The following morning dawned cold and clear, with a crisp frost limning every blade and branch. But the clouds had vanished, and the sun shone steadily if weakly from a sky of pale cerulean blue. It had been chilly in the shadows of the Fulsom Hall woods, but by the time Therese turned her gig into the Grange’s drive, the sunshine had melted the ice, and the gravel crunched softly under the gig’s wheels.

At eleven o’clock on the dot, devoid of her usual entourage, she drove into the forecourt of Dutton Grange.

She’d dropped off her grandchildren thirty yards down the drive, where a bend gave them cover from the house. Lottie and George would wait for Eugenia there, while Jamie was already making his way into the gardens. He would keep watch and go into the house once he saw Therese exit with his lordship in tow.

Christian Longfellow was not going to know what had hit him.

Smiling, Therese drew up with a flourish, and as soon as Jiggs appeared, she handed him the reins. “I expect to be here for an hour or so, Jiggs.”

“Very good, my lady. I’ll take your beast around to the stable yard. Just have them send when you’re ready to leave.”

“Thank you.” Therese was already on her way to the front door.

At her peremptory tugging on the bell chain, Hendricks opened the door, saw it was her, and immediately stepped back. “My lady. His lordship is in the library.” The large man paused, then inquired, “Would you like to wait here, or should I announce you?”

Therese beamed. “Good man—indeed, there’s no sense in wasting time. Do simply announce me.”

Hendricks bowed, closed the door, and led the way down the hall to the library. He opened the door, walked in two paces, and declaimed, “Lady Osbaldestone, my lord.”

Christian jerked to attention, his gaze rising from contemplation of the chessboard laid out on the small table before his armchair. He was playing against himself. Hardly exciting, but none of the other males in the household had mastered the game well enough to provide any decent competition.

As Hendricks’s words sank in, he didn’t even have time to roll his eyes before her ladyship swept into the room. Her black gaze skewered him. Perforce, he pushed awkwardly to his feet.

He hadn’t been walking enough lately, the weather being what it was, and his leg was stiffer than it should have been, leaving him feeling unbalanced even when he was not. He planted his cane and made it to his feet without toppling over. “Lady Osbaldestone.” He sketched a bow, then bluntly asked, “How can we help you today?”

Instead of answering, she came forward, apparently drawn by his game of chess. She studied the chessboard for several seconds, then pointed. “Knight takes the castle, and then you’re in check.”

He frowned at the board. He hadn’t noticed that move, but she was correct. From beneath his brows, he glanced at her. “You play?”

“My late husband was an aficionado. I helped him practice.”

He would study the move later. Straightening, he repeated, “How may we assist you?”

He had to be polite to her. After yesterday’s encounter, he’d endured an evening of reproachful looks from Hendricks and Jiggs, and even Mrs. Wright. Apparently, they all felt he should have been kinder to Miss Fitzgibbon, who had merely come by as a neighbor to confess to damaging his property and discuss putting matters right.

Perfectly understandable, only he hadn’t seen it that way.

He remembered Eugenia Fitzgibbon quite well, and if he hadn’t paid much attention to her in the past, now, she represented everything he felt his injuries had taken from him—any hope of a decent marriage, of children. Of family and a true home.

Pushing such maunderings deep, he fixed his attention on Lady Osbaldestone.

She was still frowning at the chessboard. Then she looked up and met his eyes. “You’re playing against yourself?”

He nodded.

“Well, someday, I’ll have to invite you for dinner, and we can see if you measure up to my mark.”

He swallowed a snort; he’d had a great deal of time to practice while waiting for his injuries to heal, and he was just short of being considered a master.

“Meanwhile, however, I’m here to beg your indulgence over searching your outbuildings for any sign of these infernal geese. I realize none of your people have seen any sign of them, but it’s unlikely that they specifically searched for any hint of the geese having passed this way. If we’re to track the wretched birds, then we need to eliminate the areas through which they haven’t been.”

He could appreciate the logic of that approach, but… “It seems unlikely that the geese reached here without first crossing any of the properties in between.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Who can tell with geese?”

That was unarguable. He glanced outside and was surprised to see that it wasn’t raining or snowing or sleeting. He hadn’t been out for days, and he really should stretch his legs.

The door opened, and Hendricks walked in. “Your pardon, my lord, but Johnson wants to know if you want the gate exactly as it was before or if it’s all right to alter the position of the struts when he puts on the new ones?”

That was another sore point; his staff had not been at all pleased with his order to replace the gate immediately if not sooner. Especially as it seemed the Hall had the right sort of tools and were usually the ones to build the gates in the locality, but Christian had insisted his people repair the gate themselves. Which they could certainly do, but the price, apparently, was a great deal of grumbling.

If he allowed Lady Osbaldestone to search through his outbuildings, then he really should accompany her, shouldn’t he?

He nodded to Hendricks. “Tell Johnson to do whatever he thinks is best. Meanwhile”—he waved Lady Osbaldestone to the door—“her ladyship and I will be checking the outbuildings to ensure no sign of the missing geese has been inadvertently overlooked.”

As he followed a transparently approving Lady Osbaldestone into the hall, then led her to the side door, Christian reflected that this was all to the good. Opening the side door, he stood back to allow her to precede him. “I haven’t done more than take a cursory look at the outbuildings since I returned. I can check over the structures while we search.”

Lady Osbaldestone smiled and stepped out onto the side terrace. “Of course, dear. We’ve plenty of time to take a good look around.”

* * *

With a huge bag of holly hanging from one hand, Eugenia dragged in a breath of cold winter air, held it, and knocked smartly on the door of Dutton Grange. She didn’t use the bell; she didn’t know how loudly it rang and where in the house it rang. Lady Osbaldestone had said fifteen minutes would do for her to winkle Christian Longfellow out of his house. With Lottie and George holding a basket full of fir boughs and ivy and waiting impatiently beside her, Eugenia had had no option but to place her faith in their grandmother’s abilities.

The door opened. A curious Hendricks looked out.

Before he could say anything, Eugenia asked, “Is his lordship still in the house?”

Hendricks frowned. “He’s just stepped out with Lady Osbaldestone.”

“Excellent!” Eugenia stepped forward, all but pushing Hendricks back with the prickly bag of holly.

“Ow!” Hendricks gave way. “What’s that?”

“Holly.” Eugenia set the bag down and waved at George and Lottie as they tottered in behind her. “And fir boughs and ivy.”

Hendricks looked as if he wasn’t sure what expression he should adopt. Eventually, he said, “I suppose you’re absolutely set on putting this stuff about.”

“Indeed.” Eugenia was already surveying the hall. “And I intend to open up all the rooms, so please explain that to Mrs. Wright later. It’s all a part of our plan to bring Christmas to his lordship and this house.”

“Hmm.” Hendricks pondered for a moment more, then slowly—as if working through the train of thought—said, “If you’re not to be dissuaded, then as his lordship’s representative, as it were, I should probably help you rather than cause a flap, because it would surely be worth my head if you”—he switched his gaze to the two children standing innocently nearby—“or either of these tykes were injured.” He looked at Eugenia. “That sound right to you, miss?”

Eugenia met Hendricks’s eyes, read the message therein, and crisply nodded. “Quite right, Hendricks. Viewed in that fashion, it would be worth your position not to help us.”

Hendricks nodded heavily. “That’s what I thought.” He went to lift the basket Lottie and George were dragging. “Here, let me get that.” Lifting the basket in his arms, he turned to Eugenia. “So where do we start? The drawing room?”

They started in there, dragging the curtains wide, removing the shrouding Holland covers, and draping fir boughs artfully accented with sprigs of holly over the wide mantelpiece and on various side tables. At one point, Mrs. Wright bustled in, saw what they were doing, primmed her lips for a moment, then nodded and walked to the pile of Holland covers and swept them into her arms. “I’ll be right glad to see the last of these.”

With that, she bustled out.

Eugenia exchanged a glance with Hendricks, then, smiling, continued decorating.

From the drawing room, they progressed to the morning room and the dining room and eventually girded their loins and tackled the library, a room Eugenia gathered was Christian’s lair for brooding. She hung as much holly, bright with red berries, as she could about the mantelpiece in there.

Lord James put his head around the door. He patted the satchel hanging from his shoulder. “I have more stuff here. I’ll just put it out, shall I?”

Eugenia nodded. “Do.” George and Lottie came to hand her more holly. When she looked up again, James had vanished.

Hendricks was staring at the door. “I think I’ll just go and help him.”

Leaving Eugenia, George, and Lottie putting holly all over the library, Hendricks moved silently through the downstairs rooms until he heard the telltale scrape of furniture being dragged.

He tracked the sound to the dining room and found Lord James trying to haul a carver closer to the door.

Hendricks halted in the doorway. Lord James looked up at him.

Then Jamie smiled a sweet, beguiling smile, reached into his satchel, and showed Hendricks what he had to hang. “I want to put it up over the doorways. I have pins.” Jamie showed Hendricks those, too.

“Mistletoe.” Hendricks humphed. “Complete with berries.”

“My mama says it’s not much use without the berries. No kisses.”

Hendricks nodded his great head. “That’s true.” He swiveled to look at the top of the doorway, within easy reach for him. “Here.” He held out a meaty paw. “Give me that and a pin, and I’ll get it up for you. No need to disturb the furniture.”

Jamie grinned and complied.

Meanwhile, having done their best in the library, Eugenia carried the bag with the remaining fir boughs, tendrils of trailing ivy, and the last bunches of holly into the front hall. “I’ll use what’s left in here, I think.” She set the bag down by the huge hearth that dominated the end wall of the long hall. “Why don’t you two find your brother and then go out to the gig and wait? I won’t be long, and then we really should be on our way.”

George, carrying their now-empty basket, nodded. He took Lottie’s hand. “We’ll wait out there. Jamie will find us.” With that, the pair headed for the front door.

Eugenia turned to the fireplace. Her hands on her hips, she surveyed the massive stone coping above it; she had little doubt it dated from medieval times. From the corner of her eye, she saw the groom—Jiggs, wasn’t it?—watching from the corridor leading to the staff’s quarters. Distinctly, she stated, “I’m going to need a ladder if I’m to manage this.” After a second, she added, “But first, I think I’ll go upstairs and open some of the curtains up there.”

She turned on her heel, went to the stairs, and swiftly climbed. She paused on the half landing to haul the curtains covering the large stained glass window wide; she spent a few minutes tying the curtains back with the cords that dangled on either side. Then she quickly climbed to the first floor and opened every curtain along the gallery.

Then she went back down the stairs—and grinned when she saw a tall ladder propped against the wall beside the fireplace. “Thank you,” she sang and hurried to it.

* * *

The outbuildings of Dutton Grange were extensive. As well as the usual barn and stable, there was a sizeable toolshed, a small forge, a workshop, a gardener’s shed, and three long, glassed greenhouses, two of which were not presently in use.

Therese insisted on walking through every building, surveying the floors, the rafters, looking into corners. Christian paced alongside her, also taking note, but he was patently more interested in the fabric of the buildings than in any evidence of feathered occupancy.

She wasn’t entirely surprised they found no trace of the missing geese. “It’s a mystery as to where those birds have gone,” she said as she stepped out of the last greenhouse. Their wanderings had taken them far from the house.

Christian joined her. He pulled the door of the greenhouse shut behind them, then gestured to a path that wound through the gardens. “We can go back to the house that way.”

Therese was perfectly happy to stroll in that direction. She glanced sidelong at Christian as he fell into step beside her. “The estate seems to be prospering.”

He shrugged. “It’s doing well enough.” She remained silent and waited, and after a minute, he went on, “I’ve spent the last months, ever since I returned here, overhauling everything to do with the estate. My father was a decent manager, but he wasn’t inclined to try new methods, and over the last years, his health had been failing, and the estate had largely been left to manage itself. As you probably know, no estate does well under such circumstances for long. But I was lucky, and the base was still there—the fundamentals were sound. I just needed to reshape things, invest here and there as needed, and encourage the tenant farmers and our own workers to go forward with their best plans, to implement their best ideas.”

“But that’s largely completed now, isn’t it? Your taking up of the reins, as it were?”

He nodded. “Now, it’s simply a matter of keeping things on track.”

“So what are you going to do with your days? What challenge is next on your list?”

A frown slowly gathered in his eyes and bleakness invested his expression, then he shrugged and looked down. “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

Therese eyed him with a mixture of compassion and impatience; she had a shrewd suspicion he knew what he wanted, but had convinced himself that courtesy of his injuries, that prize had moved forever beyond his reach.

We’ll see about that.

Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, he grew more uncomfortable—positively twitchy. She was perfectly capable of walking briskly, but had been deliberately pacing slowly and making overt use of her cane.

He glanced at the house. Then he blinked and frowned.

Following his gaze, she realized he’d noticed the now-open curtains. However, judging by his puzzled expression, she didn’t think he’d pinpointed what precisely about his house had changed.

He took an impulsive step forward, then swung to her. “As there was no trace of the geese, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to the house. There are matters I need to deal with.”

If only he knew…

Regally, she inclined her head. “Of course, dear. And thank you for your time. By all means, go ahead. I’ll stroll back more slowly.”

With a crisp nod, he turned and strode rapidly for the house.

Therese watched him go. Slowly, she smiled. She’d kept a mental note of the minutes ticking past; she rather thought the timing of his return would prove particularly fortuitous.

She arched her brows and started walking more briskly. “In one way or another.”

* * *

Christian was mentally shaking his head and trying to fathom just what his still-well-honed instincts were attempting to tell him when he walked into his house via the side door and paced into the rear of the front hall.

The sight that met his eyes halted him in his tracks.

A slender figure in a cherry-red pelisse was clinging to the very top of a long ladder and reaching—stretching—to place a bough of dark-green fir over the very top of the stone coping above the fireplace.

Shock and a sharp spike of an unfamiliar fear had him barking, “Good God, woman! What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

He’d forgotten how powerful his voice—accustomed to vying with the roar of battle—was.

Eugenia jumped and swung around—far too fast.

The ladder shifted, then started to slowly slide to the side…

She fought to regain her balance, but that only made things worse.

Uttering a small cry, she let go of the ladder and fell.

Appalled, Christian saw it all.

He would have sworn he couldn’t have made it in time, that his injured leg would never have permitted it.

He was every bit as surprised as she when he was there to snatch her into his arms, taking her weight, and even though he stumbled back a step, he managed to keep them both upright.

The ladder clanged and bounced on the flagstones.

Hendricks, Jamie, and Jiggs had been hanging the last of the mistletoe in the drawing room; on hearing Christian’s bellow, they’d cautiously peeked out into the hall.

They saw the pair before the fireplace—Eugenia held safely in Christian’s arms. Her hands on his shoulders, she was staring down at him, shock and a type of wonder very clear in her face, while Christian, unmoving, stared up at her.

The three glanced at each other, then, as one, silently withdrew.

Christian felt stunned on more levels than one. He stared into Eugenia’s lightly flushed face, into eyes of summer blue that to his starved senses seemed to hold the promise of sunny days stretching into a halcyon future. His body responded to the feel of a woman in his arms, to the supple feminine strength, the seductive curves.

Parts of him he’d regarded as virtually dead stirred to unabashed life.

He might be hideously disfigured, he might be permanently lame, but he was still a man.

His senses, his nerves, his very skin clamored with that message while his blood pounded a steady, relentless, insistent beat in his veins.

He’d once been precisely the sort of gentleman his handsomeness had entitled him to be; ladies had always been easy come, easy go. In those days, his bed had rarely been cold. Even in the army, wherever they’d been billeted, he’d had his pick of the ladies.

He told himself the intensity of his reaction to Eugenia Fitzgibbon was merely due to the enforced celibacy of the past year. But only a small part of him believed that. The better part of his mind was curious and intent on pursuing what it sensed was…something different.

Something desirable.

Potentially exceedingly desirable in many more ways than one.

All sorts of ideas—all sorts of witty ripostes—started to bubble up in his mind as the man he’d thought he’d left on the battlefield at Talavera staged a resurgence, returning to life…

No. No, no, no. That self no longer fitted. That couldn’t be him—he couldn’t be that man, not as he now was.

Throughout, he’d been drinking in the startled beauty of Eugenia’s face. Tracing her features, recognizing her fluster—taking a distinctly masculine delight in it.

Then her hands tightened on his shoulders. He sensed she was about to push back and away—to struggle.

He didn’t want that.

Moving carefully—still not sure his leg wouldn’t give way—he eased his hold on her and bent slightly, letting her slide down and gently setting her on her feet.

Gripping her waist, narrow enough that his long fingers nearly spanned it, he set her away from him.

She blinked, then faintly frowned.

It took more effort than he’d expected to peel his fingers from her, to release her. He forced himself to take a step back, just to be on the safe side.

Her frown darkened a trifle, but then she cleared her throat and, in a rather husky voice, said, “Thank you.” A second passed, then her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t roared at me.”

He looked up at what she’d been doing. Finally saw the fir boughs draped over the mantel and higher, carefully arranged around the high stone coping.

Registered the scent—one that evoked so many memories and brought them flooding back to him. Childhood Christmases with his mother still alive, and him and his brother running about the house, laughing and playing.

His hands rising to his hips, he turned away. In that instant, he didn’t know what the emotion filling him was.

Didn’t know who he was as he felt it.

His eyes focused, and he raked the front hall; glancing through the open dining room doorway, he took in the entirety of the decorations. He filled his lungs. “What the de—deuce have you done to my house?”

His tone would have had his troopers cringing.

Eugenia Fitzgibbon merely sniffed. “You were the one who refused to allow me—the Fulsom Hall estate—to make proper reparation for your damaged gate.”

When he swung to face her, she calmly continued, “This”—with a gesture, she encompassed all the greenery—“is the means of restitution left to me. I’ve decorated your house for the season.” Her gaze was sharp as her eyes met his. “It was the least I could do.”

“I fail to see the logic.”

“There’s logic, and then there’s common courtesy—the way things are done, at least here in Little Moseley. You might have forgotten, but we haven’t.”

He couldn’t swear at her. He glared instead.

She glared back.

The front door opened, and Lady Osbaldestone swanned in. “There you are, Eugenia, dear. I saw your gig outside and wondered.”

From the rear of the hall, Hendricks stumped forward. He nodded briefly to Lady Osbaldestone and Miss Fitzgibbon, then fixed Christian with an exasperated look. “Johnson has more questions about the gate. Best if you come and speak to him directly.”

Lady Osbaldestone seized the opening. “We won’t detain you, Lord Longfellow.” She beckoned Eugenia to join her. “Come, my dear. We can drive out together.”

Eugenia swiped up her bag, then dropped Christian a perfunctory curtsy. “Good day, Lord Longfellow.” You ungrateful wretch.

Christian clearly heard the words she forbore to utter aloud. He forced himself to nod—a distant, arrogant nod—to her, then directed a less fraught courtesy at Lady Osbaldestone.

Women!

Lady Osbaldestone smiled, nodded, and whisked Eugenia Fitzgibbon out of his door and drew it closed behind them.

Christian shook his head, then turned to Hendricks. Christian hesitated, then said, “Tell Johnson I’ll be there in a few minutes to talk about the damned gate.”

* * *

Beside Lady Osbaldestone, Eugenia walked with brisk, agitated strides across the forecourt to the waiting gigs.

Once she felt far enough removed from the house, she muttered, “That didn’t go well. No doubt he’ll tear everything down again. Or get Hendricks and Mrs. Wright to do it.”

Therese smiled and patted her arm. “Have faith, my dear. In actuality, we’ve made an excellent start. Your true accomplishment today doesn’t lie in greenery and pleasant scents but in opening his lordship’s eyes and forcing him to see again. That will, I judge, greatly aid his household in rehabilitating him as far as they are able. That is the real repair going on here, not anything to do with any gate or the house, much less seasonal decorations, however festive.”

They reached the gigs, and Therese halted and smiled at Lottie and George, already on the seat, and at Jamie, who was holding the reins of both carriages. “Now,” Therese declared, “we need to plan our next move.”

Eugenia relieved Jamie of the reins to her gig. The sidelong look she cast Therese declared she was aware that she was being manipulated, but in the circumstances—given the target was Christian Longfellow, who was the principal source of her present irritation—she was prepared to go along with Therese’s direction. “So what,” Eugenia asked, “is our next move to be?”

Therese tipped her head, clearly thinking, then admitted, “That, I fear, requires further cogitation. Leave it with me, my dear. I’ll send word once I decide.”

Eugenia was ready enough to leave the scene of their most recent rout.

Therese waved Jamie up, then paused to ask Eugenia, “Have you had any further trouble with your brother’s friends?”

Settling on her gig’s seat, Eugenia, faintly puzzled, replied, “No. They appear to be behaving themselves. At the very least, they’re much quieter.”

Therese climbed to the box seat of her gig, sat, and took the reins from Jamie. She smiled rather intently. “Do let me know if they cause any further difficulties. Just send word, and I’ll drop around.”

Clearly recalling the effect Therese had had on the Hall’s visitors, Eugenia nodded. “Thank you. If they revert to their worst, I will.”

“Excellent!” With a salute, Therese sent her mare clopping out of the forecourt and on down the drive.

Behind her, Eugenia brought her gig around and followed.

* * *

From his vantage point behind the drawing room curtain—now opened, forcing him to peek around the curtain’s edge—Christian watched the pair of gigs roll away. Turning from the sight, he humphed. He’d seen them talking—plotting. No doubt planning their next assault. He knew a tactical retreat when he saw one.

“Damned females!”

He started back toward the front hall—and only then saw the mistletoe tacked above the doorway. “Good God!”

He reached up and ripped the straggly greenery down. Then he thought to look into the other rooms. Lips tightening, he pulled down the bunches pinned above each door.

He tossed the leaves onto the hall table, then stalked to the library. He opened the door and looked up.

“Damn it! Even here.”

He pulled the last small bunch down. He stared at it—at the thin leaves, fine twigs, and firm white berries spread on his palm.

For a full minute, he stared at the sight while one part of him—the sane, logical, disillusioned part—prodded him to go into the hall and fling this last bunch in with the rest to be removed by his staff.

He had no idea why, instead, his fingers curled, and his hand moved and slipped that last bunch into his pocket.

He tried to find a reason, but couldn’t; all he knew was that keeping that last little bit of mistletoe somehow soothed him. Somehow, in some way, keeping that—holding on to its promise—felt right.

* * *

The following day, the weather turned utterly miserable. Gray clouds loured threateningly, and alternating gusts of sleet and snow kept everyone indoors. Therese vetoed any thoughts of attending Sunday service even though the church lay only across the lane. She was not about to risk her grandchildren coming down with colds or even something worse, especially not so close to Christmas. She felt sure Reverend Colebatch would understand. She wasn’t even sure he would hold services that day; she consulted Crimmins, but like her, he hadn’t heard the church bells that morning, although they agreed that could be because the wind was so atrociously strong it might have blown the sound away.

All that being so, Therese did not appreciate being confined within her walls, even such comfortable walls as those of Hartington Manor. Thick and in perfect repair, the walls held in the warmth of the fires that by her orders were kept glowing in all the hearths. She’d had the windows attended to that summer, and all fitted snugly, denying entry to even the most determined draft. But while the atmosphere was cozy and undeniably comforting, her interest in the usual indoor pursuits with which ladies of her station filled their time was severely limited. Embroidery had never been her forte.

Letter writing was the one ladylike indoor activity she had always considered useful—indeed, worthwhile. Consequently, that morning, she had taken refuge in her private parlor.

Her grandchildren had slipped through the door in her wake.

As she’d settled at the desk set beneath one window, she’d wondered whether she would be able to concentrate on her correspondence with the three imps in the same room, but somewhat to her surprise, she found their chatter—suitably muted—a pleasant background sound, and their antics more often provided fodder for her scribing rather than inhibited her eloquence.

By eleven o’clock, she’d written two thick letters to close friends, and a general report to Celia on her children’s well-being.

While she’d been thus engaged, her mind had continued to examine her latest plan for drawing Christian Longfellow back into the village fold. Having found nothing in that plan over which to cavil, nothing she thought needed further adjustment or alteration, she set the finished letter to Celia on top of the other two, then opened the second drawer on the left of her desk and drew out a small stack of thick ivory cards.

After setting the cards to one side, on a sheet of plain paper, she scrawled a quick outline of what she intended to inscribe, then listed the recipients. She paused to consider the list, then nodded to herself, positioned the first invitation on the blotter, dipped her nib in the inkpot, and started to write.

After finishing the first invitation, she sat back to examine it, then she blotted it, placed it with the letters, and paused to glance at her grandchildren.

Jamie and George were playing on the hearthrug with a set of toy soldiers that, thank heaven, they’d brought with them. The boys were apparently engrossed in recreating some battle that involved much cannon fire and explosions, along with cavalry charges, if the noises emanating from before the fireplace were any indication.

Lottie, meanwhile, had lost interest. Clutching her doll, she had climbed up on the chair beside the desk and, on her knees, leant over to study the card Therese had laid atop her letters. “Your writing is very pretty, Grandmama.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Therese lifted another card from the stack and set it on her blotter. As she picked up her pen, she glanced at her granddaughter. “You’ll have to practice your writing when you grow older. A gentleman may scrawl, but a lady’s hand should be clear and legible, yet elegant and refined.”

She carefully transcribed the second of her invitations, with Lottie’s eyes following every stroke. Sitting back, Therese scanned her effort, then smiled, blotted, and placed that invitation with the first. Almost to herself, she murmured, “It doesn’t do to rush things—indeed, timing is everything in almost every sphere.”

After a moment during which Therese started on her third invitation, Lottie wriggled around and sat properly on the chair. She swung her legs, then asked, “Are we matchmaking with Miss Fitzgibbon and Lord Longfellow, Grandmama?”

From the mouths of babes…

Therese paused in her scribing and regarded her granddaughter. After a moment, she replied, “Only so far as we’re able. Making excellent matches requires a light touch and is not something anyone can force. We do what we can, as we can, and then allow Cupid to do the rest if he’s so inclined.”

Lottie’s brow puckered. “Who’s Cupid?”

Softly, Therese laughed and dipped her nib. “He’s the god who bestows love on us mere mortals.”

Lottie’s lips formed a soundless “Oh.” After a moment, she asked, “Will he come for Miss Eugenia and Lord Longfellow?”

“As to that, my dear, I can’t say, but I do have hope.”

Ten minutes later, Therese set down her pen and blotted the last of the invitations. She set the card on the small pile, met Lottie’s eyes, and smiled. “And that, my dear, will set in train my next attempt to lure Cupid to Little Moseley.”