Vane exhaled and closed his eyes.

* * *

Morosely, Sophia descended the staircase, having been forced by her mother to get out of her bed an hour before and dress for Christmas Eve, when all she wanted was to remain abed until she was an old woman, when hopefully, at last, she’d forget the reasons for her sadness.

She wore a gown of deep plum silk with ruched sleeves that were puffed and pleated at the shoulders. The garment had given her such joy during her fittings at the modiste’s shop. Everyone had marveled over the fine sheen of the fabric and declared the hue a perfect complement to her complexion. She might as well have worn sackcloth for all the joy the pretty dress gave her now. Daphne and Clarissa had made a fuss over her hair and tried to cheer her, until at last she had gently shooed them away.

Familiar voices, just around the corner from the lower landing, made her pause near the bottom of the stairs. She made out two figures in the dim lamplight.

“You’re still carrying that wilted thing around?” said Lady Dundalk a bit grumpily.

Beside her stood Sir Keyes, leaning on his cane, with a much decreased ball of mistletoe suspended from his hand.

“There’s one berry left,” he answered cheerfully. “I saved the best for last.”

“Who is the lucky young woman this time?” asked her ladyship drolly.

“Why, you, my dear.” Slowly he lifted the mistletoe above her head. “If you will have me.”

“Oh, Alfred,” she whispered softly, reaching up to pat her gloved hand against his cheek. “What took you so long?”

He bent and kissed on her lips, and the two embraced.

Moments later, Lady Margaretta found her sitting on the stairs. “Sophia, more tears?”

“Lady Dundalk—” Sophia choked. “Sir Keyes. It’s so wonderful that they have found each other.”

“Isn’t it?” A dreamy smile spread across her mother’s lips. “One never gets too old for love.”

“I’ll never have that.” Sophia sighed. “Someone to grow old with, who will love me until the end of our days.”

Her mother tilted her head and let out a low breath. Sophia’s heart shattered a fraction more. Of course her words wounded her mother, whose one true love had been taken from her.

“Oh, Mother. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s just that I don’t deserve it. You did. You do!”

“I don’t believe you are undeserving, not for one moment.” Margaretta patted her back, as if Sophia was a small child crying over some disappointment. “Things aren’t irreparable with Claxton. The two of you just need to talk.”

“I can’t ever face him again.” Sophia shook her head and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Not after what I did. He showed me in every way that he loved me, and I just couldn’t let go of the past. In doing so, I betrayed him, Mother, in the most horrible way, and now I fear it’s too late.”

“That you feel that way means that you still care deeply for him,” her mother counseled sagely. “And dare I say, that you love him? Otherwise, hurting him wouldn’t hurt you so much. Now wipe your eyes, dear, and join us downstairs.”

Margaretta left her there. Moments later, after composing herself, Sophia peered into the drawing room. Sir Keyes and Lady Dundalk sat on a green velvet settee beside the fire conversing with her grandfather. At a nearby table, Daphne and Clarissa arranged apples, oranges, candy, and cookies that would later be placed on the tree. She continued to the dining room, where the table had been set for their Christmas Eve feast. Her grandmother’s crystal, silver plate, and porcelain gleamed atop the snowy-white tablecloths. Marvelous smells wafted down the hall from the direction of the kitchen.

The perfect Christmas! And yet the scene provided her with no comfort. Nothing would ever be perfect without Claxton at her side.

“Everyone,” exclaimed Daphne, rushing out from the drawing room. “There are waits at the door.”

Clarissa pushed their grandfather’s bath chair in the same direction. Wolverton, finding Sophia, winked. Lady Margaretta accompanied them, reaching to wrap a wool scarf around Wolverton’s shoulders.

Glancing back, she called, “Sophia, could you bring the oranges?”

Oranges, yes, which her mother always insisted on giving to carolers, being that they were so rare and she so loved the tradition. From the table in the corridor, she listlessly lifted the basket by its handle and followed everyone else to the front doors.

Arriving at the door, she hovered behind Daphne, but Clarissa elbowed her forward. There were four carolers, but she could see none of their faces. Only the back sides of their sheet music. Really, who didn’t know the words to Christmas carols? What was the world coming to?

“Ready?” she heard one of them murmur. “One, two, three.”

What followed was the worst cacophony of male voices she’d ever heard, no clear tune among them.

“…Snow!”

“On a sleigh!”

“Bells ringing.”

“Angels singing.”

The centermost caroler lifted his music suddenly. “Christmas Eve surprises! It is I!”

At realizing his identity, the air left her lungs. Lord Haden. Yes, she’d invited him, but no, she’d not expected him to come, given present circumstances. Certainly he had every bit a right to despise her as Claxton.

Clarissa laughed delightedly. “Lord Haden.”

Daphne giggled as well. Sophia couldn’t blame them. Next to Claxton, he was probably the most handsome man in London.

“And also this man!” Haden grabbed the music from the caroler beside him, revealing—

Lord Havering? Sophia blinked in shock. She wasn’t even aware that the two men knew each other, aside from being introduced the morning of her wedding to Claxton.

“So sorry for the deception.” Haden laughed. “We can’t sing, and we don’t really have sheets of music, and none of us could remember the words to any carols. We just wanted to be certain you’d open the door because some of us don’t have proper invitations.”

He swiped the sheet of paper from the third male caroler, who turned out to be Mr. Grisham, Claxton’s cousin. “This fellow in particular.”

“You’re all very welcome here,” her grandfather announced magnanimously.

The blood drained from Sophia’s face as she realized with a sudden dread certainty the identity of the very tall, broad-shouldered fourth caroler. Though he still held the sheet over his face, she would recognize those fingers anywhere and the square, masculine shapes of his fingernails. She’d studied the man with such intense fascination for four days, she’d probably be able to recognize his earlobe if necessary.

She made the sudden decision to flee. To back away into the house, but suddenly Clarissa was there, and Daphne, pushing gently, taking the basket of oranges from her hands—

Everyone jostled past her. Perplexingly, Haden pressed a brotherly kiss to her cheek as he did the same. “Merry Christmas, your Grace.”

She turned to follow him, but the flat side of the door closed in her face.

Slowly she turned back around.

Vane stared at her in silence, tall, beautiful, and elegant. She flushed all over, no longer aware of the chill.

“Hello,” she whispered morosely. “Happy Christmas Eve.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sophia.” He spoke all in a rush, his breath puffing, visible on the night air. “The day before, don’t you remember, after the Branigans’ baby was born? That whole damn bottle of brandy tipped over and spilled across the carpet and the floor? I’m a lazy, slovenly man, and I didn’t think to clean it up. There was just so much happening. It was enough to help the fire along.”

“No.” She shook her head, imagining for the thousandth time the ravenous path the flames had taken. If only she could go back and do things differently. “It was not the brandy’s fault. Not your fault, but mine. I’ll never forgive myself.”

He shrugged. “The house was old. Neglected. In need of repairs. Mr. Branigan, it seems, is a skilled carpenter, and being that he’s in need of employment appears the perfect candidate to undertake them. In the spring, he’ll enlist help from some men in the village.”

The stone in her chest did not grow any lighter.

“Mr. Branigan can’t replace your dear mother’s letters, yours and Haden’s.” Just speaking of those treasures lost renewed her regret. Her voice became so thick she could hardly speak. “Your precious box of memories. All destroyed because of me.”

“Oh, that. I had already placed Haden’s letter in my coat pocket and gave it to him the next day. As for the rest, we managed to save the most important thing here.” From his pocket he pulled a small rectangular box tied with gold ribbon. He shook it gently. Inside, something slid back and forth, bumping the sides. “It is my most precious treasure, really. But you can look.”

An overwhelming curiosity overcame her, a desperate need to see the item in the box, to know that something had been salvaged. Anything to lessen the smothering guilt she’d carried since that day.

“You’re certain?” She stepped closer.

“Yes, look.” He rested the box on his palm.

She fell back. “No. I don’t deserve to see.”

He shook the box again. “I insist.”

With the box rested upon his open hand, she slid the ribbon free and lifted the lid.

A small mirror lay faceup in the box. Her own face peered back at her.

“A mirror,” she whispered, not feeling much better after all. All those letters, the miniatures. Lost. “Not the slightest bit of charring. Now, to whom did this mirror belong? Your mother?”

“No, silly,” Claxton murmured, his gaze steady and somehow questioning. “The mirror I bought from a trinket vendor for twopence on the ride over.”