denbigh rumpled his hair. "I heard your mama tell you earlier that they would be coming for the caroling this evening and then walking to church with us," he said. "Does the day seem quite interminable? How would you like a sleigh ride?"

"Ye-es!" Rupert jumped up and down. "Super! May I, Mama?"

"The invitation is for your mama too," the marquess said. "Would you like some fresh air, ma'am? I am delivering baskets to my cottagers."

Her face brightened. "Are you?" she said. "Oh, I always used to enjoy doing that at home with Mama and Papa. It was always the beginning of Christmas, the start of that wonderful feeling that only Christmas can bring."

"The little one has just fallen asleep?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, getting carefully to her feet. "I shall put her to bed."

And there. He had done it. He had ruined his afternoon, brought darkness into it. Except mat he would not think of the ultimate revenge, he decided as he offered his arm to lead her down the stairs and out to the waiting sleigh. He would not think about how such encounters as this would all be used to contribute gradually to the final denouement.

He would pretend that he had no other purpose than to

enjoy her company. He had very little time left in which to do so. He had been without her for almost eight years. He would be without her for the rest of his life. Surely he could allow himself a few days in which to feast his eyes on her beauty. Besides, all time spent with her would contribute to his ultimate purpose.

She was wearing a fur hat rather than a bonnet, one that completely covered her hair and her ears. She tucked her hands inside a matching muff. Her face, he noticed, did not owe its beauty to her hair. It was a classically beautiful face in its own right.

They sat side by side in the sleigh, Rupert squashed between them, surrounded by cloth-covered baskets. The collie had been left curled at the foot of Kate's bed.

"Mm," Rupert said. "They smell good."

"At least we will not starve if we get stuck in a snow bank," the marquess said, and the boy giggled.

They did not talk a great deal. But the air felt fresher with her sitting beside him, and me crunching of the horse's hooves on the snow and the jingling of the harness bells and the squeaking of the sleigh runners were more intimate and more festive sounds.

"This is the most beautiful weather there could possibly be," she said, lifting her face to the high broken clouds above and drawing in a deep breath. “It makes of the world a fairytale place."

And Lord Denbigh knew mat she shared his mood.

They paid eight visits in all and were invited inside each of the eight cottages. Lord Denbigh found himself living out an unplanned fantasy. What if she had not broken off their engagement? They would have been married now for eight years. They would be paying these calls together as man and wife, the ease of years of acquaintance and intimacy between them. And they would be going home together afterward to their guests and their children and a shared Christmas. And when it was all over they would stand together on the steps of Denbigh and wave good-bye to their departing guests. And they would be alone together again, with their family. Perhaps she would be with child again.

Mrs. Richards had delivered her fourth child less than two weeks before. The child was awake and fussing, though Mrs. Richards insisted that they come inside for refreshments. The baby had been fed already, she assured them.

"Oh, may I?" Judith asked, smiling at Mrs. Richards and leaning over the baby's crude cradle.

Mrs. Richards was flustered, but she assured Mrs. Easton that the baby had had a clean nappy only a few minutes before.

And Judith lifted the child from the cradle and held it gently to her shoulder. The fussing stopped and the baby wriggled its head into a comfortable position and sucked loudly on a fist. Judith closed her eyes, smiling, and rubbed a cheek against the soft down on the baby's head.

"Oh," she said, "one forgets so quickly how tiny newborn babies are. How I envy you."

Lord Denbigh turned his head away sharply and addressed a remark to Mr. Richards. He felt as if he had a leaden weight in his stomach. For some reason he felt almost as if he were about to cry. Steady, he told himself. Steady. He should not have let down his guard for even a moment. Had he not learned his lesson long ago?

"Was that the last one, sir?" Rupert asked when they emerged from the Richardses' cottage and took their places in the sleigh again. "Are we going home now? Will the carolers be coming soon?"

The marquess laughed. "Not for several hours yet," he said. "But I tell you what we will do, with your mother's permission, of course. We are close to the village, and your aunt is with Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Cornwell and the children. Doubtless they have all sung carols until they are blue in the face. We will take you there and leave you in your aunt's charge. How does that sound?"

Rupert shouted out a hurrah.

"Is that all right with you, ma'am?" the marquess asked. "This lad could well drive you to insanity within the next few hours if we do not rid ourselves of him."

Judith laughed. "They will probably make you sing, Rupert," she warned.

"I can sing," Rupert said indignantly.

Five minutes later he was admitted to the house where all the children and adults were gathered and swallowed up into the noise and cheerful chaos.

"Amazingly," Mr. Cornwell told them, "we have had not a single casualty all day even though Mary tried to box the ears of all the kings for setting down their gifts closer to Joseph than to her. The heavenly host are beginning to sound almost like a choir with Miss Easton to provide the accompaniment and to sing along to keep them in tune. And sometime within the next few hours we will have to decide how twelve volunteers are to carry five lanterns-a minor problem. I can confidently predict, Mrs. Easton, that we will be able to deliver your son to you this evening all in one piece."

And so, Lord Denbigh discovered, quite without planning to be, he was alone with Judith Easton, a mile-long drive between them and home. He drove his team in silence, and decided on the spur of the moment to take a long route home. He turned along a little-used lane that led uphill until it was above a grove of trees and looking down on the house from behind. He had always loved the view from up there. He eased his horses to a halt.

"I used to come up here a great deal as a boy," he said, "and imagine that I was lord of all I surveyed."

"And now you are," she said.

"And now I am."

The silence between them was companionable. Strangely so, considering what had happened between them in the past, considering his reason for having her at Denbigh Park, and considering the fact that she did not trust him-she had told him so the day before.

"You are very different from what I have always thought you to be," she said quietly.

"Am I?" He turned to look at her.

"You care," she said. "All your house guests are people who would have spent a lonely Christmas without your invitation, are they not? And you are generous to your people. I expected that you would wait outside each cottage until someone came outside to take a basket from your hands. But you visited and made conversation. And there are the children in the village. You have far more than just a financial commitment to them."

"Perhaps it is all selfishness after all," he said. "I have found that I can secure my own happiness by trying to bring some to other people. Perhaps I am not so very different from what you thought, Judith."

She frowned. "You used to be different," she said. "You used to be cold, unfeeling. But then, of course, our betrothal was forced on you. Perhaps I was unfair to judge you just on that short acquaintance."

Cold? Unfeeling? Had she not known? Had she not realized? Cold? He remembered how he had used to toss and turn in his bed, living for the next time he would see her, wondering if he would have the opportunity to touch her, perhaps to kiss her hand. Unfeeling? He remembered the pain of his love for her even before she left him and his fear that he would not be able to give her all she desired from life.

A forced betrothal? He had gone to his father the morning after his first meeting with her and begged to have the marriage with her arranged as soon as possible. Although he had been apprehensive at the prospect of allowing his father to choose his bride, he had forgotten his misgivings as soon as he had met her. The betrothal, the wedding could not be soon enough for him.

Poor naive fool that he had been. Twenty-six years old and entrusting his heart, his dreams, all his future hopes to a young girl he did not even know. A young girl who had preferred charm and flirtation and the apparent glamor of a near elopement. A young girl who had broken his heart without one thought to his feelings-because she had believed him cold and unfeeling. Had she ever tried to see beyond his shyness? Had she ever tried to get to know him?