But the best gift of all was what he had said to her. You have given me a gift beyond price, Jane. And he had smiled at her. And he had held Veronica on his knee and had looked at her with what was surely tenderness.

Going back to Miss Phillpotts’s, being alone again, was going to be more painful than ever, she knew, now that she had had a taste of family life, now that she had fallen in-No, that was a silly idea. That she would have fallen in love with him was thoroughly predictable under the circumstances. It was not real love, of course. But however it was, she would put up with all the pain and all the dreariness, she felt, if only she could know that he would keep Veronica with him. She would give up all claim to future Christmases without a murmur if only she could be sure of that.

It was a busy day, a wonderfully busy day. There were the servants to greet in the drawing room while Viscount Buckley gave each of them a gift, and toasts to be drunk with them and rich dainties to eat. And there were gifts from almost all of them for Veronica to open. It was certainly clear that his staff had taken the viscount’s young daughter to their hearts. And there were carols to sing.

After the Christmas dinner, taken en famille in the dining room very early in the afternoon, there were the young guests to prepare for.

There was no containing Deborah’s excitement. As soon as they had arrived, all of them bright and merry at the novel prospect of a party all to themselves without adults to spoil it and tell them to quieten down or to stay out of the way, they were whisked out-of-doors.

They engaged in an unruly snowball fight even before they reached the hill where the sledding was to take place. Deborah, Jane noticed with indulgent interest, was almost elbow-to-elbow with Mr. George Oxenden, the two of them fighting the common enemy, almost everyone else. But before she knew it, Jane was fighting for her own life, or at least for her own comfort. A soft snowball splattered against her shoulder, and she found that Viscount Buckley was grinning smugly at her from a few yards away. She shattered the grin when by some miracle her own snowball collided with the center of his face.

Jane found herself giggling quite as helplessly as Deborah was doing.

The sleds were much in demand when they reached the hill as the young people raced up the slope with reckless energy and then zoomed down two by two. Nobody complained about the cold even though there was a great deal of foot stamping and hand slapping against sides. And even though everyone sported fiery red cheeks and noses.

Veronica stood quietly watching, holding Jane’s hand.

“Well, Veronica,” her father said, coming to stand beside them, “what do you think? Shall we try it?”

“We will fall,” she said, looking gravely up at him.

“What?” he said. “You do not trust my steering skills? If we fall, we will be covered with snow. Is that so bad?”

“No, Papa,” she said, looking dubious.

“Well.” He held out a hand for hers. “Shall we try?”

“Can Miss Jane come too?” Veronica asked.

Jane grimaced and found the viscount’s eyes directed at her. They were twinkling. “It might be something of a squash,” he said. “But I am willing if you two ladies are.”

“I… I…” Jane said.

“What?” His eyebrows shot up. “Do we have a coward here? Shall we dare Miss Jane to ride on a sled with us, Veronica?”

“Yes, Papa,” his daughter said.

And so less than five minutes later Jane found herself at the top of the hill, seating herself gingerly on one of the sleds, which suddenly looked alarmingly narrow and frail, and having to move back to make room for Veronica until her back was snug against the viscount’s front. His arms came about her at either side to arrange the steering rope. And suddenly, too, it no longer seemed like a cold winter day. She was only half aware of the giggles of the young ladies and the whistles and jeers and cheers of the young gentlemen. She set her arms tightly about Veronica.

And then they were off, hurtling down a slope that seemed ten times steeper than it had looked from the bottom, at a speed that seemed more than ten times faster than that of the other sledders when she had watched them. Two people were shrieking, Veronica and herself. And then they were at the bottom and the sled performed a complete turn, flirted with the idea of tipping over and dumping its load into the snow, and slid safely to a halt.

Veronica’s shrieks had turned to laughter-helpless, joyful, childish laughter. The viscount, the first to rise to his feet, scooped her up and held her close and met Jane’s eyes over her shoulder. Perhaps it was the wind and the cold that had made his eyes so bright, but Jane did not think so.

Oh, how good it was-it was the best moment so far of a wonderful Christmas-how very good it was to hear the child laugh. And beg to be taken up again. And wriggle to get down and grab at her father’s hand and tug him impatiently in the direction of the slope. And to watch her ride down again with him, shrieking and laughing once more.

And how good it was-how achingly good-to see him laughing and happy with the little child he had fathered almost five years before but had not even seen until a few days ago.

Chilly as she was-her hands and her feet were aching with the cold-Jane willed the afternoon to last forever. He was to go to the Oxendens’ for dinner and he was to spend the evening there and perhaps half the night too. Once he had gone she would be the lone chaperon of the group, apart from the lady who was coming to play the pianoforte. She was going to feel lonely.

But she quelled the thought. She had had so much, more than she had ever dreamed. She must not be greedy. This evening was for the young people.

And then, just before it was mutually agreed that it was time to return to the house to thaw out and partake of some of Cook’s hot Christmas drinks and mince pies, Veronica was borne off by Deborah to ride a sled with her and Mr. Oxenden, and Viscount Buckley took Jane firmly by one hand and led her toward the slope.

“If you stand there any longer,” he said, “you may well become frozen to the spot. Come and sled with me now that I have relearned the knack of doing it safely.”

She savored the moment, this final moment of her very own Christmas. But alas, this time they were not so fortunate. Perhaps the constant passing of the sleds had made the surface over which they sped just too slippery for successful navigation. Or perhaps there was some other cause.

However it was, something went very wrong when they were halfway down the slope. The sled went quite out of control, and its two riders were unceremoniously dumped into a bank of soft, cold snow. They rolled into it, arms and legs all tangled together.

They finally came to rest with Jane on the bottom, flat on her back, and Viscount Buckley on top of her. They were both laughing and then both self-conscious. His eyes slid to her mouth at the same moment as hers slid to his. But for a moment only. The delighted laughter of the young people brought them to their senses and their feet, and they both brushed vigorously at themselves and joined in the laughter.

Jane was tingling with warmth again. If only, she thought shamelessly.

If only there had been no one else in sight. If only he had kissed her again. Just once more. One more kiss to hug to herself for the rest of her life.

Oh, she really had become greedy, she told herself severely. Would she never be satisfied?

An unwanted inner voice answered her. No, not any longer. She never would.

But it was time to take Veronica by the hand again. It was time to go back to the house.

Viscount Buckley went upstairs to change into his evening clothes while the young people played charades in the drawing room and Jane played unobtrusively in one corner with Veronica and her new doll, the kitchen cat curled beside them, apparently oblivious to the loud mirth proceeding all about it. He had lingered in the room himself, reluctant to leave despite the squeals from the girls and loud laughter from the boys that just a few days before he had welcomed the thought of escaping. But he could delay no longer if he were to arrive at the Oxendens’ in good time for dinner.

Yet despite the fact that he was pressed for time, he wandered to the window of his bedchamber after his valet had exercised all his artistic skills on the tying of his neckcloth and had helped him into his blue evening coat, as tight as a second skin, according to fashion. He stood gazing out at twilight and snow, not really seeing either.

He was seeing Veronica in her red Christmas bonnet, her muff on a ribbon about her neck. He was seeing her rosy-cheeked with the cold, bright-eyed and laughing, and tugging impatiently at his hand. Looking and sounding like a four-year-old. And he was thinking of her next week or the week after or the week after that, going away to settle with her new family.

He was going to be lonely. He was going to grieve for her for the rest of his life. And if Jane was correct, he was not even doing what was best for Veronica.

Jane! He could see her, too, animated and giggling-yes, giggling!-and beautiful. Ah, so beautiful, his prim, plain Jane. And he thought of her the week after next, returning to Miss Phillpotts’s school with Deborah, returning to her life of drudgery and utter aloneness. She had never been hugged or kissed or loved, she had said-not out of self-pity but in an attempt to save Veronica from such a fate.

He was going to be lonely without Jane. He thought of his mistress, waiting for him in London with her luscious, perfumed body, and of the skills she used to match his own in bed. But he could feel no desire, no longing for her. He wanted Jane with her inevitable gray dress and her nondescript figure and her face that was plain except when she stopped hiding inside herself. Jane, who did not even know how to kiss-she pursed her lips and kept them rigidly closed. She probably did not know what happened between a man and a woman in bed.