She had been very angry when Dora was born.

Lorraine had drowned two years later in Italy, where she had been traveling with a group of friends, among whom was her latest lover.

And the lures had been out for him again for almost all of the two years since. Women gazed at him with adoration in their eyes. Women cooed over a frequently petulant and rather plain-faced Dora.

The Marquess of Bedford ran thankfully up the marble steps in front of his house and through the double doors, which a footman had opened for him.

“Let’s see if there is a fire in the nursery, poppet, shall we?” he asked, setting his daughter’s feet on the tiled floor and removing her bonnet and cloak. “And buttered muffins and scones?”

“Yes, if you please, Papa,” she said, raising a hand for his. But her tone was petulant again as they climbed the stairs side by side. “When will Christmas come? You said there would be lots of people here and lots to do. You said it would be fun.”

“And so I did,” he said, his heart aching for her as he looked down at her wet and untidy head. “But Christmas is still five days away. It will be wonderful when it comes. It always is here. You will see.”

But he was lying to her. The dolls and the frilled dresses and the bows would not make a happy Christmas for her. The only real gift he would be able to give her was his company. The choice had been between any of a number of house parties to which he had been invited alone, and Christmas spent, for the first time ever, with his child. He had chosen the latter. But he was not at all sure that that was not more a gift to himself than to her.

Where was the snow? And the young people?And the laughter and song?

“When will the rain end, Papa?” the child asked, echoing his own thoughts.

“Soon,” he said. “Tomorrow, probably.”

“But it has rained forever,” she said.

Yes it had. For all of a week, at least.

He should not have come. He had not been home for almost six years. Not since leaving in a hurry with his father when the news about Claude had come. He should have kept that memory of home intact, at least. That memory of something perfect.Something pure and innocent.Something beyond the dreariness and the corruption of real life.

But he had been fool enough to come back, only to discover that there was no such place. And perhaps there never had been. Only a young and innocent fool who had not yet had his eyes opened.

The rain was bad enough when he had been expecting the magic of his childhood Christmases. Worse by far had been that visit two days before.

Even Lilias.

She had been his first real love. Oh, he had lost his virginity at university and had competed quite lustily with his fellow students for the favors of all the prettiest barmaids of Oxford. But Lilias had been his first love.

A sweet and innocent love. Begun that Christmas when he had first become aware of her as a woman and not just as the fun-loving and rather pretty sister of his friend, Philip Angove. And continued through the following summer and the Christmas after that.

It had been an innocent love. They had never shared more than kisses.

Sweet and brief and chaste kisses. He had been very aware of her youth-only sixteen even during that second Christmas. But they had talked and shared confidences and dreamed together.

A sweet and uncomplicated love.

He wished he had kept that memory untainted. But the world had come to her too. He had wondered about her when he had decided to come home, wondered if he would see her, wondered what it would be like to see her again. He had been amazed to be told on his second day home that she was waiting downstairs in the salon for him. And he had hoped with every stair he took that it would not be as he suspected it would.

It had been worse.

The wet and muddy hem of her gown; the darned patches on the hem and sleeve-the second brought to his attention by the artful design to conceal it; the damp and untidy hair; the thin, pale face; the sad, brave story; the modest appeal for assistance; the ridiculous mention of a debt unpaid. He had seen worse actresses at Drury Lane.

He had been furious enough to do her physical harm. She had come to his home to arouse his pity and his chivalry, and in the process she had destroyed one of his few remaining dreams.

Could she find no more honest way of finding herself a husband? Did she really imagine he was so naive? She had not even had the decency to wait awhile. She had been the first to come.

“Papa,” Dora was saying. She had climbed unnoticed onto his lap beside the fire in the nursery and was playing with the chain of his watch, “it is so dull here. I want to go somewhere.”

“Tomorrow, poppet,” he said. “Mr. Crawford has two little boys, who will surely be pleased to see you. And the rector has a family of five. Maybe there are some little ones among them. We will call on them tomorrow, shall we?”

“Yes, please, Papa,” she said.

“And I have another errand to run in the village,” he said, staring down at his watch, which she had pulled from his pocket. “To see a little boy and girl, though they are not quite as little as you, Dora.”

“Tomorrow?” she said. “Promise, Papa?”

“I promise,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Now, Nurse wants to dry and comb your hair again. And I need to change my clothes and dry my own hair.”

Lilias set three pairs of mud-caked boots down outside the door of her cottage and looked down at them ruefully. Would it be better to tackle the job of cleaning them now, when the mud was still fresh and wet, or later, when it had dried? She glanced up at the sky. The clouds hung heavy and promised that the rain was not yet at an end, but for the moment it had stopped. The boots would not get wet inside just yet.

She was closing the door when her eye was caught by the approach of a carriage along the village street. The very one she had ridden in just three days before. She closed the door hastily. She did not want to be caught peeping out at him as he rode past. But she could not prevent herself from crossing to the window and standing back from it so that she could see without being seen.

“Ugh,” Megan said from the small kitchen beyond the parlor. “It is all soaking wet, Lilias.”

“Ouch,” Andrew said. “Is there any way to pick up holly, Lilias, without pricking oneself to death?”

“Oh, mercy on us,” Lilias said, one hand straying to her throat, “he is stopping here. And descending too. One of the postilions is putting down the steps.”

The dripping bundles of holly, which they had all just been gathering at great cost to fingers and boots, were abandoned. Megan and Andrew flew across the room to watch the splendid drama unfolding outside their window.

“The marquess?” Megan asked, big-eyed. “And is that his daughter, Lilias? What a very splendid velvet bonnet and cloak she is wearing.”

Andrew whistled, an accomplishment he had perfected in the past few months. “Look at those horses,” he said. “What prime goers!”

Lilias licked her lips and passed her hands over hair that was hopelessly flattened and untidy from her recent excursion outdoors. The watch? Had he come to bring the watch in person? The doll had been delivered by a footman the day before, fortunately at a time when the children had gone over to the rectory to play with the children there.

It had been carefully hidden away after she had smoothed wondering fingers over the lace and the soft golden hair. And the butcher had informed her that she might pick up a goose on Christmas Eve.

She wished she were wearing her best day dress again. She crossed to the door and opened it before anyone had time to knock. And she saw with some dismay the row of muddy boots standing to one side of the doorstep.

She curtsied.

“How do you do, ma’am?” the Marquess of Bedford said. He looked even larger and more formidable than he had looked three mornings before, clad as he was in a many-caped greatcoat. He held a beaver hat in one hand. “I have been taking my daughter about to meet some of the children of the neighborhood.”

“Oh,” Lilias said, and looked down at the small girl standing beside him, one hand clutched in his. She was handsomely dressed in dark red velvet, though she was not a pretty child. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

“This is Miss Angove, Dora,” the marquess said.

The child was looking candidly up at Lilias. “We have brought you a basket of food from the house,” she said, tossing her head back in the direction of the postilion, who was holding a large basket covered with a white cloth.

“Won’t you come inside, my lord?” Lilias asked, standing hastily to one side when she realized that she had been keeping them standing on the doorstep. “And there really was no need.” She glanced at the basket and took it reluctantly from the servant’s hand.

“We have taken one to each of the houses we have called at,” he said. “A

Christmas offering, ma’am.” He looked at her with the hooded blue eyes and the marble expression that she had found so disconcerting a few days before. “Not charity,” he added softly for her ears only.

His daughter was eyeing Megan and Andrew with cautious curiosity.

“Do you think girls are silly?” she asked Andrew after the introductions had been made and Lilias was ushering the marquess to a seat close to the fire.

Andrew looked taken aback. “Not all of them,” he said. “Only some. But then, there are some silly boys, too.”

“Mrs. Crawford’s sons think girls are silly,” Dora said.

“They would,” Andrew said with undisguised contempt.

“And do you squeal and quarrel all the time and run to your mama with tales?” Dora asked Megan.

Megan giggled.

“Dora,” her father said sharply, “watch your manners.”

“Because the children at the rectory do,” Dora added.

“We have no mama to run to,” Megan said. “And when Drew and I quarrel, we go outside and fight it out where Lilias cannot hear us and interfere.” She giggled again. “We have been gathering holly. It is all wet and prickly. But there are so many berries! Do you want to see it?

You may take your coat off and put on one of my pinafores if you wish.”

“Megan,” Lilias said, her voice agonized. One of Megan’s faded pinafores on Lady Dora West?

“What is the holly for?” Dora asked. “And, yes, please.” She looked at her father on an afterthought. “May I, Papa? Where did you find it? I wish I could have come with you.”

“No, you don’t,” Andrew said. “My fingers look like one of Miss Pierce’s pincushions. We found some mistletoe too. It is in the kitchen. Come and look.”

Lilias found herself suddenly seated opposite the marquess in the small and empty parlor, the object of his silent scrutiny. She jumped to her feet again.

“May I offer you tea?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “That is not necessary. We had tea at the rectory not half an hour since.”

She flushed. “I am afraid I have nothing else to offer,” she said.

“Sit down,” he said. He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen, where the voices of the children mingled. “One of my men has been sent into town for your brother’s watch, among other things. I shall have it delivered tomorrow.”

Lilias felt herself flush even more deeply. “You are kind,” she said.

“And thank you for the other things.”

More than ever she felt that she had begged from him and had been given charity. There was no unbending in his manner, not the merest hint of a smile on his lips or in his eyes. He was regarding her with what looked uncomfortably like scorn.

“Dora is lonely,” he said. “She has never had children to play with.

Until less than a year ago she lived with her grandparents.”

Lilias did not reply. She could think of nothing to say.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “when she does find playmates, she demands perfection. She wants them to be the sort of friends she would like to have. I am afraid our visits this afternoon have not been a great success.”

Lilias smiled fleetingly.

“Look, Papa.” Dora was back in the room, holding up one small index finger for her father’s inspection. A tiny globe of blood formed on its tip. “I pricked myself.” She put the finger in her mouth even as the marquess reached into a pocket for a handkerchief. “Megan and Andrew are going to put the holly all about the house for Christmas. May I stay and watch?”

“It is time to go home,” he said.

“But I don’t want to go home,” she said, her lower lip protruding beyond the upper one. “I want to stay and watch.”

“We shall gather holly too, shall we?” he asked. “And decorate our house with it?”