Jessica laughed. "You loved every moment of it, Grandpapa," she said, "especially when that tiny tot climbed into your lap and demanded that you read a story from her new book."

"The one with the hair bow as large as her head?" He chuckled. "She reminded me of you, Jessica. When your Mama brought you to visit when you could scarcely walk and had scarcely any hair, you had two scarlet bows, one on each side of your bald head. I never did find out what held them there."

They both laughed, and Jessica laid her cheek against the top of his head.

"Let me help you to your bedchamber, Grandpapa," she said. "You really should have a sleep. Oh, I know you are not old enough yet to give in to afternoon naps. But Christmas is a busy time, you see, and I am going to tiptoe along to my room and have a sleep too. I shall just have to hope that no one shames me by finding out. You will not tell, will you? If you do, you know, I shall tell on you."

"You're a good girl, Jessica," he said, pulling himself to his feet and leaning on her arm. "Stubborn and chuckleheaded as they come, but a good girl. All you need is a gentleman of strong character to settle you down."

"Well," she said, squeezing his hand, "let us agree not to pursue that topic any further for the time being, shall we, Grandpapa?"

13

The Earl of Rutherford was not eager to see the end of Christmas Day, but inevitably it came. It had been a day teeming with activity: opening gifts and holding a party for the servants in the morning; skating with most of the children and some of the more energetic adults in the afternoon; playing billiards and cards with the men while the ladies rested before dinner; romping at children's games in the evening until their bedtime; playing a high-spirited game of charades for the rest of the evening. It had been the usual Christmas Day. The only part that ever varied was the skating. The weather was not always kind enough to permit it.

He always enjoyed the day. One grumbled, of course, assuring one's parents each autumn that really one had far better activities with which to fill the festive season. But inevitably one came, not because one was necessarily weak-willed or because one did not have anything else to do, but because Christmas simply would not be Christmas if one were anywhere else or engaged in any other activities. On what other day of the year would one join in a spirited game of blindman's buff with hosts of giggling children and very young adults, completely oblivious of one's dignity, and actually enjoy oneself?

Yet it was not just the sheer exuberant enjoyment of the day that made him sorry to see it at an end, Lord Rutherford thought, unconsciously moving closer to the fire in his dressing room as he pulled off his shirt. It was that tomorrow he must act. He must do something about Jess.

He wanted to, of course. He was very eager to offer for her again, arrange for an early marriage, and begin to live out the blissful remainder of his life with her. In some ways the delay of the past two days had been torture. Yet in another way he had welcomed the excuse of Christmas to hold back and postpone the inevitable moment. She was not going to take kindly to his proposal. He just had a very strong intuition that she would not.

He had not spent a great deal of time in her company. Quite deliberately he had kept apart from her most of the time. He did not wish to invite any quarrel between them, and he did not wish her to feel that she was being pursued so closely by him that she could not relax and enjoy the season and the recent arrival of her grandfather.

So apart from that one spell on the ice, when he had not been able to resist rushing to her assistance after she fell, he had contented himself with watching from afar. He had denied himself the pleasure of taking her in to meals, and this evening he had resisted the temptation to let her catch him at blindman's buff.

But he had enjoyed watching her. She seemed to enjoy the company of all his family, especially Hope, who was making something of a fool of herself trying to throw Godfrey and Jess together. Fortunately, he could see quite clearly that those two felt no dangerous attraction for each other. He might have been ready to do murder otherwise. But Hope clearly could not see it. Anyone would have thought that by her age she would have realized that she had no talent whatsoever at matchmaking. She had even scolded him for taking Jess away from Godfrey out on the ice. It was far more likely that Godfrey was interested in her than in Jess. They certainly spent a great deal of time in company together.

Interestingly enough, too, he had heard from a cousin since arriving at Hendon Park that Godfrey had put an end to that long-standing affair of his. Had he shed the mistress in preparation for taking a wife? Godfrey himself had said nothing about the matter in the past few days. That in itself might be significant.

Well, tomorrow, Rutherford thought, he would pay his addresses to Miss Jessica Moore. She would not refuse him, surely. It was merely his extreme eagerness to marry her that made him nervous. She had no reason to refuse him. Indeed, the Marquess of Heddingly must have already pointed out to her the utter necessity of accepting him. She really had no choice at all. Even if she detested him, she must marry him. And she did not detest him. He even had good reason to believe that he could teach her to love him.

There had been that short spell on the ice, for example. The pull of attraction between them had been almost suffocatingly strong. He could not have felt it so powerfully while she felt nothing. He knew she had not felt nothing. When she had skated with him, she had been as incapable of looking away from him as he from her. Her eyes had been dreamy. She had been in a world of her own. No, that was wrong. They had been in a world of their own. Together. She could not have looked at him like that and felt nothing.

If he could only approach this meeting with her, then, with care, there was no reason at all why this time tomorrow night he should not be the happiest of men. He settled into bed and clasped his hands behind his head. He would announce their betrothal at dinner tomorrow night before any members of the family started to disperse to their own homes. Rather, he would have his father make the announcement. They would marry in the spring, during the Season, when London was crowded with fashionable people. He wanted to show Jess off to all the world. The thought surprised him rather. He would have expected that once he did decide to marry, he would dread a large and very public wedding.

How should he approach tomorrow's meeting, though? With confidence? Yes, he decided, but he must be certain that he did not give the impression of arrogance. With common sense, certainly. He must point out to her all the advantages of a marriage between them and all the necessity of it. She must be made to realize that really she did not have a choice.

Yet he must almost make it seem as if she did have a choice. He must show some vulnerability. The thought was not a pleasant one. It was not in his nature to admit any personal weakness to himself or anyone else. He had been brought up to think that manliness and unyielding strength were one and the same thing. But he must show Jess that he cared, that she mattered to him. She must be made to see that he wanted her as a bride, that his life would somehow be incomplete, meaningless even, without her.

Yes, he must, more than anything else, be sure to tell her that he loved her. It would not be so difficult an ordeal after all, perhaps. For weeks he had been wanting to tell Jess just that. Tomorrow he would have the opportunity. And how could he not tell her with his every look as well as with his words? Once he was alone with her, it would be impossible to hide the truth even if he wished to do so.

And he certainly did not wish any such thing.


"What a poor-spirited family we have become," Lady Hope was complaining the following morning at the breakfast table. "Charles, I thought at least you of all people would not have refused to accompany the children sledding."

"They have nurses and governesses and such to take them, Hope," he pointed out, folding his napkin and laying it beside his plate.

"But there is the exercise," his sister insisted. "And you know we have always had enormous fun out on the hills, Charles."

"I prefer to leave it to the children now that I am entering my dotage," he said firmly. "There is a two-mile tramp before one even reaches the hills, Hope."

"Well," she said, "it seems that I am the only one with any youthful spirit remaining. Very well. I shall go alone."

"If a nonmember of the family is permitted to make one of the party," Sir Godfrey said, "I should be delighted to make the trek, Lady Hope."

"Well, how very gracious of you, sir," she said. "The children will be very grateful. It adds enormously to their fun, you know, to have some of us there with them. Especially if we should fall off a sled into the snow. That would complete their joy for the day."

"I could probably arrange to supply that fun too, ma'am," he said, "without even trying."

Those who still remained at the breakfast table laughed.

"And I am quite sure that dear Miss Moore would enjoy the outing too," Lady Hope said. "I believe she felt somewhat embarrassed while skating, though there was absolutely no need to do so. But anyone can sit on a sled and slide down a hill. I shall go immediately to ask her. She is breakfasting in Lord Heddingly's sitting room. He is somewhat tired from the excitement of yesterday, I daresay."

Lord Rutherford drew breath to reply, but Sir Godfrey forestalled him.

"I do not doubt that Miss Moore would enjoy the outing," he said, "but I am sure that her grandfather would enjoy her company too. Let us leave them to each other and the warmth of the house, shall we, Lady Hope?"

Rutherford could almost have laughed at the expression on her face.

"Well, certainly, sir, if you really think it would be better to do so," she said. "We will be back before luncheon, anyway, and there will still be a great part of the day left, I suppose. If you would really prefer to stay yourself, sir, you must not feel obliged to accompany me, you know. I shall be quite happy with the children."

"Ah, but I wish to accompany you, Lady Hope," Sir Godfrey said, rising to his feet decisively and holding out a hand to help her.

Rutherford's lips twitched. It seemed entirely possible that there would be two family betrothals to celebrate that evening. If Godfrey could but convince Hope that he really wished to address himself to her and not to Jess, that was.


Lord Rutherford would probably have enjoyed listening to the conversation between his sister and his friend as they walked the two miles to the snow-covered hills to the south, surrounded by running and yelling children, two nurses and a governess, and two gardeners pulling along behind them a string of wooden sleds.

After various comments on the weather and the personalities of the children and young people around them, Lady Hope steered the conversation determinedly to Jessica. Sir Godfrey followed her lead with some amusement for a few minutes before drawing her to a halt and turning to face her.

"Lady Hope," he said, "may we put an end to this topic by agreeing that Miss Moore is indeed a beautiful and accomplished young lady who will make some fortunate man a good wife?"

She looked somewhat taken aback. "I beg your pardon, sir," she said. "I did not realize that I had embarrassed or offended you by talking about her."

"You have done neither, I assure you," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "But much as I esteem the young lady, I must admit to some boredom at finding her so frequently the topic of conversation between you and me."

"Oh," she said.

"Why do you not tell me about Lady Hope?" he asked, patting her hand on his arm and beginning to stroll onward again. "Have you finally recovered from your sad loss, my dear? And are you now ready to continue with the rest of your life?"

"Do you speak of Bevin?" she asked. "But that was long in the past, sir, and we were never officially betrothed, you know. I daresay Papa would not have easily given his consent, anyway. The matter was of no great significance."

"On the contrary, my dear," he said, "the passing of Lieutenant Harris has been very much the most significant event in your life. I have wondered many times if you would ever recover from it. You loved him very dearly, did you not?"