Lyons Place
Christmas Eve, 1854

Westcliffe had long yearned to hear the halls of his estate manor filled to overflowing with laughter, tittering, and music.

It was the first time his family had spent Christmas at Lyons Place since his father had died. He could barely countenance the joy he felt as he stood in the large parlor and listened while Beth played the pianoforte, with Lord Greenwood looking on. They had married in June.

The tree in the corner was magnificently decorated, with an abundance of presents waiting below it. Westcliffe was particularly pleased with his gift for Claire. He did hope she would like it. He had found the cradle in the attic and refurbished it himself: sanding and painting and imagining all the Lyonses who had lain within it—just as he and Stephen had.

His mother was sitting on the settee, her hand on Leo’s thigh. He wondered how much longer she would keep the young artist in her life. She’d certainly held on to him longer than any of the lovers who’d come before him.

Lynnford had brought his family. His three daughters were singing carols while his two sons sat idly by and listened. He was particularly solicitous of his wife as she lounged in a corner, two shawls draped over her narrow shoulders.

Holding a snifter of brandy, Ainsley ambled over and nodded toward the Countess of Lynnford. “I don’t think she’s well.”

“I thought she looked rather diminished.”

“Mother is planning to take her for the mineral waters after the holidays. They share such a close bond of friendship that I’m not sure what Mother will do if she loses her.”

“Lynnford either. He’s been a good example of how a man should treat his wife.” If only he’d reflected sooner on what their guardian had taught them.

“Your wife certainly seems to be blossoming,” Ainsley murmured.

Westcliffe couldn’t prevent the pride and joy from bubbling up within him. “She’s with child.”

And this time, nothing on God’s earth would take the babe from them.

Ainsley clinked his glass against Westcliffe’s. “Jolly good for you. Mother will be beside herself with happiness.”

“Yes, I think the news will be good for her.”

Ainsley shifted his stance. “I received confirmation from the War Office. Stephen is in the thick of things in the Crimea. Mother doesn’t say anything, but I think she knows.”

“I’m certain she does. She has an amazing circle of influence.”

“This war in the Crimea, I’m not certain I like having it served to me at breakfast every morning. The reporters telegraphing their news each day—as I understand it we’ve never had this immediacy of reporting before. Brings the war closer to home, doesn’t it?”

“Which is where it should be, if you ask me. Our lads are off fighting for Queen and country. They should not be forgotten.”

“We picked a bloody bad time to purchase him a commission.”

Westcliffe nodded in agreement. “Knowing Stephen, he’ll use the opportunity to experience Russian women.”

“But dear God, I hear it’s cold over there.”

“Then he’ll definitely be in some woman’s bed, for warmth if nothing else.”

“I bloody well hope so.”

Wearing a mischievous smile, Claire strolled over, Fen trotting along at her hem. “What are you two talking about so solemnly?”

Not wishing to spoil the joy of the occasion, Westcliffe said, “That it’s time for Ainsley to begin looking for a wife.”

“The hell you say,” Ainsley muttered, and stalked off.

With a laugh, Claire slipped beneath Westcliffe’s arm, and whispered, “I know exactly whom you were talking about. Will it upset you to know that I miss him?”

There was a time when it would have but no longer. He was confident in her loyalty to him. “I do as well,” he said quietly.

The song Beth was playing came to an end. She banged two deep keys to gain attention. “May we unwrap the gifts now?”

The gathering gave their enthusiastic support for the notion and turned to their host and hostess.

“By all means,” Claire said.

Before she could move away, Westcliffe tightened his hold on her and lifted his glass. “I wish to make a toast first.”

A hush fell over the room as other glasses were lifted.

“I shall start by saying that no matter what gifts await me beneath the tree, Claire has already given me the best of all: her love.” Leaning over, seeing the tears in her eyes, he gave her a quick kiss and the promise for a lengthier one later.

“Hear! Hear!” those surrounding them cheered.

Westcliffe nodded and raised his glass again. “I also want to thank you all for coming. I have long wanted this manor to echo the sounds of joy and family. This night it does, and I cannot express my gratitude.”

He lifted his glass higher. “And last, a toast to Stephen. May God be with our brother and may he return home by next Christmas.”

The hear, hear was a bit more somber. But he’d known Claire would take the matter in hand to return the gaiety. “Beth, as you’re so anxious to receive gifts, why don’t you hand out yours first?”

“I shall be delighted.” She got up from the bench and fairly skipped over to the tree.

Claire snuggled against Westcliffe. “I do love you.”

And as he’d said in his toast, that was the greatest gift of all.