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Gifts of the Season: A Gift Most Rare / Christmas Charade / The Virtuous Widow
Lyn Stone
Miranda Jarrett
Anne Gracie
A Gift Most Rare by Miranda JarrettSara had never thought to see her precious Rev ever again. Yet here he was, come to stay for the holidays in the very home where she was a governess…and bringing up the painful memories of their shared past.Christmas Charade by Lyn StoneBeth didn't want a husband. But when she agreed to marry handsome Jack as part of a scheme, she didn't expect to be playing with her heart.The Virtuous Widow by Anne GracieEllie was afraid she had no future. Left to her own devices now that her husband had passed away, she worried for her daughter's welfare as well as her own. But her world changed when a stranger landed on her doorstep.


Miranda Jarrett
“A swift, rollicking romance….Deliciously entertaining!”
—Bestselling author Mary Jo Putney on Captain’s Bride
“A vibrant, passionate story.”
—Bestselling author Jo Beverley on The Very Daring Duchess
Lyn Stone
“Stone has an apt hand with dialogue and creates characters with a refreshing naturalness.”
—Publishers Weekly
“…laced with lovable characters, witty dialogue, humor and poignancy, this is a tale to savor.”
—Romantic Times on The Highland Wife
Anne Gracie
“Ms. Gracie has a knack for delving into people’s souls and, at the same time, tickling our funny bone.”
—Rendezvous
“Welcome Anne Gracie to the ranks of excellent romance writers…I want more stories by this extremely talented author.”
—The Romance Reader
GIFTS OF THE SEASON
Harlequin Historical #631
#632 RAFFERTY’S BRIDE
Mary Burton
#633 BECKETT’S BIRTHRIGHT
Bronwyn Williams
#634 THE DUMONT BRIDE
Terri Brisbin
MIRANDA JARRETT
considers herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings, even if it’s one that’s also made her family far too regular patrons of the local pizzeria. Miranda is the author of twenty-seven historical romances, has won numerous awards for her writing and has been a three-time Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist for best short historical romance. She loves to hear from readers at P.O. Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-1145, or MJarrett21@aol.com (mailto:MJarrett21@aol.com). For the latest news, please visit her Web site at www.Mirandajarrett.com (http://www.Mirandajarrett.com).
LYN STONE
A painter of historical events, Lyn finally decided to write about them. An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen I fell in love with Bronte’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. The next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett. Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.” After living for four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a log house in north Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.
ANNE GRACIE
was born in Australia, but spent her childhood on the move, living in different parts of Australia, Scotland, Malaysia and Greece. Her days, when not in school, were spent outside with animals and her evenings with her nose in a book—they didn’t have TV. She writes in a small room lined with books surrounded by teetering piles of paper. Her first book, Gallant Waif, was a RITA® Award finalist for best first book. Her second, Tallie’s Knight, has been short-listed for the Australian Romantic Book of the Year. Anne lives in Melbourne. She has a Web site, www.annegracie.com (http://www.annegracie.com), and loves to hear from readers.
Gifts of the Season
A Gift Most Rare
Miranda Jarrett
Christmas Charade
Lyn Stone
The Virtuous Widow
Anne Gracie


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents
A Gift Most Rare (#ua7b4182b-5b26-5820-b3d2-9c308a72a898)
Chapter One (#u2d7a3f53-a13a-54d8-964f-011682e9d727)
Chapter Two (#u23a62d82-4d95-5109-860e-e1096633f17e)
Chapter Three (#u561ebd7d-a5a5-5e36-9686-247e25893d63)
Chapter Four (#uc9657d7b-c0b6-5207-8a28-7d809e114e7f)
Chapter Five (#ufde34707-8edc-5f07-9f76-9e839281f742)
Chapter Six (#uc054ed05-dd1a-5b09-8a49-0d590dd60187)
Chapter Seven (#ua693e8e1-259c-5c94-bae5-3ef841452a2a)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Christmas Charade (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
The Virtuous Widow (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
A Gift Most Rare
Miranda Jarrett
Dear Reader,
Christmas has always been a time of traditions. Whether as old as a medieval carol or as new as Charlie Brown’s holiday cartoon, traditions help turn each year into the next memory, to be treasured and recalled long after the decorations are put away. Christmas traditions travel well, too, regardless of how many miles and oceans they must cross. No matter how limited the space for belongings and baggage on a journey might be, there is always room to carry the traditions for this special season: Santa Lucia’s candlelit wreath for a daughter from Sweden, a French grand-mère’s recipe for Bûche de Noël, a Russian uncle’s favorite holiday toast, the secret of perfectly folded origami cranes for good luck from a Japanese cousin, or simply Mom’s candy-cane Christmas cookies to help a homesick college freshman survive his first final exams.
For Sara and Revell in “A Gift Most Rare,” traditions are not only a way of celebrating the holiday, but also their shared past. Like other English expatriates living in India two hundred years ago, they would have been sure to drink Christmas wassail and sing their carols, even though it was beneath the hot Calcutta sun. But new traditions travel back to England with them, and when they decorate for the holiday, there are pasteboard elephants and tigers mixed in with the holly boughs in a joyful union—just like the love that Sara and Revell find together.
A merry holiday to you and your families, and a new year full of love, peace and joy!


For Ellen
My bleacher-and-bagel buddy,
who, like every good Hockey Mom, knows that
Christmas (at least the week after) is for Tournaments
Your company & friendship are a treasure
Merry Christmas!

Chapter One
Ladysmith Manor, Sussex
December, 1801
Six years had passed since she’d seen him last, yet with a lurch to her heart, she realized she’d know him anywhere.
With her hands primly clasped to help mask their trembling, Sara Blake leaned closer to the tall window, her breath lightly frosting the glass as she gazed down at the gentleman in black climbing down from his carriage to the snow-dusted drive. She remembered when he’d not been so sober and somber, another Christmas when he’d worn a peacock-blue coat that had made his eyes even brighter as they’d laughed together, he the handsomest man in the governor general’s ballroom.
Six years. How she’d loved and trusted him then, with all the fervency that her seventeen-year-old heart could offer! He wore his dark hair cropped shorter now, another change to follow the fashion. But as the wind ruffled it across his brow, she remembered how soft those curls had been to touch, how she’d relished the silky feel of them beneath her fingers when he’d bent to kiss her.
“You do know who that is, don’t you, Miss Blake?” asked Clarissa Fordyce with all the relish of her much-indulged eight-year-old self. “That’s the gentleman that Mama didn’t wish us to invite here for the holiday, until Albert insisted.”
“Young gentlemen like your brother often have friends of which their mothers do not quite approve,” said Sara, striving to keep her voice properly objective, the way a good governess’s should always be, even as the old fears and questions were making her palms damp and her heart race. “Learning to make wise choices in companions is not always an easy skill to acquire.”
“This one wasn’t wise at all,” declared Clarissa soundly. With fingers sticky from marzipan, she pressed her plump hands to the glass, eagerly studying the man who was certain to be the most interesting among her mother’s guests this week. “Albert says everyone calls him the Sapphire Lord, and that he was the wickedest devil in all of India!”
“Mind your words, Clarissa,” chided Sara as her cheeks warmed with a guilty rush of old memories. How could he still affect her like this after so much time apart? “No lady concerns herself with what ‘everyone’ says. I’m sure the gentleman has another name by which you shall be expected to address him.”
“Yes, Miss Blake,” answered Clarissa promptly, but without the slightest pretense of contrition or remorse as she pressed closer to the glass. Far below the gentleman was climbing the clean-swept steps, his traveling cloak fluttering back from his broad shoulders as Albert Fordyce hurried forward to greet him. “His true name, Miss Blake, is Lord Revell Claremont, and I shall be perfectly respectful to him on account of him being Mama’s guest, and his brother being a duke, and because Albert would thrash me if I didn’t. But Lord Revell does look like a wicked devil, doesn’t he?”
Yet when Sara looked down at Revell Claremont, she saw infinitely more. She saw the man she’d once loved not just with her heart but her soul, as well—but she also saw her own long-gone innocence, and the end of a fairy-tale existence in a faraway land. She saw betrayal and heartbreak and the sudden loss of everything she’d held most dear, and a scandal she’d hoped she’d forever left behind with her old name and life, half a world and two oceans away. She saw her past disclosed and her father’s shameful crime curtly revealed, her dismissal from this house swift and inevitable and her future once again made perilously uncertain. Revell Claremont had abandoned her to fate before, when he’d claimed to love her, and she’d absolutely no reason to believe he’d do otherwise now.
Ah, Merry Christmas, indeed.
Revell stood before the fireplace with his legs slightly spread and his hands outstretched toward the flames, pretending to concentrate entirely on the fire until he heard the footman’s steps leave the room, and the latch to the bedchamber door click gently closed behind him. With a sigh of relief, Revell finally let his shoulders sag, and his sigh trailed off into a groan of exhaustion. He hoped his manservant Yates would return soon with the bath he’d ordered, and a parade of maidservants with steaming pitchers of hot water from the kitchen.
Blast, but he was tired, clear through his blood to his bones and his soul. Traveling did that to a man, and Revell hadn’t lingered in one place for more than three nights at a time in over a year. Restless as last summer’s leaf in the wind: that was how his older brother Brant had described his wandering, and Revell couldn’t disagree. He couldn’t, not really, not when it was the cold, honest truth.
But then what did Brant know of restlessness, anyway, snug in his grand house in London with his brandy in his hand? Revell had been the one their father had cast the farthest from home, less like a twisting leaf than a worthless penny minted from tin instead of copper. Yet since then Revell had made himself into a wealthy man with the fortune to match his title, a man with power and influence and the awestruck respect of others, exactly the sort of man that, as a boy, he and his two brothers had sworn they would become. Certainly Brant had succeeded, and George, too, and he’d never heard either of them complain of their lot. If restlessness and loneliness were the price to be paid for their success, then so it had been.
Revell shook his head, resisting the lure of the old bitterness, and spread his fingers to take in more of the fire’s warmth. He’d been away so long that he’d forgotten how cold Sussex could be in December, or maybe this chill, like the weariness, was only another sign of getting old. He frowned at his reflection in the looking glass over the mantel, half expecting to see his thick black hair streaked with white or his sharp blue eyes turned rheumy with age. He would, after all, be twenty-eight next month, and he shook his head again at how quickly time had slipped by.
From habit he reached into the inside pocket of his waistcoat to find the small curved box, the gold-stamped calfskin worn from touching, and with his thumb he flipped open the lid. At once the cluster of sapphires inside caught the dancing light from the flames, flashing sparks and stars of brilliant blue as he turned the gold ring this way and that. For six years he’d carried this betrothal ring with him, close to his heart, a constant reminder of the one woman he’d thought had been destined to wear it, the only woman he’d ever love, the one who’d spoiled all others for him.
Love. With a muttered oath, he snapped the little box shut and shoved it back into his pocket, wishing he could thrust aside her memory as easily. God knows she’d been able to forget him fast enough, vanishing from Calcutta without explanation or regret or even one last bittersweet word of farewell.
Six years, yet in an instant he could still recall the rippling merriment of her laughter, the way her eyes would grow soft and her cheeks flush when she looked at him, the cherry-sweet taste of her mouth welcoming his.
His dearest, darling Sara….
Six years, hell. He was growing old, and foolishly sentimental, as well, dreading his own company and memories so blasted much that he’d accepted Albert Fordyce’s invitation to come here to Ladysmith. They’d been at school together, true, but Revell hadn’t seen Albert for years until they’d met by sheerest coincidence last week outside Drury Lane. The promise of a Christmas goose and rum punch and mistletoe in the doorways, a roaring great yule log in the fireplace and a masquerade ball for Twelfth Night: that was all it had taken to lure Revell here for a fortnight of weighty cookery, squealing fiddle music, and tedious entertainments with red-faced country squires and their bouncing, plump-cheeked ladies.
And none of it would be enough to make Revell forget Sara, not by half. Nothing ever was.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
For what must have been the thousandth time in this past hour, Sara glanced at the tall case clock that, bedecked with a spray of holly and red ribbon for the season, stood in the corner of the drawing room. Only five minutes remained until seven, when, without fail, Lady Fordyce would marshal her guests for the short procession to the dining room table, and Sara and Clarissa would begin their own little procession upstairs to the nursery for their more humble meal.
Now four minutes were left: could fortune really be smiling upon her like this? Her heart racing, Sara smoothed the small muslin ruffle on the end of her sleeve. If Revell were like the rest of the guests gathered in this room, then he’d be staying at Ladysmith through Twelfth Night. Their paths were bound to cross before then—the manor was simply not so large a house that it could be avoided—but the longer the meeting could be postponed, the better. True, it was unforgivably rude for Revell not to have come here to the drawing room to greet his hostess before dinner on his first night, but for Sara it meant another day and night when her secret was still safe.
Three minutes. There was, of course, also the chance that Revell wouldn’t recognize her. Sara knew she was much changed since he’d seen her last. Her sorrows showed on her face, and the plain, serviceable way in which she dressed did little in her favor. Besides, as Clarissa’s governess, she was not much different nor more visible than any other family servant. Although she’d been standing here beside the window for the past hour while Clarissa had been petted and indulged by the others, she doubted any of the elegantly gowned ladies or handsome, laughing gentlemen had noticed her at all. She could only pray that Revell would do the same.
“Miss Blake,” said Lady Fordyce, sweeping toward Sara. She was a tall, handsome woman, kind and good-natured, who lavished upon her two children with the same fondness and devotion that her husband Sir David doted upon her. “I believe it is time for Clarissa to retire for the evening.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Sara with an efficient small curtsy to mask her relief. She’d be able to escape with two minutes to spare. “Clarissa has found the holidays most exciting.”
“I should blame her brother rather than the holidays,” said Lady Fordyce with an exasperated sniff as she watched her children. Held high upon Albert’s shoulder, a delighted Clarissa was shrieking Christmas songs as loudly as she could, pumping her arms up and down like a military bandleader and not at all like a young lady.
“Albert,” said Lady Fordyce sternly. “Albert! Please lower your sister directly so Miss Blake can take her upstairs!”
“Mama, no!” wailed Clarissa as Albert promptly set her down on the carpet with a shush of white petticoats. “It’s not time, not yet!”
“Alas, Clarissa, it most certainly is,” commiserated Sara as she took Clarissa’s hand. “Come now, kiss your mama good night.”
Clarissa’s face crumpled with disappointment as she appealed to the solemn ring of grown-up faces gazing down at her. She was the only child at present in the house, a position that she occupied like a little queen among her courtiers. But even queens could be banished, and Clarissa knew from sorrowful experience she could expect no reprieve from her mother once dinner was being served.
“And a kiss for me, too, Clary,” said Albert heartily, the way he did nearly everything. Although still in his twenties, he was already well on his way to being a model bluff English country gentleman, more fond of his dogs and his horses than the leather-bound books in his father’s library. “Who’s my only sweetheart girl, huh? Who’s my best darling sister?”
“That’s because I’m your only sister, Albert,” said Clarissa, but she kissed his ruddy cheek anyway. “As you know perfectly, perfectly well.”
“Your sister, Fordyce?” said a deep, low voice that Sara had thought she’d never hear again. “How could such a charming little sprite have you for a brother?”
Automatically Sara’s head turned in response, her heart racing and her feet urging her to flee. Revell was standing so near to her that she could see the tiny half-moon scar, pale against the clean-shaven shadow of his jaw.
Did he see that in his looking glass each morning and remember the night he’d come by it? How he’d cut himself as he’d climbed over the high wall that had surrounded her father’s grand white mansion on Chowringhee Road? Did he still recall how often he’d visited her—no, stayed with her, and loved her the glorious night through! Did he touch that scar now and remember her, how he’d slid over the rough stucco and through the thicket of trees and vines to reach the teak bench where she was waiting for him, there in the velvet heat of an Indian midnight?
“Little miss,” continued Revell, oblivious to Sara as he bowed to Clarissa. “I am honored.”
Fascinated, the girl slipped her hand free of Sara’s and stepped forward, spreading her skirts as she dipped coquettishly before this new admirer. All other conversation stopped while everyone listened and watched, curiosity turning them into eager, avid spectators. Word that the famous—some said infamous—Lord Revell Claremont had joined the party had raced through the house earlier, but this was the first real glimpse of him that most of them had had.
He did not disappoint. Though he smiled warmly enough at Clarissa, his eyes betrayed no emotion, and even standing still he seemed to have the restlessness and grace of a wild tiger, barely contained in impeccable black evening dress and white Holland linen.
Later Sara would overhear the whispers: how the ladies admired the splendid width of his shoulders, the intriguing aura of danger he wore as comfortably as his waistcoat, and the size of the cabochon sapphire—at least as large as a pigeon’s egg!—that he wore in a ring on his right hand, while the gentlemen noted the harsh lines fanning from those chilly blue eyes and the ruthless set of his mouth, souvenirs of living too long in a pagan place like India, and to a man they resolved never to cross a coldhearted bastard like Claremont.
But what Sara saw now was how all gentleness had vanished from Revell’s face, and how the hardness that had replaced it made her wonder sadly if he ever laughed anymore, or even could.
Lady Fordyce glided forward, resting one hand protectively upon her daughter’s shoulder while holding the other outstretched to Revell. The unspoken message in her posture was unmistakable to Sara; Lady Fordyce took her position and her responsibilities as the most prominent hostess in the county very seriously, and Revell had already grievously erred by coming down to the drawing room so late.
“Surely,” began Lady Fordyce, “you must be Lord Revell Claremont, yes?”
Revell nodded, lifting her hand to kiss the air over it. “Surely I am, my lady.”
“Then just as surely you may now take Lady Lawrence into dinner, my lord,” said Lady Fordyce, pointedly withdrawing her hand. “We are most honored by your presence here, my lord, but I do not wish to keep either my guests or my cook waiting.”
He bowed again, and turned toward Lady Lawrence, an older widow in lavender silk who was clearly as terrified as she was titillated to have him as her dinner companion. The others fell in by rank with their accustomed partners and followed through the arched door festooned with holly boughs, leaving Sara and Clarissa behind.
“Ooh, Miss Blake, didn’t I tell you!” exclaimed Clarissa with relish. “That Lord Revell is a wicked devil, isn’t he? He didn’t even tell Mama he was sorry, because he wasn’t!”
“Hush, Clarissa,” murmured Sara, still gazing toward the now-empty doorway. “It’s not fitting for you to speculate over Lord Revell’s character.”
They had stood not four feet apart, and he’d not noticed her. Not a glance, neither a smile nor a frown, no acknowledgment whatsoever that she’d ever meant anything to him that was worth remembering. She hadn’t dared hope their first meeting would happen with so little consequence. For now, anyway, she’d escaped.
But how was it possible for a broken heart to break again?

Chapter Two
With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and fingers pressed together into a little tent over his waistcoat, Revell smiled across the room at Albert Fordyce, striving to project a relaxed bonhomie that he assuredly did not feel. They had outlasted all the other male guests tonight and had the room to themselves, though from the unfocused foolishness of Albert’s eyes and the nearly empty bottle of brandy beside him, Revell guessed he, too, would soon need help to his bed. If he wanted answers to the questions plaguing him, he’d better ask them now, before Albert was completely beyond coherent reply.
“So tell me of your sister’s governess,” began Revell, striving to sound idly interested and no more. “What do you know of her?”
“Clary’s governess?” Albert frowned, struggling to compose a reasonable answer to what clearly seemed an unimaginable question. “That dry little stick of a female?”
“Yes, your sister’s governess.” How could Albert speak so slightingly of Sara? And why did it seem to still matter so much that he did? “Though I should hardly call her a ‘dry little stick.”’
Albert stared with blank curiosity. “Wouldn’t you now?” he marveled. “She’s scarcely seemed worth the notice to me.”
“I noticed her.” How could he not, seeing Sara there like a flesh-and-blood ghost come back to haunt him? She was fine-boned and fair-skinned, true—the hot Indian climate often seemed to reduce English women to their very essence—but her delicacy had never seemed a fault to Revell. She’d been light as a fairy in his arms when they’d danced and vibrant with warm-blooded passion when they’d kissed, and lovely enough that every English gentleman in Calcutta had jostled for a favoring smile from her. “I thought her, ah, rather handsome.”
What kind of blasted understatement was that? He certainly wasn’t in love with Sara any longer, not the desperate way he’d been six years ago, but “rather handsome” didn’t begin to explain how he’d felt seeing her again. Where he’d simply grown older, she had somehow grown even more beautiful, her girlish brilliance burnished and refined by experience and time into a softer, more womanly elegance. She’d tried to hide it in those hideous clothes—shrouding herself in grim black and white, her bright curls skinned back beneath a plain cap—but how could she disguise the sunny blue of her eyes or the generous curve of a mouth made for laughing and teasing and lavishing with kisses?
Oh, aye, she was still Sara, still beautiful, still desirable, and still wretchedly, hopelessly unattainable.
“Ah, well, every man must pick his own poison,” said Albert blithely as he once again reached for the bottle beside his chair. “And here I thought you were taken with that saucy Talbot girl, the fine plump one making kitten’s eyes at you over dinner!”
Revell grimaced. He’d scarcely noticed the young woman sitting at his right until she’d freed her foot from her slipper and brazenly tickled her stockinged toes up and down his calf.
“No, don’t scoff,” said Albert. “I’d wager you’d find a warm welcome from that one, no mistake. But if Miss Blake’s the sort that catches your fancy, Claremont, well, that’s a different kettle entirely. I’d no notion that was how you felt.”
Thunderstruck, that’s how Revell had felt to discover Sara there beside him. Bowled over and blasted and for once so completely unable to trust his own emotions that he’d looked away, down to the little girl holding her hand.
And Sara—hell, Sara had ignored him as if he didn’t exist.
“That is her name, then?” In Calcutta she’d been Sara Carstairs. No wonder he’d not been able to find her since. “Miss Blake?”
“So she is called.” Albert shrugged carelessly, pouring the brandy in a sloppy arc into his glass. “Missy-Miss Priss Blake.”
Revell’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. When he’d returned to Calcutta from visting the mines in the hills, eager to announce their engagement, he’d been told that Sara hadn’t waited for him. The governor’s wife, who’d been appointed to tell him, had been as kind as possible, her voice full of pity. Sara’s father had died of a sudden apoplexy brought on by the record heat and dust of that last summer, and before the poor gentleman was scarce buried in his grave and his estate settled, Sara had eloped with a cavalry officer and sailed with him back to England.
It had, thought Revell, been the darkest day of his life.
“You are certain she’s unwed?” he asked now, praying that Albert was too far in his cups to hear the ancient disappointment in his voice. “There’s no, ah, Mr. Blake?”
“Not in this life.” Albert grinned, sinking even lower into his chair. “Mother wouldn’t have permitted it, not in a governess for Clary. She’s Miss Blake, evermore. Oh, she must have a Christian name somewhere, as well, but I’ve never heard it.”
“Why in blazes not?” asked Revell. He wasn’t exactly angry at Albert’s attitude, but it did, well, rankle since it was Sara they were discussing. Not that she needed a champion. Whatever she’d done since he’d seen her last, she’d proven herself perfectly capable of looking after herself without him—though, mercifully, without that dashing phantom cavalry officer, too. “The lass lives beneath your own roof, doesn’t she?”
“She’s a servant, Claremont,” said Albert firmly. “I don’t have to know her name. The house servants are my mother’s responsibility, not mine. I say, perhaps you’ve lived too long among the heathens if you’ve forgotten how things are here at home.”
“Perhaps instead I didn’t stay away long enough,” said Revell testily, rising to his feet. Albert was right. England wasn’t India, and the past couldn’t be undone and twisted into the present just because he wished it so. “I thank you for the brandy, if not the advice.”
But Albert waved away Revell’s thanks, frowning a bit as he leaned forward in his chair. “I meant what I said about my mother and the servants, Claremont,” he said earnestly. “She won’t take it well if you try to tumble Clary’s governess. There’s no dallying with any of the servants in this house.”
Revell smiled wearily, his hand already on the latch of the door. “Ah, but you’re forgetting who you’re warning, Albert, aren’t you? Because I never dally at anything.”
He left then before he’d say more, or worse, to his well-meaning host. God knows he’d said enough already, and with a muttered oath directed at his own sentimental idiocy, he turned away from the stairs to the bedchambers and instead down the long, darkened gallery. As tired as he was, he knew better than to try to sleep now, and his hollow, echoing footsteps, seemed to mock his loneliness.
Who the devil would have guessed that Sara would be hiding here at Ladysmith of all places, lying in wait to turn him into a babbling, belligerent imbecile? If he’d any wits left he’d make his excuses and leave at daybreak, out of deference to the Fordyces and Sara, too.
Hell, he should leave now, and with a disgusted grumble he threw open one of the tall double doors that led to the terrace and the paths to the gardens beyond. In summer this would be a favorite trysting place, with beech trees curving over the terrace, but in late December the branches were shivering bare and unwelcoming, the pale moon stretching their long, skeletal shadows across the snow-covered paths.
Though there was no wind, the air was still icy, sharp enough to make Revell suck in his breath and hunch his shoulders. Yet in a way he welcomed the cold. This, at least, was real, and slowly he walked across the terrace to the stone railing, his shoes crunching lightly on the crusty snow.
Against so much pale snow and moonlight, it was the inky-dark shape that caught his eye, the whipping flicker of a black cloak as the wearer tried to scurry away from him. Even with the hood drawn forward, he knew who it must be, and in three long strides he had cornered her against the terrace’s low balustrade. With a little yelp of frustration, she tried to twist past him and the hood slipped back, letting the moonlight fall full upon her startled face.
“Sara,” he said, a statement and a question and a greeting and a wish and a prayer combined into the single word that was her name. “Sara.”
She swallowed, and though she raised her chin with a brave show of defiance, he saw how she trembled. He understood. He was trembling, too.
“My lord,” she said. “Good evening, my lord.”
Of course: what the devil had he been thinking, anyway? “Good evening, Miss, ah, Miss Blake.”
“Quite.” The single word came out in a small cloud, warmed by her breath in the chilly air. No matter how hard she was trying to maintain the same severe governess’s face that she’d worn earlier in the drawing room, she was failing: her eyes seemed enormous and liquid as she gazed up at him, the moonlight making spiky shadows of her lashes across her cheeks. “Quite, my lord.”
He cleared his throat, then tried to turn the grumbling growl into a cough, painfully conscious of every sound he uttered. What in blazes was he supposed to say next, given so little encouragement? Not that he should need it, of course. The time for careful wooing and well-considered words, or even the most casual flirtation, was long past for them. Now all that was needed was a modicum of genteel chitchat, same as he would venture with any other young lady, or an old one, for that matter.
But then no other lady was standing here before him with her lips parted, the lower one so full as to be nearly a pout, the one above arched like a bow, a mouth that was unforgettably familiar to him, and once had been unforgettably dear, as well?
“It is, ah, a most fine prospect, is it not?” he asked, then nearly cursed himself again for being a half-wit. They were standing on a sheet of crackling frozen snow beneath bleakly leafless branches, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a Sussex winter. Even in the moonlight he could tell that her nose was red with the cold, and that the first trembling he’d thought he’d caused was, on more honest, less flattering consideration, simply shivering. “Allowing for the season, that is.”
She nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Exceptionally fine, my lord, for the season.”
In silence he thanked her for not pointing him out as the idiot he was. Silence seemed safest.
But then she seemed determined to be safe, as well, lowering her gaze from his face to the buttons on the front of his coat.
“I could not sleep, my lord,” she began, her words rushing swift with agitation. “That is why I’m here. Not because I followed you, or…or wished to engage you. I must beg you to understand that what was…was once between us is long done, my lord, nor do I wish it otherwise.”
“No,” he said, the weight of that denial heavy as lead. “That is, yes, what we shared in Calcutta was long ago.”
“Yes, my lord.” Another swift, small nod, that was all. “No one here knows of that past, and I would thank you greatly not…not to share it.”
Damnation, was she so shamed by having known him?
“I came outside, here, so I would not disturb Miss Fordyce with my restlessness,” she continued, her words still tumbling one after the other. “There was not—not any other reason than to calm myself. What other could there have been, my lord?”
“That is why I am here, as well,” he said with false heartiness, unwilling to be outdone no matter what it cost him. “A breath of air to clear the head before bed. That is all I sought by coming here, neither more nor less.”
She sighed once, and shrugged, little wisps of hair drifting free around her face. The haste and urgency seemed to drain from her, and with it went the reserve that had been her best defense.
“Ah, my lord,” she said softly, “then you have found what you wanted, yes?”
“I suppose I have,” he said gruffly, longing to brush those stray strands aside as he tried not to consider any other deeper meanings to this conversation. “Found what I desired, that is.”
“I am glad,” she said softly, at last returning her gaze to meet his. “You are happy?”
He hesitated, wondering how honest he should be, not only with her, but himself. “Happy enough, I warrant.”
“Then I am happy, too,” she said, but the bittersweet longing in her eyes didn’t agree. “A true Christmas miracle, yes?”
“A miracle?” He swept his arm through the air, desperately trying to clear the unexpected peril from this conversation. “Surely not here in this cold and cheerless place.”
She tipped her head to one side, skeptical. “Since when do miracles require sunny days like new seedlings in the spring?”
“They did for us in Calcutta,” he said. “Do you remember how even the mornings in the summer would be so infernally hot that we would stay awake all the night, then go riding before dawn, when it was still cool enough for the horses? We found miracles aplenty there in your garden on Chowringhee Road, with the peacocks and the palm trees, gold spangles on your gown and yellow plumes in your hair.”
“Chowringhee.” The shared memory reminded them both of other intimacies shared, of love and passion in a faraway world ripe with sensual possibilities, and her sudden, wistful smile with the single unbalanced dimple caught him by surprise. “Ah, Rev, you always were a dreamer, and a rover, too. You never could stop searching for whatever magic lay over the next mountain, could you?”
“I never have, Sara.” He smiled, too, their years apart slipping away as they used their given names. “Although dreaming and roving are not precisely the most admirable qualities for a man.”
“For you they were,” she said promptly. “You never were like the other greedy cadets and Company nabobs in their red coats, Rev. You saw the rare beauty in India, and not just the gold to be stolen away.”
“You know too much of me, Sara,” he said softly, “and too well at that.”
“Too much, too well,” she repeated sadly, and as suddenly as her own smile had come, it now vanished. “I know too much of you, and you know too little of me.”
“Then tell me, Sara,” he urged. “For the sake of what we once shared. Tell me where you have been, how you have come to be here, what makes you happy or content. Tell me whatever you please, and I swear I shall listen. You said yourself there’s no better time for miracles than Christmas.”
But she shook her head, drawing the hood of her cloak forward over her face and closing him out, as well. “Forgive me, but I must return now to Miss Fordyce. I would not have her wake and find me absent.”
“Sara, wait, please.”
“Good night, my lord,” she said as she turned away. “Good night.”
My lord. If she’d struck Revell with her fist, she couldn’t have made her feelings more clear, and he drew back as sharply as if she had. He watched her hurry away from him to the door, her black cloak swirling around her white skirts, and he did not follow.
What in blazes had he been thinking, anyway, presuming like that? Did he really believe that a handful of tattered old memories would be enough to overcome the reasons she’d had for leaving him in the first place, or his own doubts about reopening a part of his past that he’d thought permanently—and painfully—left behind? Fate might have brought them back into one another’s lives, but not even fate could undo whatever had happened in between.
For that, quite simply, would take another miracle.

Chapter Three
“Miss Blake?” Lady Fordyce paused, the pineapple raised in her hand. “Are you unwell, my dear?”
“No, my lady,” said Sara quickly, pulling her thoughts back to the small, sunny room that served Lady Fordyce as her personal headquarters, and where, with Sara’s help, she was busily marshaling her troops and resources like any other good general preparing for a major engagement. “The pineapples will be a most handsome addition to the sideboard.”
“I was speaking of ribbons, not pineapples,” said Lady Fordyce, frowning with concern. “Are you certain you are well? You are most distracted this morning.”
Sara flushed, likely the first color to come to her cheeks all day. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said hurriedly. “If I am distracted, it is only the usual happy confusion of the season.”
Skeptical, Lady Fordyce’s frown remained. “More likely it is Clarissa’s fault, fussing and worrying at you over what she’s to receive for Christmas.”
Sara only smiled wanly. If she looked only half as exhausted as she felt, then she was fortunate Lady Fordyce hadn’t sent her directly to bed and summoned the surgeon.
But how could Sara look otherwise, considering the miserable, sleepless night she’d spent after leaving Revell on the terrace? She’d truly believed she’d purged him forever from her thoughts and heart, yet the moment he’d smiled at her and begun talking of Calcutta, she’d once again felt that familiar warmth of joy and excitement begin to swirl through her body, the rare happiness that Revell alone had given her, and she’d realized how hopelessly weak—weak!—she still was.
In six long years she hadn’t learned one blessed thing, not where Revell Claremont was concerned. She might as well be done with it now: throw herself into his arms directly, and beg him to trample on her heart and abandon her again.
“I trust you would confide in me if something were truly wrong, my dear, wouldn’t you?” asked Lady Fordyce gently, settling the pineapple back into the basket on her desk so she could rest her hand on Sara’s shoulder. “You would tell me if there was a matter I could remedy?”
Oh, yes, thought Sara unhappily, of course she’d confide in Lady Fordyce. Governesses for young ladies were supposed to possess unblemished and virginal reputations. She’d never told the Fordyces that she’d spent most of her life in India, or that she’d been forced to leave in a rush of disgrace, let alone spoken of her unfortunate entanglement with Lord Revell Claremont. How could she, when any part of her sorry tale could cost her her place—a place she couldn’t afford to lose—even with a kindhearted mistress like Lady Fordyce?
“If there were any ills you could remedy, my lady,” she said with careful truth, “then I should always come to you.”
Lady Fordyce beamed, and gave Sara’s shoulder a fond little pat. “I am delighted to hear it. Ladysmith has always been a happy house, free of secrets and intrigue, and I would like to keep it so. Now, Christmas or not, surely it must be time to begin Clarissa’s lessons today?”
With a swift curtsy Sara hurried from the room, down the hall toward the library. She’d already decided that her lesson today would feature Hannibal’s ancient journey across the Alps, and she hoped to find a book with illustrations to pique Clarissa’s interest enough to make her forget the coming holiday, at least for a moment or two, and make her stop daydreaming of Rev Claremont.
With fresh determination she marched into the library. A small fire glowed in the hearth to take the chill from the room for any guests who might venture into it, but Sara was sure she’d have the collection to herself. She certainly wouldn’t see Albert Fordyce, or Sir David, either. The current generations of Fordyces were not readers and neither were the majority of their friends and houseguests, and often weeks would pass when no one beyond Sara entered this pleasantly crowded room with the tall bookcases and old-fashioned chairs. Carefully she now pulled a large book of Roman history from the shelf and opened it on the leather-topped table in the center of the room, flipping through the heavy pages filled with text to find the illustrations. At last she came to one she sought, the Carthaginian general Hannibal leading his elephant-borne troops across the Alps, and she leaned closer to study the details of the print.
“Miss Blake,” said Revell, his broad shoulders suddenly filling the doorway to the library. He cleared his throat, low, rumbling, and thoroughly self-consciously, as if he needed one more way to announce his arrival. “Good morning, Miss Blake. I did not expect to find you here.”
“Nor I you, my lord.” Startled though she was, she was resolved to be cool and reserved, a model governess with her hands clasped neatly at her waist. Besides, this time they were in the library, and there wasn’t a single moonbeam in sight to addle her wits or to give him unfair advantage.
Not that he needed any. To her dismay he was every bit as handsome here in the bright morning sun as he’d been by the enchanting moon.
“You shouldn’t be surprised at all to find me here,” he said, leaning one arm against the frame of the door. “Unless you, too, have chosen to believe whatever drivel you hear said, particlarly about me carousing until all hours of the night with most mythical stamina.”
“I’m hardly in the position to hear fashionable gossip, my lord,” said Sara, striving to sound aloof rather than merely prim. Being a governess and therefore largely invisible, she had, of course, overheard a great deal about the infamous Lord Revell, none of which she wished to repeat to him now. “The only rumors I’m likely to hear in the schoolroom regard new kittens in the stable, or what special pudding is planned for supper.”
“It’s nothing more than the usual nonsense.” He sighed mightily. “Because I lived so long abroad, I am deemed a restless wanderer and no longer quite English. Because I chose to learn the languages of the men with whom I conducted business, I have become somehow wicked and untrustworthy. Because I took care to defend myself against bandits and thugs, I have in turn become as dangerous as they. But then you know how suspicious Englishmen can be of anything that they do not immediately understand, don’t you?”
Tugging on the cuffs of his shirt, he smiled so wryly it was almost a wince, and to her amazement she realized that this lengthy explanation was really a sign that he was as nervous as she. He must be sure he was rambling, babbling on like this, and cursing himself in silent misery, but she found it…endearing.
“People will always see what they wish in others,” she said softly, knowing that sad truth from her own experience. “Especially if what they imagine is more exciting than the truth.”
“Exactly,” declared Revell. “Which is why Albert Fordyce fully expects me to go racing about the countryside on one of his skittish overbred nags, laying a breakneck siege to every squire’s equally skittish, red-faced daughter in the county simply for the sport of it.”
“You wouldn’t?” she asked, unable to keep from teasing him in the face of such indignation. “You disappoint me, my lord.”
“Well, yes, I disappoint everyone, don’t I?” he said as he finally came to stand beside her at the table. “Don’t you remember how it was your father’s library that drew me to your house in the first place?”
She did. Her father’s library had been her favorite place in their house and she had spent endless hours curled in a tall-backed wicker chair near the window to catch any breeze while she read and dreamed of the impossibly distant fairy-tale lands of France and England.
She’d been sitting in that same chair when she’d first seen Revell coming through the doorway with her father. She had not wanted to be interrupted, and had tried to hide, pressing herself more tightly into the chair’s curving back and holding her breath to sit perfectly still.
But Revell had spotted her anyway and sought her out, and as soon as he smiled, she’d forgotten instantly about hiding. She’d never seen a more handsome British gentleman in Calcutta, and she’d been as dazzled as every other female in Calcutta by that smile. But it wasn’t until later that afternoon, after they’d quarreled—so violently that her father had scolded her for being inhospitable—over the symbolism in Voltaire’s Candide, that she’d realized that she would love Revell Claremont, too. He had been as fascinated by her bookish wit as by her newly blossoming body, while she had found the handsome gentleman who was equally accomplished at kissing and listening irresistible.
But while the library might bring back bittersweet memories, hearing Revell mention her father only robbed Sara of her composure, forcing her once again to consider Hannibal to hide her confusion and uneasiness. Her poor father’s death had changed everything. If only the circumstances around it had been less clouded, then she wouldn’t have had to leave Calcutta so hastily, or change her name, or become a governess to keep herself from starving. But how much of this sad truth did Revell know, and how much would he forgive?
“Did you know I bought your father’s copy of Candide at the auction of his things?” Revell continued, running his fingers along the leather binding of the open book on the table before them. “The one you’d left in the garden, where the dew had dappled the cover? By the time of the auction, you were already gone, of course, but still I wanted something to remind me of the days we’d shared.”
“You came back to Calcutta in time for the sale?” she asked, stunned. “But you couldn’t have, not when they told me that you—”
“Here you are, Miss Blake!” exclaimed Clarissa, the holiday-red ribbons in her hair bobbing as she skipped into the library. “Mama said I should find you here, and I—oh, Lord Revell, why are you here, too?”
“And a fine good day to you, too, Miss Clarissa,” said Revell, deftly covering Sara’s confusion. “As you can see, I am helping Miss Blake prepare your lessons for today.”
Clarissa’s cheerfulness vanished, and she heaved a dutiful sigh that must have begun at the tips of her slippers; clearly she’d been hoping for an explanation with more interesting possibilities. “What sort of lesson, my lord?”
“We shall be continuing to speak of ancient generals, Clarissa,” said Sara quickly. “I’ve found a picture here in one of your father’s books to show you how Hannibal used elephants to cross the Alps to reach Rome.”
“Truly?” asked Clarissa with more interest as she crowded next to Sara to look at the open book. “I do like elephants, with their funny long noses.”
“It’s a pity the artist hadn’t the slightest notion of how an elephant should be ridden, however,” said Revell critically, also crowding next to Sara on her other side, and effectively trapping her between the little girl and himself.
Although he continued looking down at the illustration instead of her, he let his hand brush against hers, doing it as if by accident so she couldn’t shift away without making a scene. Carefully he pretended to trace the line of the elephant’s trunk with one finger, but Sara knew better. Even that slight touch was enough to send a shiver of sensation racing up her arm, a shiver she most decidedly did not wish to feel.
“This poor fellow here might as well be perched at the top of a sliding board, sitting on the elephant’s neck like that,” he continued, frowning a bit to prove the seriousness of his commentary. “He’d be tossed off, head over heels, and bouncing down the mountainside before he knew it.”
“He would?” asked Clarissa, her eyes round with horrified fascination. “All the way down to the bottom?”
“All the way,” said Revell solemnly. “In less time than it takes to tell. And oh, how that old elephant would laugh!”
“Artists often make such errors, my lord,” said Sara hurriedly. Heaven only knew what Revell would say next if she left him unchecked, and he wouldn’t be the one who’d have to deal with nightmares tonight. “Artists often must instead rely upon the reports of others because they cannot see everything they must portray. They can’t really be faulted if the results are sometimes questionable.”
“Questionable?” repeated Revell, his brows raised with exaggerated wonder. “I’d say the results were deuced peculiar, and so would you, Miss Blake, if you dared be honest. You know perfectly well what a proper elephant should look like.”
“I also know what a proper one smells like,” countered Sara warmly, “not that that is particularly relevant to this discussion.”
“Why not, Miss Blake?” asked Clarissa, leaning her cheek on her elbow. “If elephants don’t smell nice, then why would Hannibal wish to take them all the way to Rome?”
“Because they are very large and strong and have great endurance,” said Sara, eager to move on from the question of elephantine aroma. “They would be exceptionally useful to any army.”
“Your Miss Blake is quite the expert on elephants,” said Revell, beaming dangerously at Sara. “I doubt there’s another governess in Sussex—no, all of England!—that has so much experience with the creatures.”
“Miss Blake?” asked Clarissa, simultaneously enormously impressed yet uncertain as to whether she should believe Revell or not. “However would she have any experience with elephants?”
“Because I learn through reading,” said Sara quickly, before Revell could offer any additional helpful insight. Blast him for teasing her this way! Didn’t he realize the kind of trouble he was making for her? “One can learn everything about anything through books.”
But Clarissa was paying much closer attention to the elephants than to the wisdom to be gained through reading.
“We should put elephants in Mama’s greenery,” she said, grinning up at Revell. “Miss Blake and I have been charged with making the greenery in the ballroom more festive for Mama. It’s our special task. We were going to make camels for the three kings, but now I think they should have elephants instead.”
“Oh, Clarissa, I do not believe that is the wisest idea,” said Sara doubtfully. Lady Fordyce’s tastes were exceptionally traditional, and likely she would not be pleased to find elephants—even elephants cut from white pasteboard and daubed with colored inks—parading over her mantels and sideboards between the silver candlesticks, through boughs of holly and boxwood.
“Why not, Miss Blake?” asked Revell blithely. “There are plenty of elephants in the Bible, aren’t there? Begin with them, then some tigers.”
“Tigers!” exclaimed Clarissa with a small roar of relish. “Tigers for Christmas!”
Revell nodded, his eyes glinting with wicked mischief that would have shocked Albert and the others. “What better time of the year, eh? And what of a mongoose or two? Miss Blake knows of them, too, you know.”
“You must come help us, Lord Revell,” ordered Clarissa. “This afternoon, in the schoolroom. You can help Miss Blake and me cut out the animals and paint them, and then tomorrow we can arrange them in the ballroom.”
“I’m sure Lord Revell has other plans, Clarissa,” said Sara, silently praying that he did. “Doubtless he’d rather spend his afternoon in the company of the other gentlemen like your brother, not in the schoolroom with us.”
“Not at all,” said Revell, holding his hand over his heart so gallantly that Clarissa giggled. “I cannot think of a greater pleasure than spending the afternoon in the company of two such delightful ladies.”
“Please, my lord,” said Sara, almost pleading. “It is not necessary.”
“And I say it is my decision if I choose to splatter myself with glue and paint for the sake of the elephants and tigers and mongooses, too.” His grin softened as their gazes met over Clarissa’s head. “Besides, isn’t Christmas the time for miracles and magic of every sort?”

Chapter Four
Revell stood before his bedchamber window, watching the two figures make their way in a zigzagging path across the snowy field toward the house. Against the stark black and white of the wintry landscape, the pair stood out in sharp contrast: the little girl in her bright red cardinal and blue mittens, the woman in a cloak of darkest green. But then, for Revell, the two would be the first he’d spot even in the most crowded street in London.
“That be Miss Fordyce and her governess, my lord,” said the maidservant, following his gaze as she set the tray on the table beside him. The woman was past middle age, a servant who’d likely been with the Fordyces for so long that she felt entitled to certain conversational freedoms like this. “No matter what the weather, them two always go walking at this time of the day, regular as clockwork after first lessons.”
Revell, of course, had discovered this for himself, having already visited the schoolroom as promised to help with the tigers and elephants. The schoolroom had been empty except for a mystified parlor maid who’d informed him of Miss Clarissa’s customary walk. He’d have to control his impatience for another half hour or so until they returned, and without much interest he glanced at the plates of sliced cold meat, breads, and cheese on the tray that the cook had sent up to him out of a certain pity.
He knew he was already being regarded as something of an oddity. The other houseguests had scattered for the day, the gentlemen out riding and visiting the local tavern with Albert and Sir David as their leaders, and the ladies, under Lady Fordyce’s guidance, putting the final touches on their masquerade costumes at the local milliners and mantua-makers. His polite refusal to join either party had raised eyebrows, and he could only imagine what manner of wicked pastimes the others had imagined for him instead. How wonderfully shocked they’d be when they, inevitably, learned the truth!
“Aye, my lord, that Miss Blake has worked magic with the little miss,” continued the maidservant with approval, taking Revell’s silence as encouragement. “Like a little wild creature, she was, before Miss Blake came. ’Course ’tis to be expected, being so petted and all, but Miss Blake was the only one to give her manners to match her breeding.”
“How long has Miss Blake been with the family?” asked Revell, striving to sound only idly interested. He knew it wasn’t wise to encourage such confidential discussions with servants, but he’d learned next to nothing from Albert, and God help him, he’d so blasted much at stake.
“Five years this spring, my lord,” answered the maid-servant promptly, her hands folded over the front of her apron. “Before that she was with Lady Gordon, whose husband made such a fortune in India. A regular nabob, he was. Oh, begging your pardon, my lord, meaning no disrespect to yourself.”
“None taken,” said Revell, his thoughts racing. He remembered Lady Gordon—Lady Gorgon, they’d called her, on account of her imperious manner—from Calcutta’s small English social world before her husband had retired from the Company and returned home. But how would Sara have become a servant in Lady Gordon’s household, and why in blazes would she have left India—and him—so suddenly to do so? “Though I suppose they must have become acquainted in India together.”
“Miss Blake in India, my lord?” asked the servant, scandalized. “She’s a proper English lass, is our Miss Blake, not one of those wild, brown-skinned hussies from the colonies! Begging pardon again, my lord, but ’tis different for gentlemen. You know how it be, my lord. Lady Fordyce would never have taken Miss Blake if she’d lived wild among the pagan savages like that.”
“I understand,” said Revell, and he did, far more than the servant could realize. He’d forgotten the prejudice against women who’d gone out to India, let alone the ones like Sara who’d been born there. She hadn’t even had the advantage of being sent home to England for education as a girl, the way most British children were, simply because her widowed father hadn’t been able to bear parting with her. When he’d teased Sara about tigers and elephants before Clarissa, he’d only meant to remind her of the past they’d shared. Instead, great bumbling ass that he was, he’d put her entire livelihood and reputation at risk.
“If that will be all, my lord,” the maidservant was saying as she dropped a quick curtsy, the edges of her apron clutched in her hands.
“Yes, yes, and thank you,” said Revell, then shook his head as he thought of the final question. “About Miss Blake. She’s never been wed, has she?”
The servant grinned widely. “Nay, my lord, nor could she have taken a husband and still be Miss Blake, could she? Neither husband, nor followers, not since she’s been with the Fordyces. I tell you, my lord, she’s a good, quiet lass, and a credit to this house.”
“That is all, then,” he said softly, and turned back to the window. Sara and Clarissa must be inside now, for the haphazard trail of their footprints through the snow led to the kitchen door in the yard below. Soon he could venture back to the schoolroom, and be sure to find them there.
And then what? He’d learned more of Sara’s past from the maidservant, true, but he’d also realized he didn’t want to ask any more such questions. It had been one thing to make inquiries when he’d no notion of where she was, but quite another when fate had so conveniently placed her once again beneath the same roof. Now he should be asking her himself, directly and without guile; anything else seemed distastefully like spying, and Sara—Sara deserved better than that from him, no matter what happened next.
Still gazing out at the flurried footprints in the snow, he lightly touched the waistcoat pocket that held the sapphire ring. She could talk all she wished about Christmas miracles, but surely finding her again like this, across six years and three continents, was as truly miraculous as anything he could ever have dreamed.
Perhaps this is why he’d been drawn so inexplicably to Ladysmith. Perhaps some subtle tug of fate had made him trade London and a liquor-sodden bachelor Christmas with Brant for another chance with Sara. Living in India had loosened his distinctly English faith in a world based on logic and reason, and made him trust more to the mysteries of fate.
But not even that could explain why Sara had abandoned him the first time, or why he seemed so damned eager to let her do it again. He thought he’d sensed the old magic between them again, but for her part, she hadn’t exactly been overjoyed to see him. Pleased, yes, but not overjoyed, and not at all eager to trade her life as a governess for one with him—a sobering, if not downright depressing, thought. Yet he couldn’t deny that when he was with her, he felt happier, younger, more content and yet more excited, too, more at peace with himself and the world.
He might even still feel in love.
He gave the box with the ring one last rueful pat. All he could do was ask Sara for the truth, and let the rest fall where it would.
And believe with all his heart in miracles.
Never had Sara doubted that Revell Claremont was an extraordinarily accomplished gentleman. He rode well—both horses and elephants—shot well, and was as skilled with the short, curved blade of a Gurkha’s kookree as he was with an English cutlass. Unlike most sons of dukes, he had survived on his own since he was fourteen, and made his first fortune before he’d turned twenty-one. He was as well read as any university man, spoke five languages with ease and grace and swore in several more, and while he could demonstrate all the politesse of a career diplomat, he could also be a ruthless negotiator and trader, as able to conduct business in a rough tent with Bengali brigands as he was with the equally cut-throat factors of the East India Company.
But as Sara soon saw, he was hopeless—absolutely, abjectly hopeless—with a pair of scissors, a pot of paste, and a pile of colored paper squares.
“Not like that, my lord,” said Clarissa, scowling down at the tiger’s head, newly attached at a peculiar angle to his body and oozing a fatal blob of paste from his throat, or what should have been his throat if his head had been placed more accurately. “You’ve put it on all wrong.”
“I have?” Revell stared balefully at the tiger, heedless of another paste blob smeared across the sleeve of his superfine coat. He had insisted on sitting beside Clarissa at the child’s table, his oversize frame hunched forward and his legs bent awkwardly to fit the short chair. “I thought he had rather a rakish air about him.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Clarissa crossly. “It’s just wrong.”
Considering the discussion complete, she reached across Revell and pushed the offending head into a more anatomically pleasing position, using her small thumb to wipe away the extra paste.
“There,” she said, propping the tiger to stand upright. “Now he’ll do. Mama is most particular, my lord. She doesn’t want her ballroom cluttered up with any old rubbish, and she’ll tell you so, too.”
“I doubt she would tell Lord Revell quite as rudely as you have, Clarissa,” said Sara. She didn’t dare look at Revell, sitting there with his knees beneath his chin and the most wounded look imaginable on his face, or risk giggling out loud. “He has been most kind to offer his help, you know.”
“Well, he hasn’t helped at all,” declared Clarissa, hands on her hips and without a morsel of gratitude. “First he cut the ear off that lovely elephant you’d drawn, then he didn’t wash the red paint from the brush before he put it into the blue and made it all nasty and purple, and then he tried to ruin this tiger, too, by putting the head on so crooked.”
“Clarissa,” warned Sara. “I believe Lord Revell deserves an apology from you for that.”
Revell sighed. “No, I don’t,” he said humbly. “I did muddy the paints, exactly as Clarissa said.”
“That’s not the point, my lord.” As sternly as she could, Sara frowned at Clarissa. “Clarissa, an apology.”
“Very well.” Now Clarissa was the one to sigh, flopping her hands at her sides to duck the slightest possible curtsy. “Forgive me for speaking so rudely to you, my lord. You didn’t mean to be clumsy and bumbling. You just were.”
“I know,” admitted Revell as he tried to scrape the paste from his sleeve. “It’s quite a problem with me, isn’t it? But perhaps Miss Blake can help me. Surely there must be some task you’ll trust me with, Miss Blake? Something that not even I could ruin?”
Though Revell’s expression remained serious and properly penitent for Clarissa’s sake, his eyes sparkled with such amusement that Sara realized he, too, was dangerously close to laughing. The blobs of paste and ruined paint were like another secret they shared, another connection—albeit an untidy one—and she felt such a warmth of fresh affection swirling between them that she couldn’t keep from smiling.
If they had wed as they’d planned, they could be husband and wife in a house of their own, instead of guest and governess in this one. They could be laughing with their children, making plans for their Christmas together, sharing the paint and paste and mangled elephants, trust and love and happiness.
Oh, Sara, Sara, take care! A smile is not a promise for the future, nor an explanation for the past, and not once since he found you has he mentioned love….
“He could make the paper chains to hang over the looking glasses, Miss Blake, couldn’t he?” suggested Clarissa. “Even babies can make those. Here, my lord, it’s quite simple. You cut the strips of paper and loop them together like this.”
She demonstrated importantly, showing Revell exactly how to make the chain’s paper links tie into one another, as if she were a conjurer revealing a complex trick. “You do have to use the paste again, my lord, but it goes inside, where no one will see if you use too much.”
“As you wish, memsahib,” said Revell, dutifully bending over the strips of colored paper with more success than he’d shown with the animals; as Clarissa had noted, even a baby could make paper chains.
But Clarissa’s attention had already bounded forward. “What did you call me?” she asked. “Mem what?”
“Memsahib,” he said, concentrating on making the paste stick. “That’s what fine ladies are called in India, as a form of respect. Your mother would be memsahib, while your father would simply be sahib.”
“Memsahib,” repeated Clarissa, relishing the sound and feel of the foreign word. “Do you know other Indian words?”
“Oh, an entire wagon full,” said Revell expansively. “Instead of a gown, you would wear a sari. Your mother’s grand ball would be called a burra khana, and Miss Blake here would be your ayah.”
Sara laughed, wrinkling her nose. “I do not know if I wish to be anyone’s ayah. All the ayahs I ever had were cross-tempered old women who’d pinch my arm to make me obey.”
“Did you truly know ayahs, Miss Blake?” asked Clarissa curiously. “Or is it like the elephants, and you only mean from books?”
“From books, I am sure,” said Revell quickly, rescuing Sara from her misstep. “I’m the one who’s more at home in Calcutta than London.”
“Which is how you’ve come to know so many peculiar foreign words, I expect,” said Clarissa, leaning closer to admire his handiwork. “Why, my lord, that is almost a proper chain after all. Here, let me put it with the others.”
Gingerly she gathered up Revell’s chain and carried it across the room to add it to the other decorations they’d made, pausing to admire the animals once again.
“We need to talk, Sara,” said Revell, his voice low and urgent as he touched her arm. “When can we meet alone?”
Startled, she blushed, and pulled her arm away. “We shouldn’t, Revell,” she whispered. “That night on the terrace—wasn’t that enough?”
“Not by half, it wasn’t,” he said. “Tonight, after Clarissa is in bed. Ten o’clock, say, by the same door to the terrace.”
“Please, Rev, I do not—”
“I’ll not take no, Sara,” he said firmly. “Tonight, on the same terrace. Don’t fail me, lass.”
But before she could answer the door to the schoolroom opened and in swept Lady Fordyce.
“Look, Clary, look what I’ve brought you from town!” she called gaily, holding up an elaborate mask decorated with gold beads and red plumes. “It shall be the perfect accompaniment to your costume for—oh, my, Lord Revell! You surprise me, my lord!”
She might have been surprised, but Sara was beyond that, to out-and-out speechless horror. To have Lady Fordyce discover her like this, in Clarissa’s schoolroom, with Revell standing so guiltily close to her that there could be no respectable explanation possible.
Not that Revell wouldn’t venture one. “I didn’t intend to surprise you, Lady Fordyce,” he said, remaining beside Sara as if there were nothing at all remarkable about such proximity. “I was simply helping your daughter with the elephants.”
Lady Fordyce’s face went cautiously blank. “Elephants?”
“Yes, Mama, look!” Gleefully Clarissa held a paper elephant in one hand and a tiger in the other. “For the ballroom! Miss Blake and I made the animals, while Lord Revell made chains!”
“Even babies can make chains,” explained Revell modestly, stepping to the table to drape one of his chains from one hand across to the other. “And so, therefore, can I.”
“But elephants and tigers, Miss Blake?” asked Lady Fordyce, disapproval frosting her voice. “For my masquerade ball?”
Sara nodded, resolutely determined to put the best face on what now seemed a disastrous decision. “Yes, my lady. The elephants were inspired by our lessons on ancient Rome.”
“But your lessons are one thing,” said Lady Fordyce, her expression growing darker still, “and my Christmas masquerade is quite, quite another.”
“Ah, but there will be no more appropriate creatures imaginable,” assured Revell as he idly swung the chain back and forth. “You’ve only to see how the Prince of Wales himself is covering his walls with peacocks and tigers everywhere, and my own brother is having the dining room of Claremont House painted all over with frolicking monkeys.”
“Your brother the duke?” asked Lady Fordyce, reconsidering the elephant in her daughter’s hand. “His Grace would approve? And the Prince, too?”
“I should not be surprised if you set a new fashion, and all on account of your daughter’s lessons,” said Revell, his smile shifting toward Sara, as if to thank Clarissa’s governess for such a splendid notion.
But at the same time his gaze seemed to warm as he found Sara’s, giving his words another meaning that only she would understand, and that would remind her once again of the meeting he sought with her later.
“You know, Lady Fordyce,” he continued, determinedly not looking away and not letting Sara do so, either, “that in England today there is nothing more choice, more desired, than that which comes from India, and never more so than this Christmas.”

Chapter Five
By the single candlestick in her chamber upstairs from the nursery, Sara took one final look at her reflection in the small looking glass over the washstand. Did her eyes truly seem brighter, happier, her mouth more ready to curve into a smile? Or was it no more than the most wishful hopes and the wavering candlelight that had made the difference, and not Revell?
Lightly she touched the crooked head of the paper tiger that she’d hidden in her pocket, now tucked into the frame of her looking glass, and as she ran her finger along the hardened paste on the tiger’s neck, she smiled, thinking of how gamely Revell had struggled at the low schoolroom table. Tomorrow, when they began decorating the ballroom in earnest, she’d sworn to herself that she’d return the tiger to the other ornaments. Deciding what to do next about Revell wouldn’t be nearly as easy.
From the hall below she heard the ten echoes of the case clock chiming the hour, and swiftly patted her hair one last time. She’d dallied long enough; now that she’d made up her mind to meet Revell—though only for the briefest few minutes imaginable!—she didn’t want to keep him waiting.
She hurried down the back stairs, keeping her footsteps as soft as possible so that no one else would know she wasn’t asleep. Not that anyone was likely to notice. With the house so full of guests, most servants were still busy helping in the kitchen or with serving, and from the voices and merry laughter in the drawing room, the Fordyces and their friends weren’t likely to retire to their bedchambers until midnight at the earliest. She paused to press herself against the wall to allow two footmen to bustle past with covered trays.
Around this corner, she thought as she fastened the front of her cloak, then down the last hall to the terrace doors, and to Revell. As hard as it would be, she meant to tell him the truth, as quickly and with as few words as possible, and then she would—
“Miss Blake!” called Lady Fordyce breathlessly behind her. “Oh, Miss Blake! How vastly fortuitous that you are still awake!”
Reluctantly, Sara stopped, her anticipation crumbling. As much as she wished to run ahead, to pretend she hadn’t heard her mistress, her conscience wouldn’t let her.
“I couldn’t sleep, my lady,” she said, her explanation mechanical with disappointment as Lady Fordyce joined her. “I was only going outside for a brief walk.”
“Then how glad I am to have found you first,” declared the older woman, her round face flushed and glistening with a hostess’s duress as well as the wine from dinner. She took Sara firmly by the arm to steer her back toward the drawing room, clearly unwilling to let Sara even consider escape.
“Miss Talbot wishes to sing,” she continued, “and none of the other ladies seem to be able to cope with the stiffness of our sorry old pianoforte’s keys. But now we have you, Miss Blake, a born accompanist if ever there was one! You must play for Miss Talbot. Come, come, come, you cannot wish to keep such a splendid company waiting a moment longer!”
Miserably Sara thought of Revell, of keeping him waiting far more than a moment, of dreams of her own that had waited for six years and more. But that was nothing tangible, nothing definite, and nothing that could be explained to Lady Fordyce without risking her position and her livelihood. And so, with her head bent in dutiful unhappiness, Sara went to her fate, and the pianoforte.
She hadn’t come.
For over an hour Revell had waited for her on the terrace, letting the cold wind flail away at his body through his coat as well as the hopes he’d held somewhere near his heart. He’d come early, not wanting to miss her, and he’d stayed late, in the ever-dwindling possibility she’d been delayed. He’d stayed until he’d lost the feeling in his hands from the cold and his face had settled in an icy grimace, and he’d given up only when he could invent no more excuses on her absent behalf.
She hadn’t come because, quite simply, she hadn’t cared.
Now he sat at the breakfast table, listlessly prodding at his toasted rolls and shirred eggs while the purposelessly cheerful conversation rolled around him. He wondered what he’d do to pass this day, and all the ones that would follow. He reminded himself that Sara hadn’t promised to meet him, or anything else, for that matter. He tried to compose a suitable greeting for her when they met again, one that somehow wouldn’t put his disappointment and bitterness on public display. He considered inventing some sort of family emergency and leaving this afternoon, and never looking back. He endeavored not to imagine how his older brother would jeer and call him the greatest, most sentimental fool in Christendom, and how, this time, Brant would be right.
“Like the rarest, sweetest nightingale!” the man next to him was gushing. “Ah, Miss Talbot, how we were blessed to have such a songbird in our midst last night!”
Miss Talbot, the plump and amorous blonde who, to Revell’s dismay, persisted in trying to catch his attention, now giggled, balancing a teaspoon delicately between her fingers.
“You are too, too kind, Mr. Andrews,” she simpered. “I do my best, I do, even when you gentlemen do make me go on and on!”
“‘On and on,’ my word,” said Mr. Andrews, chuckling as if this were the greatest witticism in the world. “I could have listened to your sweet voice all the night long!”
He leaned into Revell, suddenly confidential. “Such a gem of a voice you missed last night, Lord Revell, oh, what you missed!”
“Indeed,” said Revell, as dry and discouraging as he could be, but the other man plowed onward undaunted.
“Indeed, yes, my lord,” he maintained, slyly winking at Miss Talbot and her décolletage. “Why, I hate to consider the pleasure we would have missed if Lady Fordyce hadn’t drummed her daughter’s governess into playing the pianoforte so Miss Talbot could have her music—”
“She made her governess play for Miss Talbot?” asked Revell, incredulous. “Last night, in the drawing room?”
“Oh, my, yes, my lord,” answered Miss Talbot, practically purring to have finally gained Lord Revell’s attention. “I must have sung for simply hours. The kind gentlemen wouldn’t let me stop, my lord.”
“And Miss Blake—the governess—played for you the entire time?”
“Yes, my lord.” Miss Talbot smiled winningly. “It was Lady Fordyce’s wish and order that she accommodate me. And though I am more accustomed to the touch of a true lady’s hand upon the keys, for one evening that sour little wren’s skills were adequate enough for—”
“Forgive me, Miss Talbot, but I must, ah, leave, leave directly.” Revell rose so fast he nearly toppled his chair backward, and as he bolted from the room to amazed gasps and outraged murmurs, he didn’t bother to look back, leaving Andrews to console the indignantly abandoned Miss Talbot.
At this hour of the morning Sara and Clarissa must be on their morning walk—”regular as clockwork,” the maid had said—and if he hurried, he might meet them before they returned home. Having Clarissa there wouldn’t let him speak as freely as he would have done last night, but it would still be far better than if he had to seek her out inside the crowded house. He raced to his room for his coat and gloves, past more startled servants and guests with his coattails flying about behind him, before he reached the back door and opened it himself, not waiting for the footman who belatedly hurried to do it for him.
A light dusting of new snow had fallen in the night, softening and smoothing the outlines of the landscape, but also making any new footprints sharp and clean by contrast. Revell crossed the yard near the stables, heading in the direction where he’d seen Sara and Clarissa yesterday. A wide trampled path of muddied snow showed where Albert had ridden out with his friends earlier, but there, off to one side, Revell found what he’d sought: two sets of prints walking closely together, one small, one smaller, and both framed by the sweeping trail of long petticoats.
He found them in a small copse of ancient holly, the leaves glossy and dark green against the snow, the berries crimson. In the snow sat a large willow basket that Sara and Clarissa were filling with branches Sara was cutting from the holly to take back to the ballroom. The little girl laughed with excitement, clapping her red-mittened hands as she kicked her feet in an impromptu dance in the snow.
Yet as pretty a scene as this was, Revell still hesitated to interrupt. While Sara’s role as an impromptu accompanist was certainly a plausible explanation for why she hadn’t joined him, she could just as easily have chosen to play over meeting him. Nothing was certain, but then nothing concerning Sara was.
Except, of course, that he wished it to be.
Sara turned, tossing another branch into the basket, and now that Revell could hear the song she was humming, without thinking he began singing along with her, the words coming back to him from at least a lifetime away.
“‘Green grow’th the holly,
So doth the ivy,
Though winter blast’s blow ne’er so high
Blow ever so icy,
Green grow’th the holly.”’
She looked up swiftly, found him on the edge of the copse, and her face lit with the most radiant smile imaginable, free of any shadow of uncertainty or second thoughts.
“Lord Revell!” cried Clarissa gleefully, loping through the snow toward him. “You did come! Miss Blake said you wouldn’t bother with us, not anymore, but you did!”
“Miss Blake is a wise woman, Clarissa,” said Revell with mock severity, his gaze never leaving Sara’s face. Strange how he was still speaking to the child—even making perfect sense, too—while so much else unsaid was vibrating between him and Sara. “But not even your Miss Blake knows everything, especially not about me.”
But if she’d only give him half a chance, a quarter of a chance, he’d offer her every last morsel of fact that there was to learn, plus his heart and his soul and the world in the bargain.
“Sing your song again, my lord,” begged Clarissa, hopping up and down with anticipation. “It’s exactly right for picking holly.”
“It’s not his song at all, Clarissa,” said Sara, rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them. Her cheeks were very pink, her eyes very bright, and the exertion of the bough-cutting along with her hood had tousled her hair into wispy tendrils around her face, most disordered for a governess and, decided Revell, altogether charming. “It’s a very famous song written long ago by King Henry the Eighth.”
“Then he must be a relative of yours, my lord,” said Clarissa sagely. “Miss Blake says dukes are next to princes and kings, which makes you almost family with King Henry himself.”
Revell laughed, both at the ridiculousness of the connection and because, in his present giddy—giddy?—state, he couldn’t help it.
“Not precisely, no,” he said. “My family’s muddled enough without claiming old King Hal and all his mischief into the tawdry mix. There’s only myself and two brothers left among us Claremonts, and I can assure you that that is plenty.”
“Then you are an orphan, too, just like Miss Blake,” said Clarissa with appropriate solemnity. “We are her family now, you know, especially at Christmas. Mama says she has nowhere else to go.”
“Oh, my, Clarissa,” said Sara, her smile perhaps more poignant than she intended, her unabashed joy clearly faltering. “You would have me be a stray dog that no one wishes to claim!”
“I did not say you were a stray dog, Miss Blake,” said Clarissa indignantly, “only that you had nowhere else to go, and you don’t, and neither does Lord Revell. I suppose we can look after him, too, same as we do you. Mama always says kindness must begin at home. Here now, my lord, bend down.”
Mystified but obedient, Revell bowed his tall shoulders to Clarissa’s level. He didn’t really consider himself an orphan, not at his age and with his less than warm memories of his long-dead parents, and he hardly felt in need of befriending because of their absence. But then hadn’t he accepted Albert Fordyce’s invitation for exactly that reason—to experience the kind of loud, cheerful, traditional family Christmas that he and his brothers had never really had for themselves? Wasn’t he every bit the footloose mongrel dog that Sara had just described, always roaming, without a home to call his own?
“There, my lord,” said Clarissa, scowling with concentration as she stuck a small sprig of holly into the top buttonhole of his coat. “Now you truly belong with us all at Ladysmith, at least until Twelfth Night.”
Slowly he straightened, patting the holly sprig as he wondered where his lighthearted smile had gone, and with it Sara’s rosy-cheeked exuberance. Now she looked as if a score of private sorrows had pinched and drained the color from her face, memories that he didn’t share and perhaps never would.
More unexpected strangeness, this, that the little girl’s attempts at aping her mother’s grand lady-of-the-manor kindness could touch him—and Sara—so deeply. Perhaps they were both the stray dogs no one would claim, and though he tried to laugh again at the sheer lunacy of such a notion, he couldn’t. Miracles and elephants, stray dogs and plum pudding and holly for Christmas: who could sort out the significance in so much foolishness?
“Mama says to be truly happy, my lord,” continued Clarissa, “you must have someone to care for, and someone to care for you. Isn’t that so, Miss Blake?”
But for once Sara left a question of her student’s unanswered. “Clarissa, I believe I must have left my scarf back at the walnut tree. Would you please oblige me by going to fetch it?”
“Yes, Miss Blake,” said Clarissa, nodding with gleeful anticipation. She was so seldom permitted to go anywhere unattended, even twenty feet to the walnut tree, that she was off before Sara could change her mind, crashing through the brush and snow.
But Sara was crashing ahead, too, her words racing in a breathless rush, knowing she wouldn’t have long to explain. “About last night, Rev, about—”
“I don’t care,” he said, coming to stand close before her, gently pushing back her hood.
She was trembling with anticipation. “But, Rev, I want you to know that—”
“That’s enough,” he said softly, and then he was kissing her, his lips warm on hers in the chilly air, his fingers tangling in her hair as he cradled her head. She should have pulled away, she should have protested, but instead she closed her eyes and surrendered with only a faint, fluttering sigh that was lost between them.
She tipped her head and hungrily parted her lips, welcoming him deeper as the rush of well-remembered pleasure and intimacy slipped through her body. Her head and her reason might have tried to forget him, but the rest of her had clung to his memory with fervent loyalty, making the years they’d been apart slip away as nothing. One kiss, and she realized how much a part of her Revell still was, and always would be.
“Ah, Sara,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire as at last he broke the kiss, keeping her face close to his. “How can you know how much I have missed kissing you?”
She smiled through a blur of tears, her emotions almost too strong for lowly words. She felt shaken and uncertain, as if she’d been turned inside out and back again, without any notion of what would come next. Yet even so she still heard Clarissa’s return behind her, and just in time she pulled away from Revell.
Her cloak blown back from running, the girl rubbed her nose with the thumb of her mitten and gazed up at Sara accusingly. “Your scarf wasn’t there, Miss Blake.”
“It wasn’t?” asked Sara, her heart racing as she self-consciously tried to smooth her hair back into place. Even without turning she could sense Revell beside her, and it took all her willpower not to reach for his hand.
How could one kiss cause so much damage? She’d done well enough for years without Revell at her side. What was it about him that could turn her into such a dreadful, quivering mess, especially when he’d only promised to linger in her life through Twelfth Night? Didn’t he realize how disastrous this game could be to her, or did he simply not care? They had to talk: they had to talk now, certainly before he tried to kiss her again.
And heaven preserve her if she were still even halfway in love with him….
“It wasn’t.” Clarissa sighed and pointed dramatically at the basket with the ivy clippings and the missing scarf looped over the handle. “Your scarf wasn’t near the walnut tree, Miss Blake, because it was here all the while, and if—Miss Blake? Are you ill, Miss Blake?”
“Of course I am well, Clarissa,” said Sara quickly, convincing neither the girl nor herself. “Have you ever known me to be ill in all the time I’ve been with you?”
“You don’t look right,” said Clarissa warily. “I think we should go home directly.”
“Agreed,” said Revell, though to Sara his voice didn’t sound any more steady than hers. “I told you, Clarissa, that while Miss Blake is vastly clever in most matters, there are times when she is absolutely as mortal as the rest of us. Which is why she needs us to look after her now, exactly as she takes such excellent care of you.”
“My mama says so, too.” Clarissa nodded, reassured enough to assume, for this once, the role of caretaker, and solicitously took Sara’s hand. “Come, Miss Blake. We’ve been out of doors long enough.”
“That is most kind of you, Clarissa, but I’m perfectly well,” insisted Sara. “Rev—my lord, please tell her!”
“Not when the lass is correct,” said Revell, slinging the basket with the holly over one arm, then offering the other to her. His smile was warm, teasing, yet seductive, too, all attributes she’d no right receiving with a smile from him. “You look peaked, Miss Blake, and we cannot take too much care with you.”
Pointedly, Sara ignored his arm. “I am not peaked.”
“Yes, you are,” said Clarissa, turning to Revell with a confidential whisper. “You are most right, my lord, and most kind. It’s as Mama says. We cannot take too much care. And I don’t care what the others say about you, my lord. You are not the wickedest man in India, not when you are being so nice to Miss Blake like this.”
He tucked Sara’s hand into the crook of his arm, giving it an extra pat, and woefully Sara knew that even if he were not the wickedest man in India, then surely she must be the weakest woman in Sussex.

Chapter Six
“So there you are, Miss Blake.” The cook looked past her two maids, their hands white with flour from pie-making, as Sara shepherded Clarissa through the kitchen door. “Lady Fordyce’s been asking for you all through the house, Miss. Oh, My Lord Revell, forgive me, I didn’t see you a-coming there too!”
“He’s very hard to overlook, Mrs. Green,” said Clarissa, stretching to reach the plate of sliced plum cake destined to accompany some lady guest’s tea. “He’s even bigger than Albert, you know.”
“Your flatter me, Clarissa,” said Revell easily, setting the basket of holly on the table as if he were a footman instead of a lord, and making the two young kitchen maids wide-eyed with amazement and admiration, too. “I think so, anyway. Doesn’t she, Miss Blake?”
But Sara was already unfastening her cloak, hurrying to make herself presentable for Lady Fordyce. It must be the tigers and elephants being inappropriate for Christmas: she’d already been half expecting to be called to task by her ladyship for that.
“Mrs. Green,” she said briskly, stripping off her gloves, “will you please see that one of your girls takes Clarissa upstairs to the nursery to change her wet things?”
“Lord Revell can take me,” suggested Clarissa promptly. “I can show him the way to the—”
“You must not presume on Lord Revell’s good nature, Clarissa,” said Sara, trying to ignore the waves of curiosity rising from the cook and her maids, and no wonder, either, not with Clarissa treating Revell with all the familiarity of a favorite uncle. “Go along now, upstairs with Bess.”
“And what orders for me, Miss Blake?” asked Revell with an easy, fond familiarity that made Sara blush all over again. His smile was warm and winning, his blue eyes so full of affection that she felt it as surely as if he’d kissed her again. Lightly he patted the sprig of holly in his buttonhole, reminding her of far too many things. “Where do you wish me to go?”
If he’d acted like Clarissa’s uncle, then Sara didn’t want to venture what he must seem to her in the eager eyes of the kitchen staff. No one would believe they’d only just met, and no one—no one—would believe their relationship held all the propriety of the humble governess with a noble-bred guest of the house.
“You shall do whatever you please, my lord,” she said, daring him, just remembering to curtsy to him before she left the kitchen. “That is both your prerogative, my lord, and your habit, is it not?”
Oh, that was wrong, wrong, wrong of her to say! If only they’d have ten minutes alone together—ten minutes without kissing—then this would all be sorted out between them! Furious with herself and with him, she bunched her skirts in her fist and marched up the stairs to Lady Fordyce’s rooms.
“Ah, Miss Blake, here at last,” said Lady Fordyce. She motioned to her lady’s maid, waiting with two pairs of slippers in her hands. “The red ones, Hannah, and mind you check that the stitching on the beading is still tight. I shouldn’t want them flying off while I danced. Now, Miss Blake, to your affairs.”
Sara squared her shoulders. “If you mean to speak to me further of the elephants and tigers that Clarissa is making for the ballroom, my lady, then—”
“But I don’t.” Lady Fordyce smiled brightly. “They are the height of fashion. All the ladies I have asked have said exactly that, and agreed with Lord Revell. You are to be congratulated for your originality and resourcefulness.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Sara faintly, wishing she found this more reassuring than she did.
“Most original, yes,” said her ladyship, as pleased with herself as she was with Sara. “Which is why I have decided that you shall attend the masquerade with Clarissa, in costume like everyone else. As a treat, you see.”
“My lady!” exclaimed Sara with more dismay than gratitude. Her days for such frivolous entertainments were long past, left behind in Calcutta along with her bright clothes and jewels and plumes in her hair. “My lady, you are most kind, but—but I have no proper costume of my own, and with the ball being only two days away—”
“Ah, but I have thought of that, too.” Lady Fordyce clapped her hands together with triumph. “Off in our lumber room are trunks and trunks of old gowns and petticoats and headdresses and goodness only knows what else. Take Clary with you, and rummage about as you please. I’m sure you’ll find exactly what you need to assemble the perfect costume.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Sara faintly, taking the plain black mask that her ladyship handed her. “You are too kind.”
“Not at all, my dear.” But her ladyship’s habitually cheerful demeanor faded, and restlessly she tapped her fingers together. “That, you see, was the more agreeable message for me to deliver. The other is…is more vexing.”
She twisted her mouth to one side, searching for the right words in a way that only made Sara more uneasy.
“You know, Miss Blake, that I have always tried to run this household in a fair and agreeable manner, for the good of everyone beneath this roof,” she finally began, “and I am perfectly aware that a rogue is a rogue, no matter what his station. But whereas I can dismiss the footman for taking freedoms with the dairymaid, it is an entirely different when a gentleman, a peer, a guest at Ladysmith, is involved.”
Sara felt her cheeks growing warm and her palms turn damp as she realized exactly where her ladyship’s conversation was heading.
“Oh, my lady, please don’t—”
“No, no, this is my responsibility, not yours,” said Lady Fordyce firmly. “You should not be put in the position of having to defend yourself against the unwanted attentions of Lord Revell. No, don’t deny that it has happened. The entire house whispers of nothing else.”
Sara gasped, mortified. Why couldn’t this have stayed between her and Revell alone, without involving everyone else at Ladysmith? Why had she once again become the miserable target of talk and gossip? How long before someone learned her real name, and the shameful truth behind her father’s death?
And oh, what would Revell say in return?
“You will not—not address Lord Revell about me, will you, Lady Fordyce?” she begged.
“I would never do such a thing, Miss Blake.” Her ladyship pressed her lips tightly together. “He is a gentleman. I could hardly scold him, could I? But I believe I have found an, ah, another solution. I cannot explain further, not yet, but I believe you shall find Lord Revell soon ceases his unwelcome attentions.”
But it wasn’t as simple as that, not by half, and Sara knew it. For what if she didn’t wish Revell to avoid her? What if, in the last two days, his attentions had come to seem not troublesome, but desirable?
Unhappily, Sara stared down at the floor, praying her confusion didn’t show on her face for her ladyship to read. She’d told herself that these two weeks until Twelfth Night would be something to endure, and now that same time with him had become something to treasure. That was the truth, if only she’d be honest with herself. She wanted to see him, and wanted to be with him, however brief that time together would be.
And it would be brief. As giddy as her heart might be, her cold reason hadn’t entirely abandoned her. Once Revell learned the truth about why she’d left Calcutta, he’d scorn her, and she in turn had no assurance that in the end he’d treat her with any more loyalty or honor than he had before. Miracles made for pretty talk, but they weren’t guarantees of anything.
Yet still Sara felt the pull of the old connection between them, as if they were once again young and blissfully in love, as if nothing in the world were more complicated than that miracle they’d both never forgotten. That was what she wanted, to feel like that again, even if it were only for a handful of days. She wanted that, and she wanted it with Revell, and unconsciously she touched her fingers to her lips, remembering his kiss. He had promised to join them in the ballroom, to help arrange the holly and the elephants. Likely he was already waiting for them—for her—now.
“I shall expect you and Clarissa downstairs to join me as soon as she can be shifted into dry clothing,” continued Lady Fordyce. “I have already called for the sleigh to take us across to Peterborough Hall.”
Sara looked up swiftly, jerked back to the present. “Peterborough, your ladyship? Clarissa and I were planning to spend the rest of the day decorating the ballroom.”
“Tomorrow will be time enough for that, Miss Blake.” Lady Fordyce’s smile was serene, satisfied that she’d solved and dispatched yet another thorny problem in her household. “Until the rest of my little plan comes to pass, I intend to remove you as completely as possible from Lord Revell’s temptation, even if that means I must take tea with that odious Lucy Peterborough whilst Clary plays with her daughter.”
“But Lady Fordyce!” cried Sara with disappointment and dismay. “With all your other guests here, with all you must do for them—this is hardly necessary, not necessary at all!”
“And I say it is.” Lady Fordyce took Sara’s hand and patted it gently. “You have always been a most virtuous young woman, Miss Blake, and I’ve no wish to see you changed.”
But Sara realized she already had.
“There, Miss Blake,” said Clarissa, stepping back to admire their work, her arms crossed over her chest. “I think that looks most fine!”
“It certainly does,” agreed Sara, gazing around the ballroom. “I cannot wait for your mother to see it.”
They had spent the entire morning working to transform the ballroom, relying on three footmen to help put holly boughs along the crowns of the tall pier glasses. More holly and glossy-green clippings from the boxwood had been arranged along the sideboards and draped from the mantelpieces of the four facing fireplaces, while red and white ribbons had been tied in bows from the polished brass chandeliers overhead and woven into the rails of the small musician’s gallery.
Revell’s paper chains were draped across the front of the pianoforte, brought up from the music room in the event any lady wished to play and spell the hired musicians. Tucked into all the greenery were the pasteboard animals that they’d made, a miniature Noah’s ark in an English forest, and once the scores of beeswax candles were lit tonight, the effect would be truly magical. She and Clarissa had every right to be proud, and so would Lady Fordyce, for such a spectacle would keep her guests—as well as everyone who hadn’t been invited—talking all through the winter.
Once again her glance wandered to the doorway, just as it had done over and over and over again all morning long, and still Revell didn’t come. He wouldn’t, either; she knew that now, after overhearing one of the footmen telling another that all the gentlemen had gone shooting soon after dawn, even that lord from India.
She sighed, and shook her head ruefully at her own foolish hopes. She missed him. That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? She missed him, and these last twenty-four hours seemed to stretch longer than the six years before. Thanks to the visit to Peterborough Hall yesterday, she hadn’t seen Revell since they’d cut the ivy together, exactly the way her ladyship intended. Surely she’d served at Ladysmith long enough to know that when Lady Fordyce determined upon an order, there’d be no countering her, and now that she’d deemed it necessary to keep Sara from Revell’s path, her ladyship would have boosted him into his saddle this morning with her own white hands.
“Can we go hunt for your costume now, Miss Blake?” asked Clarissa, hopping up and down in anticipation, the only acceptable mood on this, the day before Christmas. “You can’t come tonight in your regular old gowns. You’re not allowed to dress plain, Miss Blake, not tonight. No one is. You must look special, like the queen of hearts, or a fairy princess, or—or anyone else grand and rare!”
Sara made an exaggerated frown, wrinkling her nose at her reflection in the tall pier glass before her. “You’ll need far more than antique finery to transform me into a fairy princess, Clarissa.”
“But that is what a masquerade is for,” said Clarissa sternly. She took Sara’s hand, tugging her toward the door. “Come, Miss Blake! The lumber room is the best place in the whole house, and I—Albert, no!”
With a shriek of anguish, Clarissa raced across the ballroom to where her brother stood in the doorway, a cluster of curious guests peering around him. The men were still dressed for riding in frock coats and light-colored breeches, their boots wet with melting snow and their faces ruddy from the cold.
“No, no, no, Albert!” she wailed, jumping and flailing her arms toward his face. “You can’t come in here, not yet! You know no one can see until tonight! It’s supposed to be a surprise, Albert, a surprise!”
“Just a peek, Clary, eh?” he said, easily catching her windmilling hands as the others began entering around him. “I was telling everyone how grand the ballroom looks for Mother’s masquerade, and they wanted to see it, that’s all.”
“But now you’ve spoiled the surprise, Albert,” said Clarissa, her voice quivering with angry tears as she finally pulled free. “You’ve spoiled everything.”
Sara hurried forward, circling her arms around Clarissa’s shaking shoulders. “It’s all right, Clarissa,” she said softly, wishing she could personally throttle Albert by his thick neck. “Everything will look much better tonight when it’s dark and the candles are lit. You’ll see. They’ll still be surprised.”
A blond young woman in pink muslin pushed past them and into the center of the ballroom, and as she twirled flirtatiously on her toes Sara realized it was the same lady with the uncertain voice that she’d had to accompany in the music room: Miss Talbot.
“Why, dear Mr. Fordyce,” she cooed, making sure her skirts flicked above her ankles, “how charmingly childish this all is! Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
“I most assuredly would not,” said Revell, suddenly there, as well, the sprig of holly once again in his buttonhole. “There is nothing whatsoever childish about tigers and elephants, is there, Miss Clarissa?”
“No, my lord.” Vindicated, Clarissa sniffed back her tears, and narrowed her eyes at Miss Talbot. “Especially not when they eat you alive.”
Miss Talbot’s smile soured over the arc of her fan. “Goodness, Mr. Fordyce. What an ill-tempered little creature your sister is! If I were your dear mother, I should address the quality of her education directly.”
“Rather she should thank Miss Blake,” said Revell, “for giving Clarissa the best education imaginable, a model of wisdom and beauty.”
“Yes, she has,” echoed Clarissa loyally, but there was already question clouding her eyes, a suspicion that things among these grown-ups were not quite all they appeared.
She was right. Revell bowed toward Sara with his hand over his heart and a heavy lock of his hair falling forward across his brow, and making every other person in the ballroom an eager witness to exactly how violently the governess flushed at his lordship’s compliment. In return all Sara could do was remember what Lady Fordyce had said, how everyone at Ladysmith was whispering of nothing else than her and Revell, and here, alas, was all the proof anyone needed.
But as delicious as such scandal might be for the other guests, Sara could also feel a new, uncomfortable tension rippling through the room, marked with nervous coughs and titters. This time, clearly, there was a sense that Lord Revell had at last made his attention too public.
Uneasily, Albert cleared his throat. “I say, Claremont. Mind my little sister, eh?”
Revell’s smile didn’t change, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “What is there to mind, Fordyce? What is it that’s not fit for Clarissa to hear? Do you deny that Miss Blake is either wise, or beautiful? Or is it perhaps my own judgment you are doubting?”
“Neither, Claremont, neither at all,” blustered Albert miserably, blotting at his face with his handkerchief. “But I only ask that you, ah, that you not be quite so…quite so, ah—”
“Shall I play for us, Mr. Fordyce?” asked Sara quickly, hurrying to the pianoforte in the corner. As bad as it was to be the centerpiece of gossip, this was infinitely worse, having Revell jump to defend her honor like this. “Now that we are all gathered here in a room meant for music, on the very morning of Christmas Eve, wouldn’t a dance be a pleasant amusement?”
“A splendid idea, Miss Blake!” cried Albert with all the hearty desperation of a drowning man. He seized Clarissa’s hand, practically swinging her into the center of the ballroom. “You won’t mind playing for us, will you? Something gay and jolly, fit for the season, eh?”
“As you wish, Mr. Fordyce,” murmured Sara as she opened the lid covering the keyboard, trying to sound like the old, usual Sara instead of this new one that interceded so boldly between gentlemen. “It is my pleasure to play, Mr. Fordyce.”
“You’ll have to grant me more room than this, memsahib,” said Revell, suddenly sitting on the bench beside her so closely that his leg pressed against hers. “As Clarissa observed, I am far too large to overlook.”
Instantly, Sara scuttled away from him, more to break the contact than to grant him the room he’d asked for.
“Whatever are you doing, Rev?” she whispered urgently. “You can’t sit here, and you can’t call me memsahib! You’re supposed to be dancing with the others!”
“And I say I’m supposed to be here,” he said easily, sliding along the bench after her. The freshness of the outdoor air still clung to him, sharp and clean and reminding her again of standing among the holly bushes, and of all that holly sprig stood for. “Aren’t those my inept paper chains hanging there on the front to mark my place?”
“But, Rev, you can’t do this!” she protested in a frantic squeak. “You’ve already upset Mr. Fordyce and everyone else, and—”
“Did I upset you?” he asked gravely. “That’s all I care about.”
Oh, heaven help her, she was blushing again. “Not the same way, no,” she hedged. “But I am not such a public person as you are, and what you did is not—not proper, especially not when it’s nearly Christmas like this!”
“And I ask you, whatever happened to Christmas miracles?” Tentatively he curled his fingers over the keys, the sunlight glancing off the sapphire in his ring. “There was a piece for four hands we used to play together, a kind of jig that you’d taught me like a trained dog. I can’t promise that I won’t make a wretched muddle of it now after so long, but I am willing to try if you will.”
His smile was lopsided and surprisingly uncertain, and with a jolt she realized he was asking her for far more than to recall a simple tune. Was she willing to risk that wretched muddle to try to recapture what they’d once done together with such wonderful ease?
“Oh, Rev,” she said softly, reminding herself of all that was still so unsettled and unspoken between them, and how much more likely that muddle would be than anything else. But if he was willing to try, then how could she not? How could she refuse him, or herself, either?
“If you haven’t forgotten,” she said, choosing her words with the same care as had he, “then I haven’t, either, nor do I intend to shame myself and make a muddle.”
He grinned, and she plunged into the piece, making him swear as he hurried to catch her. Yet still they played better together than they’d any right to, the awkward notes and missteps forgiven by their enthusiasm. Over and over their arms touched and their fingers bumped into one other’s with exactly the intimacy that the long-ago composer had intended, and by the time the fast-paced jig had come to its close both she and Revell were laughing and breathless and completely unaware if anyone had danced to their music or not.
But the sound of one person applauding—only one—broke the spell. Still smiling, Sara turned, then quickly stood, just as Revell also rose to his feet.
The gentleman clapping was newly arrived, his traveling cloak still over his shoulders and his elegant dark clothes creased from his carriage, and from his world-weary, almost arrogant disdain, Sara would have known he was high-born and wealthy even if Lady Fordyce weren’t fluttering so anxiously around him, as if he were the greatest prize she’d ever captured.
And in a way he was. Sara had never seen the gentleman before, let alone met him. Yet she recognized him at once: he was older than Revell, an inch or two shorter, and his hair was lighter, but the shape of his face and smile, the ease with which he moved, were so much the same that there could be little doubt.
“Why, Revell, look at you,” said Brant, His Grace the Duke of Strachen, his voice deceptively languid as he looked not at his brother, but at Sara. “Such a…a diversion! It would seem that I’ve accepted Lady Fordyce’s invitation in the nick of time for a happy Christmas, doesn’t it? The very nick, I would venture, for us all.”

Chapter Seven
“I am disappointed, Revell,” said Brant with a sigh as he dropped into the chair before the new fire in his bedchamber. “I’d rather expected more from you. Oh, go ahead and sit. It’s not as if you’re standing in the docket.”
“From your manner, why should I feel otherwise?” Revell continued standing where he was behind the other armchair, his hands in fists on the chair’s back, which did in fact make him feel as if he were standing in some miserable courtroom, awaiting his sentence. Which, considering his older brother was willing enough to serve as prosecutor, judge, and jury combined, wasn’t far from the mark. “Under the circumstances, Brant, I believe I’d rather stand.”
Brant sighed, drumming his fingertips lightly on the padded leather arm of his chair. He had changed his traveling clothes for a long silk dressing gown, brilliantly printed with blue and red dragons, that was doubtless in the height of style. Brant was by far the most fashionable of the three brothers, not only in his dress, but in his friends and pastimes, as well, living fast, hard, and expensively. If Brant maintained that Revell was like last summer’s leaf, tossed wherever the wind took him, then Revell thought that Brant and his set were more like the sharks that swam in the China Sea, sleekly deadly and ready to tear apart their fellows without a thought.
“Circumstances, circumstances,” he now mused. “What precisely are the circumstances here, dear brother? You choose to come here in this obscure provincial household instead of spending the holidays with me at Claremont House, after which I receive the most distraught appeal from your hostess, accusing you of being a veritable fox in her henhouse.”
“There was no need for Lady Fordyce to have contacted you,” said Revell testily. “I am hardly anyone’s notion of a fox.”
“She didn’t contact me,” answered Brant, maddeningly mild. “She invited me to join her party. And since you seem to have found the—oh, what shall we say it is? The Christmas plum pudding? Sir Henry’s rum punch, famous throughout the county? The salubrious invigoration of the local air?—so thoroughly irresistible, I accepted, and now join you.”
“Badger me, you mean.” Angrily Revell thumped his fists on the back of the chair. He hated it when his brother lectured him in this bemused paternal fashion, as if there were twenty years between them instead of two. “Damnation, Brant, what kind of idiot do you take me for? I know exactly why you’ve come, and it’s not for some blasted plum pudding!”

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