“Yes, we’re all quite well. I don’t believe Lady Natalie knew of your imminent arrival, or she would have mentioned it to me.”

“No,” Travers admitted, “I had not planned to come here. My relations in Shropshire were expecting me. But I’m afraid I prevailed on Lord Westcliff for an invitation to Hampshire.” He paused, turning sober. “You see, I learned of Lord Blandford’s plans concerning his daughter and…the American.”

“Yes. Mr. Bowman.”

“My desire is to see Lady Natalie happy and well situated,” Travers said quietly. “I cannot conceive how Blandford could think this arrangement would be best for her.”

Since she could not agree without criticizing her uncle, Hannah murmured carefully, “I also have concerns, my lord.”

“Surely Lady Natalie has confided in you. What has she said on the matter? Does she like this American?”

“She is disposed to consider the match, to please Lord Bland-ford,” Hannah admitted. “And also…Mr. Bowman is not without appeal.” She paused and blinked as she saw Rafe Bowman at the far side of the entrance hall, talking with his father. “In fact, Mr. Bowman is standing over there.”

“Is he the short, stout one?” Travers asked hopefully.

“No, my lord. That is Mr. Bowman the elder. His son, the tall one, is the gentleman to whom Lord Blandford wishes to betroth Lady Natalie.”

In one glance, Travers saw everything he needed to know. Rafe Bowman was unreasonably good-looking, the power of his lean, striking form no less evident for his relaxed posture. His sable hair was thick and wind ruffled, his complexion infused with healthy color from the outside air. Those coal-dark eyes glanced around the room in cool appraisal, while a faint, ruthless smile curved his lips. He looked so predatory that it made the memory of his elusive gentleness all the more startling to Hannah.

For someone like Lord Travers, a rival such as Bowman was his worst nightmare.

“Oh, dear,” Hannah heard him murmur softly.

“Yes.”

EVIE CAME INTO THE BALLROOM CARRYING A HEAVY TWO-handled basket. “Here are the l-last of them,” she said, having just come from the kitchen, where she and two scullery maids had been filling small paper cones with nuts and dried fruit, and tying them closed with red ribbons. “I hope this will be enough, considering it’s such a l-large t” She stopped and gave Anna-belle a perplexed glance. “Where is Lillian?”

“Here,” came Lillian’s muffled voice from beneath the tree. “I’m arranging the tree skirt. Not that it matters, since one can hardly see it.”

Annabelle smiled, standing on her toes to tie a little cloth doll on the highest branch she could reach. Dressed in winter white, with her honey-colored hair drawn up in curls and her cheeks pink from exertion, she looked like a Christmas angel. “Do you think we should have chosen such a tall tree, dear? I’m afraid it will take from now until Twelfth Night for us to finish decorating it.”

“It had to be tall,” Lillian replied, crawling out from beneath the tree. With a few pine needles stuck in her sable hair and shreds of cotton batting clinging to her dress, she didn’t look at all like a countess. And from the wide grin on her face, one could tell that she didn’t give a fig. “The room is so cavernous, it would look silly to have a short one.”

Over the next fortnight several events would take place in the ballroom, including a dance, some games and amateur entertainments, and a grand Christmas Eve ball. Lillian was determined that the tree would be as splendid as possible, to add to the festive atmosphere. However, decorating it was turning out to be more difficult than Lillian had anticipated. The servants were so busy with the household work that none of them could be spared for extra duties. And since Westcliff had forbidden Lillian and her friends from climbing on ladders or high stools, the top half of the tree was, so far, completely bare.

To make matters worse, the new fashion in gowns featured a slim-fitting, dropped-shoulder sleeve that prevented a lady from reaching for anything higher than shoulder level. As Lillian emerged from beneath the tree, they all heard the sound of splitting fabric.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Lillian exclaimed, twisting to view the gaping hole beneath her right sleeve. “That’s the third dress I’ve torn this week.”

“I don’t like this new style of sleeve,” Annabelle commented ruefully, flexing her own graceful arms in their limited range of motion. “It’s quite vexing not to be able to reach upward. And it’s uncomfortable to hold Isabella when the cloth pulls over my shoulder so.”

“I’ll find a n-needle and thread,” Evie said, going to hunt in a box of supplies on the floor.

“No, bring the scissors,” Lillian said decisively.

Smiling quizzically, Evie complied. “What shall I do with them?”

Lillian raised her arm as much as she was able. “Cut this side to match the other.”

Without batting an eye, Evie carefully snipped a gap beneath the sleeve and a few inches along the seam, exposing a white flash of skin.

“Freedom at last!” Lillian raised both arms to the ceiling like some primitive sun worshipper, the fabric gaping at her armpits.

“I wonder if I could start a new fashion?”

“Dresses with holes in them?” Annabelle asked. “I doubt it, dear.”

“It’s so lovely to be able to reach for things.” Lillian took the scissors. “Do you want me to fix your dress too, Annabelle?”