Joss waited for Margaret in the snowy yard. He felt on edge, the way he had the very first time he’d asked a girl to take a walk with him. Which was absurd, when then he’d been a stripling of thirteen, and now he was a grown man approaching thirty.

But the same suspense tightened his gut. The same anticipation sharpened his senses.

If he was honest, this was worse. The word at Eton had been that the bandmaster’s daughter was generous with her favors and would kiss any fellow behind the cricket pavilion in exchange for sixpence.

Miss Margaret Carr was made of sterner stuff.

Except this morning for a few tremulous seconds, she hadn’t looked stern at all. Instead she’d looked like a young girl stepping out of the shadows to discover a new world. And even better, she trusted Joss Hale to show her.

Since leaving her downstairs, he’d wandered the house in a daze. He hadn’t noted a single fine cornice or ill-favored window. Instead he’d seen the soft light entering those perfect blue eyes as she’d watched him kneeling at her feet.

For a few mad moments, he’d wanted to say that he kneeled in worship, not because, much more prosaically, he cleared up a broken plate.

“Will she come, Bob?” he asked the stocky pony he’d harnessed to the cart he’d found in the stables. “Or will she think better of it?”

Bob, an affectionate creature, he’d discovered, butted him with his head and whickered.

“No, I’m not sure either.”

If Margaret deigned to spend the afternoon with Joss, he needed to remember her innocence. Because he couldn’t pretend that he was that unworldly schoolboy. He knew what that soft flush on a lovely face meant. He even knew why she’d dropped the plate.

She wasn’t immune to the attraction flaring between them. If she were, she wouldn’t be nearly so jumpy. But while he might know the steps, this particular dance could only lead her to disaster.

He checked his pocket watch. It wasn’t one o’clock yet. Impatience ate at him. He’d been early for the bandmaster’s daughter, too.

At least the snow had stopped. Although if the weather cleared, honor dictated that he leave Thorncroft Hall and delay his return until this one too beguiling girl had more company.

Joss heard her boots squeak in the snow, and his heart rose as he turned to see her tramping toward him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found a female so bedazzling.

When had he started to lose his enthusiasm for the chase?

Perhaps he was spoiled. He was far from handsome, and his manners were atrocious. Not to mention he was the size of a barn. But he’d never had any trouble attracting women. Whereas Margaret was making him work for her favors.

“My goodness.” She stared at the cart. “You’re taking this seriously.”

He gestured toward the basket hanging off her arm. “You’re not.”

She smiled, and his heart performed one of those flips that were becoming almost commonplace in her presence.

Margaret was completely bundled up against the cold. Thick coat, gloves, shawl wrapped around her head, giving the barest hint of the rich red hair that colored his dreams. The only part of her left uncovered was her piquant face.

Yet Joss found himself more powerfully seduced than he’d ever been by a reckless widow, welcoming him into her bed and wearing the merest whisper of silk.

Despite the cold, his blood warmed at the thought of Margaret wearing a whisper of silk.

“Remember that anything that goes up has to come down after Twelfth Night, and the person most likely to be cleaning up is me.”

He wanted to say that he’d be here, too. That he’d never leave.

Which was utterly mad. The house, however lovely, was in the middle of nowhere. He’d known the girl for three days.

A fortnight ago, he’d come close to quarreling with his mother, when he’d said he wasn’t coming home for Christmas because he couldn’t tolerate her matchmaking. Yet right now, if some angel floated down and asked him what he wanted for Christmas, he’d say he wanted to look at Margaret Carr until the day he died.

Sheer lunacy.

Joss summoned a light tone—more difficult than he’d expected—and sent the girl a mocking glance. “Tch. Tch. It’s poor spirited to be so hardheaded at Christmastime. If all we did was worry about cleaning up, we’d never do a damned thing.”

She frowned, although laughter still danced in those lovely eyes. “Your family will miss you. You’re clearly the king of Christmas.”

He should feel guilty. They would miss him, especially his mother, who loved nothing better than getting the whole family under one roof for the Festive Season. It would seem odd, not going down to the old house on the Sussex Downs, the house that had first sparked his love for fine architecture.

“I’d rather be here with you,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Maggie looked startled. “Thank you.” She considered his statement further. “I think.”

He spoke quickly to gloss over the sudden awkwardness. “If anywhere needs a visit from the king of Christmas, it’s Thorncroft. Why, when I arrived, you wouldn’t know it was the Festive Season at all. Not a ribbon. Not a garland. Not even so much as an echo of a carol. It’s like the house Christmas forgot.”

“Well, you’re fixing that,” she said drily.

He reached over to take her basket and toss it into the back of the cart. “See? I note a hint of cynicism. That’s the sort of attitude we have to change. And fast. Clearly this is a Christmas emergency, and that’s why fate has sent me to your door. There’s no time to be lost. Point me to the woodlands.”

Maggie laughed. And found herself laughing again and again, as she and Mr. Hale wandered the snowy woods behind the house in search of greenery. She’d thought they’d cut a few sprigs of holly before they headed home, but the cart was soon laden with boughs of pine and holly, enough to make the whole house bright.

The weather held while they were outside. Now and again, there was a glimmer of pale sunlight through the thick clouds. But as they turned back to the manor, the snow started again.

She turned her face up to the flakes and out of childish habit, stuck her tongue out to catch a couple. When she realized Mr. Hale was watching her, she blushed at her nonsense.

“It’s supposed to be lucky,” she said defensively.

“I hadn’t heard that.” He stared at her as if he’d never seen a woman before.

“Mamma and I used to play games in the snow. I don’t know if it’s a real superstition or not, but we always did it.” Her eyes flickered down, then up again. “You must think I’m silly.”

He smiled at her, and her foolish heart stuttered, although surely only the fading light lent such tenderness to his expression. “It’s nice to see you being a bit silly. You mostly seem to take life very earnestly.”

She should tell him to mind his own business. But she found herself responding honestly. “In recent years, I haven’t had much fun. We used to. Papa was a very jolly vicar. Everyone loved him, and his parishioners were devastated when he died. They wanted us to stay in the village, but they were so poor themselves, we couldn’t take their charity. Mamma and I continued to celebrate Christmas after we came here. I just…I just seem to have got out of the habit.” She smiled at Joss. “Thank you for reminding me that it’s the season of goodwill, not the season for sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”

“You’re such a sparkling girl.” Her gratitude didn’t seem to please him. Instead he looked troubled. “You should have the world at your feet.”

She fought to keep her smile in place, although she cringed at the poor figure she cut with her lack of sophistication and drab clothes. When she’d give anything to dazzle him with her wit and beauty.

And all was not lost. He’d called her sparkling.

“Well, I do have the king of Christmas in my thrall,” she said lightly.

To her surprise, he touched her cheek with one leather-gloved hand. The contact was over in an instant. Surely she must imagine the blast of heat sizzling through her, heat that made a mockery of the freezing air.

“You do at that,” he said softly.

Her lungs stopped working, and she found herself enmeshed in his gaze, unable to break free.

Bob shattered the stasis. He butted his square head against Mr. Hale’s arm, protesting at standing still in the falling temperature. Maggie watched Mr. Hale come back to reality, as he turned to rub the pony’s nose.

Bob was clearly his devoted slave. Joss Hale had a gift for inspiring affection, Maggie had noticed. She hated to think she was quite as susceptible as Bob was to the man’s disheveled charms, but she suspected she was. Right now after her happiest hours in years, she couldn’t summon the will to resist a fall that began to seem inevitable.

“We’re too slow for Bob.” Maggie caught a faint huskiness in Mr. Hale’s voice that hinted he, too, had felt that strange connection with her.

He started to walk back toward the house, one hand holding Bob’s bridle, not that he needed leading. The pony had been born on this estate. Maggie fell into step beside them. An unexpectedly tranquil silence descended, broken only by the crunch of feet in the snow. The rest of the world lay hushed under the curtain of white.

When she stumbled over a branch buried in the snow, Mr. Hale took her arm, and she didn’t pull away.

“There’s another Christmas superstition in the valley,” she said, after they’d covered most of the way back.

“Oh?”

“Yes. If a stranger crosses your threshold in Advent, it means good luck.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “I hope to God that’s true.”

“I’m sure it is.”

But was she? When he left, she’d feel lonelier than ever. She’d barely endured her humdrum life, when she’d had nothing to compare it to. But after a mere three days in the company of this vigorous, attractive man, she already knew that Thorncroft would feel like a desert when Mr. Hale was gone.