His face was what had changed most. It looked as if carved out of marble, his jaw firm and hard, his lips thin and straight, his blue eyes above the aquiline nose heavy-lidded and cold. One eyebrow was arched somewhat higher than the other.

He made her a stiff half-bow. “Well, Miss Angove,” he said in a voice that was softer, colder than the voice she remembered, “what an unexpected pleasure. You are the first of my neighbors to call upon me.

All alone?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, clasping her hands more firmly before her and consciously resisting the impulse to allow them to fidget. “This is not a social call. I have a favor to ask.”

His one eyebrow rose even higher and his lips curved into the suggestion of a sneer. “Indeed?” he said, advancing farther into the room. “Well, at least you are honest about it. Have a seat, ma’am, and tell me how I may be of service to you.”

She sat on the very edge of the chair closest to her and clasped her hands in her lap. Someone had tamed his hair, she thought irrelevantly.

It had always waved in a quite unruly manner and had forever fallen across his forehead. It had been a habit of his to toss it back with a jerk of the head.

“It is not precisely a favor,” she said, “but more in the way of the calling in of a debt.”

He seated himself opposite her and looked at her inquiringly. His eyes had never used to be like this. They had been wide and sparkling eyes, mesmerizing even. But then, they were compelling now too. They regarded her with cynical contempt. Lilias glanced down nervously at her sleeve to find that the darned patch was staring accusingly up at her. But she did not twist the sleeve again. Perhaps he would not notice if she kept her hands still. Except that she felt that those eyes saw everything, even the larger darned patch beneath her left arm.

“When you were at school,” she said, “and found your Latin lessons difficult, Papa helped you during your holidays. You used to come to the rectory every morning for two successive summers. Do you remember?” She did not wait for a reply. “You would not tell your own papa for fear that he would be disappointed in you. And Papa would accept no payment for your tuition. You told him-I was there when you said it-that you would always consider yourself in his debt, that you would repay him one day.”

“And so I did say,” he said in that quiet, cold voice. His expression did not change at all. “Your father has been dead for well over a year, has he not, Miss Angove? But I take it that the day of reckoning has come. What may I do for you?”

“I think less than the tuition for two summers would have cost you,” she said hastily, wishing that she could keep her voice as cool as his. “I would not put myself in your debt.”

His eyelids appeared to droop even lower over his eyes. “What may I do for you, ma’am?” he asked again.

“I want a Christmas for my brother and sister,” she said raising her chin and looking very directly into his face. She could feel herself flushing.

Both his eyebrows rose. “An admirable wish,” he said. “But it would seem that if you wait patiently for one more week, Christmas will come without my having to do anything about the matter.”

“They are still children,” she said. “My parents’ second family, people have always called them. Philip and I were two years apart, and then there were eleven years before Andrew was born. And Megan came two years after that. They are only eleven and nine years old now. Just children.

This is our last Christmas together. In two weeks’ time we will all be separated. Perhaps we will never be together again. I want it to be a memorable Christmas.” She was leaning forward in her chair. Her fingers were twining about one another.

“And how am I to help create this memorable Christmas?” he asked. His mouth was definitely formed into a sneer now. “Host a grand party? Grand parties are not in my style.”

“No,” she said, speaking quickly and distinctly. “I want a goose for Christmas dinner.”

There was a short silence.

“Papa was not a careful manager,” she continued. “There was very little money left when he died and now there is none left, or at least only enough to pay for our journeys in two weeks’ time. The people of the village would help, of course, but they were so used to finding that Papa would not accept charity in any form that they now do not even offer. And perhaps they are right.” Her chin rose again. “I have some of his pride.”

“So,” he said, “instead of asking charity, you have found someone who is in your debt.”

“Yes,” she said, and swallowed awkwardly again.

“And you want a goose for Christmas,” he said. “Your needs are modest, ma’am. That is all?”

“And a doll for Megan,” she said recklessly. “There is the most glorious one in Miss Pierce’s window-all porcelain and satin and lace. I want that for Megan. She has never had a doll, except the rag one Mama made for her when she was a baby. I want her to have something really lovely and valuable to take with her.”

“And for your brother?” he asked softly.

“Oh.” She gazed at him wistfully. “A watch.A silver watch. But there are none in the village, and I would not know how to go about purchasing one for him. But it does not matter. Andrew is eleven and almost not a child any longer. He will understand, and he will be happy with the scarf and gloves I am knitting for him. The cost of a goose and the doll will not exceed the cost of tuition for two summers, I don’t believe.

Will it?”

“And for yourself?” he asked even more softly.

Lilias gazed down at her hands and reached out to twist the offending sleeve. “I don’t want anything that will cost money,” she said. “I want only the memory of one Christmas to take with me.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Into Yorkshire,” she said. “I have a post as a governess with a family there.”

“Ah,” he said. “And your brother and sister?”

“I have persuaded my grandfather to take Andrew,” she said. “It took several letters, but finally he agreed to take him and send him to school. Sir Percy Angove, that is, Papa’s father. The two of them never communicated after Papa’s marriage.”

The marquess nodded curtly.

“And Megan is going to Great-aunt Hetty in Bath,” Lilias said. “I am afraid I pestered her with letters too. But it will be only until I can earn enough money to bring us all together again.”

Bedford got to his feet and looked down at her from cold and cynical eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said. “A suitably affecting story, Miss Angove. I must congratulate you on the manner in which you have presented it.”

Lilias looked up at him in some bewilderment.

His bearing was military again, his manner curt, his eyes like chips of ice. “You will have your goose, ma’am,” he said, “and your sister her doll. Your brother will have his watch too-I shall see to it. You will have your Christmas and the memory of it to take into Yorkshire with you. I shall wish you good-day now.”

Victory? Was it to be so easy? Was she to have more than a Christmas dinner to give the children? Was Megan to have her doll? And Andrew his watch? Andrew was going to have a watch! All without any struggle, any persuasion, any groveling?

Was this victory?

Lilias scrambled to her feet and looked up at the tall, austere figure of the Marquess of Bedford. She curtsied. “What can I say?” she said breathlessly. “Thank-you sounds so tame.”

“You need not say even that,” he said. “I am merely repaying a debt, after all. You will wait here, ma’am, if you please. I shall have tea sent to you while you await the arrival of my carriage to take you home.

I take it you walked here?”

He would not take no for an answer, although there was no apparent kindness at all in his manner. Lilias found herself gazing once more into the fire a few minutes later, having been left to take her refreshments alone. And after drinking her tea, she was to have a warm and comfortable-and dry-ride home.

She should be feeling elated. She was feeling elated. But uncomfortable and humiliated too. As if, after all, she were taking charity. She blinked back tears and stared defiantly into the flames.

She was not taking charity. She was merely accepting what was hers by right.

He seemed to be made of stone to the very heart. Not once had he smiled.

Not once had he given any indication that theirs was no new acquaintance. And he had called her explanation an affecting story. He had said so with a sneer, as if he thought it contrived and untrue.

It did not matter. She had got what she had set out to get. More. She had not even been sure she was going to ask for the doll. But as well as that, Andrew was to have a watch. It did not matter that he had not smiled at her or wished her a happy Christmas.

It was at Christmastime he had first kissed her. It had been one of those magical and rare Christmases when it had snowed and there was ice on the lake. They had been sledding down a hill, he and she the last of a long line of young people, all of whom had been trekking back up again by the time they had had their turn. And she had overturned into the snow, shrieking and laughing, and giggling even harder when he had come over to help her up and brush the snow from her face and hair.

He had kissed her swiftly and warmly and openmouthed, stilling both her laughter and his own until he had made some light remark and broken the tension of the moment. It had been Christmastime. Christmas Eve, to be exact. She had been fifteen, he one-and-twenty.

It did not matter. That had been a long time ago, almost exactly seven years, in fact. He was not the same man, not by any means. But then, she was not the same, either. She had been a girl then, a foolish girl who had believed that Christmas and life were synonymous.