Every common room of the manor was busy after supper. Some guests played cards, others gathered around the piano in the music room and sang, but by far the largest group had gathered in the drawing room for a game of charades. Their shouting and laughter echoed far along the hallways.

Hannah watched the charades for a while, enjoying the antics of competing teams that acted out words or phrases, while others shouted out guesses. She noticed that Rafe Bowman and Natalie were sitting together, smiling and exchanging private quips. They were an extraordinarily well-matched pair, one so dark, one so fair, both young and attractive. Glancing at them made Hannah feel positively morose.

She was relieved when the case clock in the corner showed that it was a quarter to eight. Leaving the room unobtrusively, she went into the hallway. It was such a relief to be out of the crowded drawing room, and not to have to smile when she didn't feel like it, that she heaved a tremendous sigh and leaned against the wall with her eyes closed.

"Miss Appleton?"

Hannah's eyes flew open. It was Lillian, Lady Westcliff, who had followed her out of the room.

"It is a bit of a crush in there, isn't it?" the countess asked with friendly sympathy.

Hannah nodded. "I'm not fond of large gatherings."

"Neither am I," Lillian confided. "My greatest pleasure is to relax in a small group with my friends, or better yet, to be alone with my husband and daughter. You're going to the library to read to the children, aren't you?"

"Yes, my lady."

"That's very nice of you. I heard they all enjoyed it tremendously last evening. May I walk with you to the library?"

"Yes, my lady, I would enjoy that."

Lillian surprised her by linking arms with her, as if they were sisters or close friends. They went along the hallway at a slow pace. "Miss Appleton, I... oh, hang it, I hate these formalities. May we use first names?"

"I would be honored for you to call me by my given name, my lady. But I can't do the same. It wouldn't be proper."

Lillian gave her a rueful glance. "All right, then. Hannah. I've wanted to talk with you all evening—there is something highly private I want to discuss with you, but it must go no further. And I probably shouldn't say anything, but I must. I won't be able to get any sleep to night otherwise."

Hannah was dumbfounded. Not to mention rabidly curious. "My lady?"

"That forfeit you asked of my brother today..."

Hannah paled a little. "Was that wrong of me? I'm so sorry. I would never have—"

"No. No, it's not that. You did nothing wrong at all. It's what my brother gave to you that I found so... well, surprising."

"The toy solider?" Hannah whispered. "Why was that surprising?" She had not thought it all that unusual. Many men carried little tokens with them, such as locks of hair from loved ones, or luck charms or touch pieces such as a coin or medal.

"That soldier came from a set that Rafe had when he was a little boy. Having met my father, you won't be surprised to learn that he was quite strict with his children. At least when he was there, which thank God wasn't often. But Father has always had very unreasonable expectations of my brothers, especially Rafe, because he's the oldest. Father wanted Rafe to succeed at everything, so he was punished severely if he was ever second best. But at the same time, Father didn't want to be overshadowed, so he took every opportunity to shame or degrade Rafe when he was the best."

"Oh," Hannah said softly, filled with sympathy for the boy that Rafe had been. "Did your mother do nothing to intervene?"

Lillian made a scoffing sound. "She's always been a silly creature who cares more for parties and social status than anything else. I'm sure she expended far more thought on her gowns and jewels than she did on any of her children. So whatever Father decided, Mother was more than willing to go along with it, as long as he kept paying the bills."

After a moment's pause, the contempt vanished from Lillian's tone, replaced by melancholy. "We rarely ever saw Rafe. Because my father wanted him to be a serious, studious boy, he was never allowed to play with other children. He was always with tutors, studying or being taught sports and riding... but he was never allowed one moment of freedom. One of Rafe's few escapes was his set of little soldiers—he would stage battles and skirmishes with them, and while he studied, he would line them up on his desk to keep him company." A faint smile came to her lips. "And Rafe would roam at night. Sometimes I would hear him sneaking along the hallway, and I knew he was going downstairs or outside, just for a chance to breathe freely."

The countess paused as they neared the library. "Let's stop here for a moment—it's not quite eight, and I'm sure the children are still gathering."

Hannah nodded wordlessly.

"One night," Lillian continued, "Daisy was ill, and they kept her in the nursery. I had to sleep in another room in case the fever was catching. I was frightened for my sister, and I woke in the middle of the night crying. Rafe heard me and came to ask what was the matter. I told him how worried I was for Daisy, and also about a terrible nightmare I'd had. So Rafe went to his room, and came back with one of his soldiers. An infantryman. Rafe put it on the table by my bed, and told me, 'This is the bravest and most stalwart of all my men. He'll stand guard over you during the night, and chase off all your worries and bad dreams.'" The countess smiled absently at the memory. "And it worked."

"How lovely," Hannah said softly. "So that's the significance of the soldier?"

"Well, not entirely. You see..." Lillian took a deep breath, as if she found it difficult to continue. "The very next day, the tutor told Father that he believed the toy soldiers were distracting Rafe from his studies. So Father got rid of all of them. Gone forever. Rafe never shed a tear—but I saw something terrible in his eyes, as if something had been destroyed in him. I took the infantryman from my nightstand and gave it to him. The only soldier left. And I think—" She swallowed hard, and a shimmer of tears appeared in her dark brown eyes. "I think he's carried it for all these years as if it were some fragment of his heart he wanted to keep safe."

Hannah wasn't aware of her own tears until she felt them slide down both cheeks. She wiped at them hastily, blotting them with her sleeve. Her throat hurt, and she cleared it, and when she spoke, her voice was rusty. "Why did he give it to me?"

The countess seemed oddly relieved, or reassured, by the signs of her emotion. "I don't know, Hannah. It's left to you to find out the significance of it. But I can tell you this: it was not a casual gesture."

AFTER COMPOSING HERSELF, HANNAH WENT INTO THE LIBRARY in something of a daze. The children were all there, seated on the floor, consuming sugar biscuits and warm milk. A smile tugged at Hannah's lips as she saw more children clustered beneath the library table as if it were a fort.

Seating herself in the large chair, she ceremoniously opened the book, but before she could read a word, a plate of biscuits was put in her lap, and a cup of milk was offered to her, and one of the girls put a paper silver crown on her head. After eating a biscuit and submitting to a minute or two of carryings-on, Hannah quieted the giggling children and began to read:

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit.

"Look upon me."

As Scrooge went on his travels with the second Spirit, and they visited the Cratchits' humble but happy home, Hannah was aware of Rafe Bowman's lean, dark form entering the room. He went to a shadowy corner and stood there, watching and listening. Hannah paused for a moment and looked back at him. She felt an anguished clutch of her heart, and a surge of ardent need, and a sense of remarkable foolishness as she sat there wearing a paper crown. She had no idea why Bowman would have come without Natalie to listen to the next part of the story. Or why merely being in the same room with him was enough to start her heart clattering like a mechanical loom.

But it had something to do with the realization that he was not the spoiled, heartless rake she had first believed him to be. Not entirely, at any rate.

And if that turned out to be true... had she any right to object to his marriage to Natalie?

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS HANNAH SEARCHED FOR AN OPPORTU-nity to return the toy soldier to Rafe Bowman, but with the manor so busy and Christmas drawing near, privacy was in short supply. It seemed that Bowman's courtship of Natalie was running smoothly: they danced together, went walking, and he turned the pages of music for Natalie as she played the piano. Hannah tried to be unobtrusive, keeping her distance whenever possible, staying quiet when she was required to chaperone them.

It seemed that Bowman was making a concerted effort to restrain himself around Hannah, not precisely ignoring her, but not paying her any marked attention. His initial interest in her had vanished, which certainly wasn't a surprise. He had Natalie's golden beauty dangling before him, along with the certainty of power and riches if he married her.

"I do like him," Natalie had told her privately, her blue eyes glowing with excitement. "He's very clever and amusing, and he dances divinely, and I don't think I've ever met a man who kisses half so well."

"Mr. Bowman kissed you?" Hannah asked, fighting to keep her tone even.

"Yes." Natalie grinned mischievously. "I practically had to corner him on the outside terrace, and he laughed and kissed me under the stars. There is no doubt he'll ask me to marry him. I wonder when and how he'll do it. I hope at night. I love getting proposals in the moonlight."

HANNAH HELPED NATALIE CHANGE INTO A WINTER DRESS OF pale blue wool, the skirts heavy and flat pleated, the matching hooded cape trimmed with white fur. The guests were going on a massive afternoon sleigh ride, traveling across the new-fallen snow to an estate in Winchester for a dinner and skating party. "If the weather stays clear," Natalie exclaimed, "we'll be riding home under the stars—can you imagine anything more romantic, Hannah? Are you certain you don't want to come?"

"Quite certain. I want to sit by the hearth and read my letter from Mr. Clark." The letter had been delivered that very morning, and Hannah was eager to peruse it in private. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to watch Natalie and Rafe Bowman snuggle together under a blanket on a long cold sleigh ride.

"I wish you would join the sleighing party," Natalie persisted. "Not only would you have fun, but you could do me the favor of keeping company with Lord Travers and diverting him. It seems that every time I'm with Mr. Bowman, Travers tries to barge in. It's dreadfully annoying."

"I thought you liked Lord Travers."

"I do. But he is so reticent, it drives me mad."

"Perhaps if you corner him, as you did Mr. Bowman—"

"I've already tried that. But Travers won't do anything. He said he respects me." Scowling, Natalie had gone to join her parents and Mr. Bowman for the sleigh ride.

Once the sleighs had departed, the horses' hooves tamping down the snow and ice, bells jingling on bridles, the manor and grounds were peaceful. Hannah walked slowly through the manor, enjoying the serenity of the empty hallways. The only sounds were the distant muffled conversations of servants. No doubt they, too, were glad that the mass of guests were gone for the rest of the day and evening.

Hannah reached the library, which was empty and inviting, the air lightly pungent with the scents of vellum and leather. The fire in the hearth cast a warm glow through the room.

Seating herself in the chair by the fire, Hannah removed her shoes and drew one foot up beneath her. She took the letter from Samuel Clark from her pocket, broke the seal, and smiled at his familiar penmanship.

It was easy to picture Clark writing this letter, his face still and thoughtful, his fair hair a bit mussed as he leaned over his desk. He asked after her health and that of the Blandfords, and wished her a happy holiday. He proceeded to describe his latest interest in the subject of inherited characteristics as described by the French biologist Lamarck, and how it meshed with Clark's own theories of how repeated sensory information might be stored in the brain tissue itself, thereby contributing to the future adaptation of species. As usual, Hannah only understood about half of it... he would have to explain it later in a way that she could comprehend more easily.

He wrotes:!!!"As you see, I require your good, sensible companionship. If only you were here to listen to my thoughts as I explain them, I could arrange them more precisely. It is only at times like this, in your absence, that I realize nothing is complete when you are gone, my dear Miss Appleton. Everything seems awry.!!!It is my fondest hope that when you return, we will sort out our more personal issues. During the course of our work you have come to know my character, and my temperament. Perhaps by now my meager charms have made some sort of impression on you. I have few charms, I know. But you have so many, my dear, that I think yours will atone for my lack. I hope very much that you might do me the honor of becoming my partner, helpmate, and wife....

There was more, but Hannah folded the letter and stared blindly into the fire.

The answer would be yes, of course.

This is what you've wanted, she told herself. An honorable offer from a fine, decent man. Life would be interesting and fulfilling. It would better her to be the wife of such a brilliant man, to become acquainted with the people in his educated circles.

Why, then, did she feel so miserable?

"Why are you frowning?"

Hannah started in surprise as she heard a voice from the library threshold. Her eyes widened as she beheld Rafe Bowman standing there with his habitually negligent posture, one leg slightly bent as he leaned against the doorframe. He was in a perturbing state of undress, his vest unbuttoned, his collarless shirt open at the throat, no cravat anywhere in sight. Somehow the disarray only made him more handsome, emphasizing the relaxed masculine vitality that she found so disturbing.

"I... I... Why are you walking around half dressed?" Hannah managed to ask.

One of his shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug. "No one here."

"I'm here."

"Why aren't you at the sleighing party?"

"I wanted a bit of peace and privacy. Why aren't you at the sleighing party? Natalie will be disappointed—she was expecting—"

"Yes, I know," Bowman said without a trace of remorse. "But I'm tired of being watched like a bug under a magnifying glass. And more importantly, I had some business matters to discuss with my brother-in-law, who also stayed behind."

"Mr. Swift?"

"Yes. We went over contracts with a British heavy chemical company for sulphuric acid and soda supplies. Then we moved on to the fascinating topic of palm oil production." He came into the room, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. "We agreed that we'll eventually need to cultivate our own source by establishing a coco palm plantation." His brows lifted. "Care to go to the Congo with me?"

She stared directly into his sparkling eyes. "I wouldn't go with you to the end of the carriage lane, Mr. Bowman."

He laughed softly, his gaze sweeping over her as she stood to face him. "You didn't answer my earlier question. Why were you frowning?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Hannah fumbled nervously in the pocket of her skirts. "Mr. Bowman, I've been meaning to return this to you." Pulling out the little toy soldier, she extended her hand. "You must take him back. I think"—she hesitated—"you've been through many a battle together, you and he." She couldn't help glancing at his throat, where the skin looked smooth and golden. A bit lower, there was a shadow of hair where the open neck of his shirt parted. An unfamiliar, hot flourish of sensation went through her stomach. Dragging her gaze upward, she looked into eyes as rich and dark as exotic spices.

"If I take it back," he asked, "do I still owe you a forfeit?"

A smile struggled upward but didn't quite surface. "I'm not sure. I'll have to consider that."

Bowman reached out, but instead of taking the soldier from her, he closed his hand over hers, trapping the cool metal between their palms. His thumb moved in a gentle sweep over the back of her hand. The touch caused her to draw in a quick, severed breath. His fingers moved upward to close around her wrist, drawing her toward him. His head bent as he looked down at the letter still clasped in her fingers. "What is it?" he asked quietly. "What's worrying you? Trouble at home?"

Hannah gave a wild little shake of her head and forced a smile. "Oh, nothing's worrying me. I've received very good news. I'm—I'm happy!"

A sardonic, slanting glance. "So I see."

"Mr. Clark wants to marry me," she blurted out. For some reason, saying the words aloud sent a chill of panic through her.

His eyes narrowed. "Clark proposed by letter? He couldn't have troubled himself to come here and ask you in person?"

Although it was a perfectly reasonable question, Hannah felt defensive. "I find it very romantic. It's a love letter."

"May I see it?"

Her eyes turned round. "What makes you think I would show you something so personal, and—" She made a little sound of distress as he took the letter from her nerveless fingers. But she didn't try to take it back.

Bowman's face was expressionless as he glanced over the neatly written lines. "This isn't a love letter," he muttered, tossing it contemptuously to the floor. "It's a damned science report."

"How dare you!" Hannah bent to scoop the letter up, but he wouldn't let her. The toy soldier dropped as well, bouncing on the soft carpet as Bowman gripped her by the elbows.

"You're not actually considering it, are you? That cold-blooded, pathetic excuse for a marriage proposal?"

"Of course I am." Her anger exploded without warning, fueled by some deep and treacherous longing. "He's everything you're not, he's honorable and kind and gentlemanly—"

"He doesn't love you. He never will."

That hurt. In fact, the pain doubled and redoubled until Hannah could hardly breathe. She twisted angrily in his hold. "You think that because I'm poor and ordinary, someone like Mr. Clark couldn't love me. But you're wrong. He sees past—"

"Ordinary? Are you mad? You're the most insanely delicious girl I've ever met, and if I were Clark, I'd have done a hell of a lot more than fondle your cranium by now—"

"Don't mock me!"

"I'd have seduced you ten times over." He deliberately stepped on the letter. "Don't lie to me, or yourself. You're not happy. You don't want him. You're settling for this because you don't want to risk being an old maid."

"That's a fine accusation coming from you, you hypocrite!"

"I'm not a hypocrite. I've been honest with everyone, including Natalie. I'm not pretending to be in love. I don't pretend to want her the way I want you."

Hannah froze, staring at him in astonished silence. That he should admit it...

She realized she was breathing much too fast, and so was he. Her fingers curled over his sleeves, against his hard-muscled forearms. She wasn't certain if her grip was exerted to keep him close or hold him away.

"Tell me you're in love with him," Bowman said.

Hannah couldn't speak.

More soft insistence. "Then say you desire him. You should feel that much for him, at least."

A tremor ran all through her, spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes. She took the deepest breath possible, and managed a thin reply. "I don't know."

His expression changed, an odd half-smile coming to his lips, his eyes hot and predatory. "You don't know how to tell if you desire a man, sweetheart? I can help you with that."

"That kind of help," Hannah said with asperity, "I do not need." She stiffened as he brought her closer, his big hands sliding from her elbows to hook beneath her arms. Her pulse had gone wild, heat thrumming in every part of her.

He bent to kiss her. She made a halfhearted attempt to wriggle away, causing his mouth to catch at her cheek instead of her lips. Bowman didn't appear to mind. He seemed amenable to kissing any part of her he could reach, her cheeks, chin, jaw, the lobe of her ear. Hannah went still, panting as the kisses slid and skimmed over her hot face. She closed her eyes as she felt his lips catch at hers. Another soft, glancing brush, and another, and finally he closed his mouth over hers, deep and secure.

He tasted her with his tongue, searching slowly, and the voluptuous sensation blotted out every thought or flicker of reason. One arm went around her, and his head turned, and he kissed her more urgently. His free hand came up to her jaw, cradling and angling her face. He withdrew just enough to play with her, the fever-glazed caresses of his mouth coaxing her into openness, licking into the vulnerable heat.

The trembling grew worse, insidious pleasure melting through her like boiling sugar. As he tried to soothe her, the tender parts of her body began to throb beneath her clothes, all the laces and seams and stays cinching and clinging with maddening tightness. She struggled a little, chafing against the artificial restrictions. He seemed to understand. His lips left hers, his warm breath fanning the curve of her ear as his fingers went to her bodice. She heard her own moan of relief as she felt him unfastening her collar, and his reassuring whispers that he would take care of her, he would never hurt her, she must relax and trust him, relax... all this while his hand moved stealthily along her front, tugging and unfastening.

He kissed her again, a burning velvet caress that caused her knees to give out entirely. But the slow collapse didn't seem to matter, he was holding her securely and lowering her to the carpeted floor. She found herself sprawled half across him while he knelt amid the abundant rumples of her dress. Her garments had fallen in perplexing disarray, buttons undone and skirts riding up. She made a dazed attempt to restore something, cover something, but the way he kissed her made it impossible to think. He gently arranged her beneath him, his arm a hard support beneath her neck. She relaxed helplessly as his wicked mouth took hers over and over, feasting on the taste of her.

"The sweetest skin..." he whispered, kissing her throat, easing her bodice open. "Let me see you, Hannah love..." He pulled at the top of her chemise, exposing a pale breast that had been pushed full and high by her underbust corset. It was then that Hannah comprehended that she was on the floor with him, and he was uncovering parts of her that no man had ever seen.

"Wait—I shouldn't—you shouldn't—" But her protest was silenced as he bent over the plush curve, his lips closing over a cold stiffening nipple. Her throat hummed with a low whimper as his tongue swept over her in raw-velvet strokes.

"Rafe," she moaned, the first time she had ever said his name, and he let out a shaking breath and cupped both her breasts.

His voice was deep and rough. "I wanted this the first time I met you. I watched you sitting there with that little teacup in your hand, and I couldn't stop wondering what you tasted like here... and here..." He suckled each breast in turn, his hands coasting over her writhing body.

"Rafe," she gasped. "Please, I can't—"

"No one's here," he whispered against her prickling flesh. "No one will know. Hannah, sweet love... let me touch you. Let me show you how it feels to want someone as much as I want you..."

And he waited for her answer, breathing against her quivering skin, a warm hand covering her breast. She couldn't seem to keep entirely still, her knees flexing, her hips rising in answer to a deep, demanding pulse. She was saturated with sweetness and shame and need. She would never have him, she knew that. His life was set on a far different path from hers. He was forbidden. Perhaps that was the reason for this reckless attraction.

Before she quite knew it, she had reached up and guided his head to hers. He responded immediately, taking her mouth in a ravishing, hard-plundering kiss. His hands slipped beneath her clothes, finding tender pale skin, caressing in ways that made her shiver. A muffled cry escaped her as she felt him pulling at the tapes of her drawers. He touched her taut stomach, a fingertip circling her navel. His hand slid over soft curls, cupped her sex, and gently parted her thighs. She felt herself being stroked, petted, lightly spread, his touch careful and clever as if he were drawing a pattern on a frosted window. Except that the surface beneath his fingertips was not icy glass but soft living skin, flushed and burning with desperate sensation.

She had one blurry glimpse of his dark face above hers, his expression intent with lust. He toyed with her, seeming to savor her writhing agitation, his own color high and fevered. She clutched at him, hips arching, lips parted in a wordless plea. One of his fingers pushed inside her, just past the entrance of her body, and she jerked in shock.

His touch withdrew, the wet fingertip making sly, lingering circles around the aching peak of her sex. He pushed her legs apart wider, and kissed the tips of her breasts. His whisper burned against her skin. "If I wanted to take you now, Hannah, you would let me, wouldn't you? You'd let me enter you, fill you... If I asked you to let me come inside you, and ease you... what would you say, sweet darling?" He began a light, torturous massage. "Say it," he murmured. "Say it—"

"Yes." She clutched at him blindly, her breath coming in sobs. "Yes."

Rafe smiled, his gaze smoldering. "Then here's your forfeit, sweetheart."

He stroked her in a quick, skillful rhythm, covering her mouth with his to absorb her cries. He knew exactly what he was doing, his fingers wicked and sure. It seemed she might die of the annihilating release. She held and stiffened against it even as the pleasure began to rush, and rush, gaining power and force until she was helpless and consumed and shattered.

Slowly he brought her down, kissing and caressing her twitching body. His finger slid inside her once more, this time slipping easily into the wetness. The feel of the intimate muscles grasping him so firmly seemed to cause him pain. She lifted instinctively to take him, and he groaned and withdrew his finger, leaving her swollen flesh to clench on the emptiness.

Rafe's face was hard and sweat-misted as he took his hands from her. He stared down at her with unconcealed hunger, his eyes narrowed, his chest heaving. His hands trembled as he reached for the top hooks of her corset busk, the buttons of her dress, the disheveled undergarments. But as one of his knuckles brushed against her warm skin, he snatched his hands back abruptly and rose to his feet. "Can't," he said hoarsely.

"Can't what?" she whispered.

"Can't help with your clothes." An unsteady breath. "If I touch you again... I won't stop until you're naked."

Staring up at him dizzily, Hannah comprehended that the release, and relief, had been rather one-sided. He was dangerously aroused, to the limit of his self-control. She pulled the chemise higher over her naked breasts.

Rafe shook his head, still staring at her. His mouth was a grim slash. "If you want Clark to do the things I just did to you," he said, "then go ahead and marry him."

And he left her there in the library, as if to stay there a moment longer would have resulted in disaster for them both.