Chapter 1

      Hambelton Court looked like a fairyland of white snowdrifts, icicles suspended in their dipped shape from the roof of the sprawling estate house, and the lakes and ponds frozen over. Snow sparkled on the ground and trickled from a blue sky in wispy flakes. The servants had outdone themselves inside and out, but at the moment, it was the outside, that Clare Ross was gazing at as she prepared for her day.

      The long bricked drive had been shoveled clean in anticipation of the guests, who would arrive for the week of parties, visits, and general gaiety. Each of the black lampposts was sporting a red ribbon. The benches round the skating pond had been cleaned; the sleigh was polished to a high gleam and snug inside the carriage house, to await that dash across the countryside.

      However, Clare's satisfaction came from something deeper. Her brother Aaron, Viscount Hambelton was now twenty-five, and watching him below, with a group of his friends from London, she had to smile at their snowball throwing and youthful antics. It had been a few difficult years for Aaron, since their parents died and he'd gained the responsibility of the estates at only seventeen, his finishing up at the university, having lost a strong and dedicated father, a man who could not be matched. Between the grief and the weight of his new life, he'd gone wild and reckless for a while.

      Clare, now twenty-seven, had, even then, been the one person who understood her brother's sudden turn. She'd been grieving in her own way and had quietly seen to the estate and other things, with the help of Sir Riley, a very old and very dear friend of their parents.

      Smoothing back her chestnut hair, Clare absently pulled down the cuffs of her warm, rose wool gown, with its long sleeves, round neck and full skirt. Underneath she wore warm stockings and a cotton petticoat. At the round neck of the gown, there was sewn a bit of lace. Since she wasn't one for frills and frippery, a gown suited her five foot six frame. A woman of curves and good health, Clare was thankful for that much and did not dwell most times on beauty or lack thereof. She had been called pretty in her youth, and did not turn heads, but seemed pleasant enough to garner a second look now and then.

      Her face was angular and brows arched, her eyes were a deep gray and nose straight, pink lips, that both set in determined lines and smiled easily, as Clare had come to take nothing in life for granted.

      Pulling on her gloves, she wiped at the frost on the window, looking below again, allowing her gaze to go to the still and silent form seated on one of the benches facing the house. It was on the right, the man having had to take the path around the house, and on to the courtyard and hedge maze. Any time of year, it was a perfect spot for admiring the mansion's yellow brick and green lawns, profuse gardens and statuary.

      Nevertheless, today, in winter, the position spoke of remoteness and isolation, of being distant from the laughing and merry group of three men and two young women, now building snowmen on the lawn.

      Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase was wearing his caped greatcoat and boots, a silver scarf casually at his throat and a black beaver hat. Even at this distance, his tall height and broad shoulders, the darkness of his skin and hair, made him seen more in shadow than the light of day.

      Most were aware of the whisperings surrounding the brooding Earl of Winterchase. Wherever his name was spoken, it was in a hush or with raised brows. His face was craggy and dark skinned, with eyes of deep ebony, and there was an aura around him, of coldness and aloofness, and of mystery, that fit most of the rumors, though few knew the truth.

      Jared Burke was thirty-seven and had lived several lifetimes, if rumor was true. The sort of lives that were dark themselves and cruel in many ways. His father was said to have been a rakehell and a hard man to tolerate, his mother a spoiled Spanish beauty, who was faithless and shallow. His life was continually torn asunder by his father's recklessness and jealousy, his mother's affairs and scandals. Jared himself had fought many duels over both before he'd left on his tour. When he came back and wed the girl betrothed to him from the age of twelve, he'd found, they say, that the woman she'd grown into was much like his mother.

      There was a murder in the Burke main estate, two years after that wedding day. The wife was found hanging from the rafters, and was apparently carrying the heir. The father died somewhere in Italy, and Jared's mother took an overdose of laudanum. Those long years of wickedness, scandal, and turmoil, ending those lives in even more horrendous tragedy.

      The Lord of Winterchase took himself off to war; in madness, of either grief, anger, or all, yet if he had a death wish himself, it did not come about. His recklessness or his courage won him distinction, and he had left war by the time Napoleon was exiled, wounded, but a high-ranking officer.

      He didn't come back to parades and welcomes, as the scandals and rumors were too plentiful and too well remembered. They called him the beast and worse behind his back, laying all the sins of his parents and his wife's death at his door, even the fate of the unborn child.

      He had vanished for a time, after selling that cursed estate house and much of the lands, settling himself upon his return, in the least used or known property of the Burke's, the old endowment, Winterchase, which had in it's glory been an impressive gothic structure; with gardens, lawns and lakes. Forgotten for generations, the gardens had grown wild and the woods crept closer and more tangled, the statues, fountains aged, and moss covered the sinister façade.

      Clare knew of it, had seen it many times whilst returning from the village; the fog hovering around the distant, dark, manor, that could scarcely be seen from the vines tangled in the iron gates, and the trees grown so tall and hovering. The spires and griffins, gargoyles that crouched at the entry, and held up those heavy balconies used to be a source of fascination as a child. However, somewhere along the way, the gossip had reached her ears, and she too used to shiver passing by it, glad of the ten acres that separated it from the main roads, keeping the secrets distant from the seeing eye.

      However that was long ago, and Clare was aware, though he forbade Aaron to speak of it, and would not mention it himself, that there sat the one man, who for some accident of fate, encountered her brother in northern England, took him in out of the cold after a night of reckless revelry, and quietly took him under his wing, to guide him out of the darkness and self destruction, back into living.

      At the time, Clare did not know the details, except for the cryptic notes she received with his seal. She came to know he was at Winterchase and was tempted to ask, but Aaron forbade any talk of it. She was too thankful he was both finishing his studies, and apparently learning more from Jared, who often came to see him, her brother said, and spend many hours with the young man.

      Clare had quietly seen to tenants, worked with Sir Riley, and when her brother was on the town in London, went up to assist him in refurbishing the townhouse. She'd watched her brother, when a youth, a lanky lad with a shock of black curly hair and green eyes, happy until the worst happened and turned him into to a complete stranger. The young man she'd met up with London was mature and serious, yet gradually coming back to the wit and humor of his younger days.

      This circle of his friends; the Lord's Wexler and Venter, Adamson, the ladies Holt and Meller, were people he was quietly guided to by Lord Jared. They were wealthy heirs, intelligent and somewhat set apart from the feckless ton by their unique circumstances. As if weaning the man to stand at last on his own, it was obvious that a bond of friendship formed by trust, had made them kindred spirits, so that Aaron now had his wings and could run his life.

      To say Clare was surprised that the Earl accepted Aaron's invite to Hambelton was an understatement. In all of these years, he had never shown himself to her, other than those things she discerned through her brother, and that bold dark script on his missives. This gathering would be for those close to her brother, for neighbors to stop in, and for the younger set about, to make merry and celebrate as Hambelton Court had not seen in many a year.

      As for herself, Claire had made sure the house was festive, the rooms bright and warm, and between the staff - who was thrilled, for they loved young Aaron and missed his presence and were more than ready for the master to take his place here - and, the neighbors, who were always affectionate to the Hambelton‘s, It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.

      Claire, in her joy at Aaron's coming of age, was completely content to remain in the background and observe, to see to details and enjoy the sounds of laughter from his group. In addition, to help Mrs. Hansen, the housekeeper. Moreover, the cook, Bartos, who was preparing feasts for every single day to outdo the other. Her brother's lady friends, the Lady Holt in particular, were very lively and nice; they kept the staff smiling, playing music and singing, even getting the stoic butler Oberto to grin with their goings on in the house.

      However, the Lord of Winterchase lingered on her mind as she smoothed her hair. She wore it drawn back and in a white net. Claire picked up a matching full-skirted coat of a soft cream hue, with white fur on the hood and cuffs, and on the hem that touched the tops of her warmest fur lined short boots.

      She would go down the servant's stairs and to the kitchens. The maids and housekeeper did not need her direction. When the others came in, they would hurry to provide warm drinks, warm baths and assist them. The Hambelton servants were long trained and missing the days when her parent's were there for holiday foolery and celebrations.

      In the toasty and bustling kitchens, she spoke briefly to Bartos and the two maids helping, and then proceeded to the back doors, where her baskets and crates set, already packed for delivery.

      “The carriage be ready, miss. Are you sure you won't have me drive?” One of the usual drivers, old Kimball was warming himself by the large fireplace, looking as if he'd just dried out. She knew they all helped with the fire woodcutting and cleaning of the stables and horses, so she smiled but said, “No. Kimball, thank you. But could you load these, please? I must speak with someone, and then I shall be directly back.”

      He grabbed his coat off a peg. “No trouble a' tall . I'll see to it.”

      She slipped out the back door, noting the mud around the well, hearing the geese squawking, likely realizing several of their kind were missing, as they would provide dinner. The other fowl were pecking out by the barns, and she spied the lazy, fat, tabby, sitting on the ledge of the carriage house window, watching birds eat the red berries from the holly hedges.

      Quite warm in spite of the snow, she made her way around in time to see the last of Aaron's group kicking snow off their boots and hurrying in. She paused to admire the snow men, covering her mouth a moment on a laugh, and noticing the purple drape on the enormous snowman as Prinny, and the distinct hat on the female, fashioned rather artfully with chicken feathers, as that of a dowager dragon who ruled London ballrooms.

      Moving on, toward that walkway, Lord Jared had arisen and was smoking a thin cheroot, but did not look to be going in. She had to ask herself why she was about to be assuming to a man who likely wouldn't be gracious or thankful for it? But her only answer was, that if their years had been somewhat bleak over their circumstances, and if their Christmases were less than merry for awhile, she could only imagine what his had been like. Given that they said his heart was as cold as winter.

      Not that she could blame him, if rumors were true. She told herself, that there was no payment great enough to give him for all that he'd done for Aaron, that though he forbade speaking of or acknowledging it, that did not mean that she had to pretend to be unconscious of it.

      Clare was not a woman of flamboyant gestures and being in the forefront of life, herself, rather she stayed productive, aware, and participated in what it offered; embracing joys when they came, and thinking nothing of her own kindness'. Save that, it was in most of human nature to be so, and that those around her in most ways returned the same to herself.

      She paused a foot from him, clasping her hands lightly and watching his mysterious eyes touch upon her, then away, as he tossed the cheroot. Up this close, Clare could feel that intimidation some did, at his height and strength, the commanding way he stood, and foremost, the set of his craggy features as remote as Winterchase itself.

      The cheroot hissed in the snow. Her gaze went to his black gloved hand before going back up. He really was not unhandsome, she thought, for his nose was Roman, forehead broad and lips likely semi full, when not held so tensely. He had strong bones and a longish black mane. His experience, she decided, of thirty-seven unpleasant years, and that kind of self-preservation, was likely what made him appear older and more aloof. Claire understood this too, for there was no answering a legacy such as he was part of. At that age, there was no chance and no one, to allow him to start life anew, even had one wanted to.

      When his dark eyes touched her again, guarded instead of seeing out, she began, “Though I do not normally presume upon guests. I am in need of a good hand at the reins.” She gestured to the drive, where Kimball stood holding the lead horse. “Kendall is a fine whip, but he's gone to extra trouble this week, and my regular driver is down with some winter ailment, snug and sipping toddy's hopefully.” Looking ahead at the roads and woods, she continued. “I have only a few places to go, not many miles distance, thought one or two off track.” She met his gaze again. “The weather now and roads being as they are, I thought with your experience, you might do me the kindness of driving me?”

      He did not move for a moment but shifted his feet. She assured, “If you are chilled, I will await you an hour or so? And if you do not wish to stay out of doors longer, you may decline, with no offense taken.”

      She saw something flicker over that dark face, before he murmured, “Allow me to change my gloves.”

      “Certainly.” She turned, seeing for the corner of her eye when he fell in step, an off gait due to stiffness in his right leg. His presence beside her as they traversed the walk, brought with the normal scent of winter and wood fires, a bit of spice and wool, some male heat that was not unpleasant. Glancing down, she watched the cadence of those steps, and no matter how much the wound affected his grace, his boots fell measured to match her own less a length stride.

      At the entry, she went for the carriage, standing by Kimball, for some reason not watching him go up the steps. However, Kimball had, and murmured, “His lordship was wounded in the war, you know?”

      “Yes. I have heard.”

      Kimball said, “I offered to valet for him, but he declined. I did go in with Toby to empty the bath and lay a fresh fire, and without a shirt, his lordship carries many more scars.”

      “I imagine those inside are more painful.”

      “Yes. We have said so among ourselves.” The old servant said quietly, “When the viscount arrived and I was about helping him unpack, Kimball, he says, you and the others treat Lord Jared well and attend him, for he will not ask a thing for himself. Treat him kind, he says, and give him comforts, for none do and ‘tis a great thing, having him here. For I would not be here myself otherwise.”

      Clare bit her lip, well able to imagine her brother having that quiet word with the servants.

      Kimball went on. “I told the others, and from cook on, we've set our minds to do all he will allow. Molly put greenery in his rooms, and Oberto our finest brandy, and Mrs. Hansen, a bowl of fruits and nuts, and we keep the fire laid. For he does not seem a man who has been kept warm, does he, miss? He seems rather too used to shadows, and we've a mind to give him a bit o light.”

      She reached and squeezed his wool-clad arm. “Thank you, Kimball, and all of you, for being the people you are. I know you have all heard the rumors, but let us know the man whom Aaron cares for, and try in spite of his distance, which is self preservation, I think, to try and treat him as we ourselves would like to be treated.”

      “Here he comes.” The servant patted her hand before she dropped it.

      His lordship strode up to Kimball and nodded, as the man pulled his cap in respect, then spoke briefly of the team. Taking the light whip, the earl began to climb up, when he apparently realized Clare was standing there.

      If dark faces could flush, there may have been one before he came round and opened the carriage door, but upon seeing the full seats, covered crates and what not, he looked at her in question.

      “I shall ride up with you.” She smiled and gestured toward the seat. “I am quite used to bracing weather; I love to take rides in the countryside in the snow. I have a fur robe if it turns worse, though it is quite a calm day.

      He closed the door and seemed to stand there so close, tall and shadowy; his struggle somehow reached Clare, though she was not sure what discomforted him more. She took his gloved hand and turned in the right direction, waiting for him to pull down the movable piece, for stepping on the driving seat.

      He did not, but she felt him release her hand, before he lifted her by the waist, completely up, nearly higher than his chest, so that she was laughing in surprise when she took the seat. As he was going round, mounting from his side, she said rather breathless, “I am no lightweight, your lordship; I hope I have not injured your back?”

      Gathering the reins and turning the horses, he said in that deep tone, rusty from lack of use, “Not at all…”

      “Clare,” she supplied, admiring his handling of the team as he set the pace. “I am Clare to everyone hereabouts‘.”

      He did not say anything as they traversed down the lane, the horses kicking up snow. His sure hand kept the wheels in the melted ruts, carved by other travelers. She was aware of their arms touching, though she had her hands folded in her lap. And, when she put her hood up, enough to keep her neck warmed and hair dry, she could still watch his movements and note from the inches between in his parted coat, as his boots were braced up on the rest, that he had powerfully strong legs, and from the occasional gap in his coat sleeve and glove, when he adjusted the ribbons, that his wrist was dark and sinewy.

      “We shall turn there, just ahead.” She pointed to a fork and nearly obscured sign. “The cottage is nestled near the woods, but the horses will know it by heart.”

      Again, he was silent, but she caught the tail end of his glance at her, having felt that he did a time or two on the journey. Old Meg's cottage was in view. She slid back the hood, worried that only the merest wisp of smoke came out of that chimney.

      Lord Jared got the buggy close to the door, and set the brake, tying the reins before jumping down. When he came round and reached up for her, Clare told him, “There is a step here….”

      “There is no need for it.”

      She leaned over as he caught her under the arms, her gloved hands went to his shoulders, and though he set her down slowly, there was a whoosh of both their breaths from the contact. Even through clothing and gloves, the awareness of male touching female was there.

      Clare opened the carriage door after hastily pulling away. “Those two.” She pointed. “If you could bring those in?”

      He nodded and she went on to the cottage door, knocking and calling out before going in.

      * * * *

      Jared Burke, Lord of Winterchase, had to duck his head to get through the cottage door. His eyes adjusted to the dimness eventually, and he held the heavy crate and basket, standing there rather awkwardly, having been unwelcome in most homes so long, that he rarely set foot beyond the doorway, even in his own tenants residences.

      He saw the woman, Clare, whom in his mind was Aaron's sister; a faceless woman to him until his arrival, a female he thought nothing of at first, given his experience with the sex.   Gradually, over dealings with Aaron and such, he came to regard her with skeptic disbelief, with every sensible and kind reply to his missives, as well as reports on the stewardship of Hambelton, which invariably had her name on them when he went over them with Aaron.

      Jared would not call himself curious about things anymore. He had long since lost any desire for the world and it him. Humanity was distant, life reserved for those participating in it. He had learned too thoroughly that he was born and had lived in a darker place, where people viewed him as less than human and more an aberration.

      Yet he found himself at Hambelton at Aaron's request, a place of warm colors and light and life, despite what he knew of the sibling’s grief and circumstances. There was warmth in the house, and amid brother and sister, that he already knew of from the young man's musings. Even the servants there were as parts of the family, not invisible nor formal, but rather gracious to all, and without the least stiffness.

      And here, now, he found himself in a humble cottage, having driven Clare, whom he had not avoided, but not sought out, as he was apt to stay very aloof in any case, observe the life of others in that detached way, that long became a preserving habit to him.

      “Here now, let us get you up and beautiful for your Christmas meal,” Claire was saying, leaning over a quilted bed, helping to raise a frail and silver-haired woman. She had shed her coat, and for a moment, he was distracted by the female form in rose wool. Though he had already noted the thick chestnut hair bundled in a net, he had not before been close, nor inclined to note Clare's height, or the obvious curves of a woman fully ripe and mature.

      “Oh, My lord. Forgive me.”

      He jerked his eyes to Clare's face. She was smiling over her shoulder.

      “You may set those there on the table.” She nodded. “And would you mind building up the fire? There is a shed behind the cottage, and the wood box looks low.”

      He had not done such tasks since his army days, but had no problem doing so; merely he was surprised that Clare was obviously here to care for the old woman. He took the things to the table, laying his hat upon it, and having to watch his head on the rafters while he found the back door.

      Gathering kindling, he took it inside, seeing from the corner of his eye that Clare had extracted a new blue flowered gown and robe from the crate he carried in, and was putting it on the woman.

      “My goodness, you shall look stunning in this. Here now, lift your arms, love, and then I will do your hair with ribbons.”

      Old Meg's voice reached him as he went out back, saying, “You should not be here today. Not with the guests and the master Aaron home finally. Christmas is for the young, to make merry and be joyful. Not for a lady such as yourself, to be bathing and dressing these old bones and going on about me.”

      Bringing in the bigger logs, then removing his coat and setting to remove ash, to start a better and warmer fire, Jared heard Clare scold affectionately, “Nonsense. Cook himself was up early, making your favorites, and Mrs. Hanson and Molly worked for months on this gown. ‘'Tis their Christmas gifts to you, and ‘tis my own privilege to be here, and see you all prettied up, sitting at that table before I leave, enjoying Christmas. You gave Aaron and myself so many when we were young.”

      Standing to dust his hands, waiting for the splinters to catch, he glanced over seeing the woman dressed in the blue robe and gown, her face a wrinkled but kind and eyes so blue they rivaled the robes in color. Clare sat behind her on the bed, brushing thin white hair, so fine the scalp showed between. Holding ribbons in her teeth, she caught his eye and winked, which Jared in general understood but felt too surprised to react.

      Over the next hour, he was made to remove the crates, and watched while Clare spread the table with linen, set it with fine china and started tea. She uncovered a tray with a silver dome, which held a steaming plate of food and extracted two silver candlesticks, which she put in tapers and lit.

      “Would you carry her here?” Clare held out a chair she had cushioned.

      He felt his skin tighten, walking to that bed, having touched people more in the last hour than his last ten years, and expecting the worst from the woman. In his white ruffled shirt, having discarded jacket and neck cloth to see to the fire, Jared bent down and scooped the woman up. She weighed less than a child, but her gaze at his face was bright and young, which also caught him off guard as her frail arms went round his shoulders.

      “Had such a thing happened in my youth, I would have stories to tell, eh?” She laughingly whispered as he carried her over and gently set her down. “A handsome Lord to carry me in his arms…” Her crepe-like hand patted his face as her hands slid down. “Thank you, my boy.”

      “You are most welcome,” he rasped feeling tingles from the surreally of that affection. Turning to hide any visible reaction by tending the fire.

      “Sing for me, Clare. Oh, what was that song, we used to sing it every Christmas?”

      Clare laughed, “Now Meg, you recall the tone of my singing, and if we wish his lordship to stay warm and not dash out in the snow, perhaps it would be prudent to spare him that particular torture?”

      “Listen to you,” the old woman said, “Did I not tell you enough, that a joyful sound is all that is needed, and that what is lovely to one save that which lifts the heart and sprits? Come, my girl, ‘tis the heart that counts, and the intent of the giver.”

      “Oh, very well, I cannot deny you.” Clare began to sing an old carol.

      Jared looked down into the flames, having been prepared for the screeching of a scalded cat or mad bird. But as he listened to a rather plain, in tune female voice, singing words any soul knew, but with true heart for an old woman, here in this tiny cottage.

      His mouth relaxed without meaning too. The hint of a smile tugged at one corner, when those notes wavered, and she stumbled over words, making up a few that sounded close enough. He was aware she was setting out the food, pouring the tea and cleaning up the cottage, moving about as she sang, unpacking from the crates all sorts of useful goods.

      He turned and saw her then, standing by the window, singing that last verse once more, gazing toward the table and the woman who listened. Moreover, as much as he'd banished softness or feeling from his heart long ago, Jared could not help but feel the emotion pouring out between them; that distance somehow shrinking from such heartfelt emotions. He quickly put his own reaction down to the smallness of the cottage, and the fact that he was witness to something not normally a part of. He reminded himself that he was yet again merely an observer, distant from the two.

      The last note ended, and those frail hands were clapping, and for a second Clare's smile touched on him, including him, as she seemed to be doing from the moment they arrived. He saw those gray eyes more lavender with the rose gown she wore, and saw Clare for perhaps the first time, as a young, handsome woman. In his sight, with that smile on her lips and shining in her eyes, he did not think he had ever seen anything more captivating and beautiful.

      “Kimball will return for the things, so do not fret yourself with cleaning up,” Clare was saying to the woman whilst putting on her coat and gloves. Therefore, Jared put his own outerwear on, and then waited by the door.

      There were more soft words exchanged between the two, before he held the door for Clare to step out.

      After taking a step, Jared looked back, not just imagining that the old cottage was warm and bright, transformed from their entry, where shadows and coldness had met them. The old woman sat gowned and beribboned, eating from a china plate, the candles sparkling, and the whole of the cottages plaster walls, bathed in bright amber.

      Outside in the winter and snow, he helped Claire to the seat and went round, turning the buggy once more, looking back as he tooled down the lane, seeing the thick smoke puffing up and the cottage windows warm and aglow the site of a welcoming and snug little home.

      Peeking at Clare, while she looked around at the countryside, Jared could discern past the rim of her fur-edged hood, the flush from the warm cottage still on her creamy skin, and that relaxed set of her true pink lips, which seemed to be smiling even when she was not. She turned and caught him. Jared intended to look away, but saw from those gray eyes, that she was openly scanning over his visage too.

      Used to aversion or at the very least fear, as if his very eyes could curse someone with his own darkness, he was surprised when she murmured, “Why, your eyes are not black at all, but a deep brown. Quite my favorite color in eyes,” she grinned happily. “I had an uncle once, he died when I was, oh… six or seven. Being a ship's captain and dark, he fascinated me. It was if the world blew in with him, and that sack of fruits and nuts, he would bring for Aaron and I. And the tales he told. Oh my, his adventures at sea. It was almost as if I could look into his gaze and see it all happening….”

      Jared didn't know what to say, and in fact looked away while still registering the fact this woman neither feared him nor treated him with aversion. He did not know, as she was a warm person to all in the house, if it was for him, or part of her nature, or how he should respond, since he had no light quip or equally amusing family to speak the same. He was completely disconcerted.

      She sighed and went on chatting in that pleasant voice, “I do love the winter. The snows at least. Everything is so bright and pure. One should love the spring more, don't you think? Yet even on rainy days in winter, when we are locked up tight in the house, and drafts have the wind wailing. I may not love that part of the cold, but I gather my favorite books and some fleece, and settle myself in the corner of the library. Though I read and enjoy it, I seem to find myself watching the icy rain strike the windows, and lose pleasant hours that way.”

      He searched his brain, and said gruffer than he intended, “Aaron mentioned your love of books.”

      She apparently overlooked the tone, “Yes. I read very early. Papa… Papa insisted on it. He allowed me to be tutored with Aaron until he left for more formal schooling. Then Sir Riley stepped in, after Papa died, ordering all that I wished from the London shops. We would go up on occasion, to do business, and spend hours in the museum. I have an affection for some books more than others. I believe, that comes with age and maturity…But fairy tales and those sea stories will always catch my eye. I read them and think of uncle's voice telling the tale. I imagine it is my way of keeping him in my heart, and recalling him with joy and laughter, that sense of wonder for the character he was, rather than thinking of his passing.”

      He could so vividly picture her as she described, snuggled in the library on some winter day with a book. He knew from Aaron that she spent the bulk of her income on books, to fill the library and a smaller one above stairs.

      She broke through his musings. “There, take the lane between the two cottages, and ‘tis the one on the right.”

      He realized they had come upon a cluster of cottages in a row, likely farm workers who were income to Hambelton. He drove up to the one she pointed out, noting that it was smaller.

      Going through the motions once more, of lifting her down, this time smelling the scent of lilac and some powdery fresh fragrance coming from her, like a blooming flower in the dead of winter. He carried the assigned burdens, ducking under the doorway and finding the one-roomed cottage sparse but clean. Closing the door, leaning against it, he watched while she merrily greeted four youngsters standing by the fire.

      They were like stair steps, clean bathed and slick haired, two girls, and all in their best, which was much mended, and was obviously donned for Clare.

      “Lord Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase. Please meet the Beckett's. Jack here, is the oldest at fifteen.” She touched the boy's shoulder. “Then Jeannie, who is fourteen, Matthew is ten. And, this little beauty, is Paige.”

      He nodded as they bowed and curtsied, noting the boys looked at him in some fascination, and he did not know if it was the usual dislike, or the fine cut of his clothing, which any farm lad would note, on a gentleman.

      The open hearth was lit. Claire turned meeting his eyes. “You may place those on a bench.” She turned back to the children and took off her coat, putting it aside and clasping her hands. “Now then. Close your eyes and make your Christmas wishes.”

      He saw each child close their eyes, their hands reaching out to clasp brother or sister.

      “Good health, and good harvest, plenty of work for me,” Young Jack said seriously. “Blessing on Miss Clare and Master Aaron.” The girl Jeannie said, “That my training be done and I can come to work at Hambelton.” The boy Matthew murmured, “Not too cold, but enough so my neighbors need wood chopped for coin.” The others laughed, and Jared saw a sheepish smile on the boy's face. Then the youngest Paige, a pretty girl with white blond hair and angelic face said, “That someday I may sing on the stage, and bring joy to the world. That I might bless the ear with my gift, which Miss Clare says, must be shared. So that her generosity on paying for the lessons might not go unrewarded.”

      Clare cupped their cheeks, kissing them, which brought a profuse red to the older boy's faces. “You shall have your wishes. I promise you.” She said when their eyes opened, “Now. Same as last year. Jack, you unpack the crate, and Jeannie set the plates, Matthew, you will have the goose to carve once it is set, and Paige will lay the forks.”

      He stood back with Clare, watching as the children spread the table with a red cloth, and eye each other with grins, uncovering the goose, fresh vegetables, plum pudding, and Christmas punch. When all was set, Jeannie lit candles and they held hands, singing a carol and hymn, which put chills on Jared's nape, so pure and beautiful, was their combined harmony, and young Paige, sang alone one verse that showed the promise of an operatic gift being developed.

      Jared looked down to see Clare had taken his arm. She said to the children, “Enjoy the meal and do not forget to be abed and asleep, when the clock strikes nine, for Father Christmas must come.”

      Page looked up from sipping her punch. “Did you see him?” Her eyes were wide.

      Clare looked up at Jared. Frowning and asking seriously, “Could that have been the bit of red on that fellow we spotted on the way, my lord? I do believe I heard bells… and didn't you mention some jolly laugh on the wind?”

      Jared knew to play along, though he was worried that he could not sound so convincing as Clare, and he was not even sure why he allowed himself to indulge her or the children. He managed, “It certainly seemed so to me. I know no other who dresses in so bright red. And…” he searched his mind for tales not told to him, but overheard from the soldiers, “I saw sleigh tracks, most surly.”

      While the children gasped and laughed excitedly at the table, he saw only Clare as she squeezed his arm and whispered so softly, “That was wondrously clever of you.“ Then before he could respond, or register the emotions from her impulsive touch, though he did not know how he would have, she was putting on her coat amid farewells and cheers, and they were back outside.

      After lifting her up, seating himself, he turned the buggy and whilst driving glanced at her. “Who will bring the gifts?”

      “Kimball. He always does.” She glanced at him. “Scarves and warm gloves, socks and fruit, nuts. He may seem aged, but he is clever and quick, and he has a knack for slipping in unheard.” She chuckled reflectively. “I so wanted to do it myself when I began, having seen my mother knit socks and scarves for the Vicar to disperse, and watched her sew costumes for plays, do the rounds of hospitals, with gifts she made. It was much more than just doling out money, she labored lovingly over every single piece. However, I cannot sew, and am even worse at embroidery. And Kimball was so distressed when I attempted to slip in a cottage and nearly fell into the fire, after tripping over a stool, that he will not allow me to come along.” She sighed, “I seem to have neither stealth nor grace either.

      Again, that muscle relaxed beside his mouth, and he turned his head before she could see the smile tugging there. Jared would disagree on the grace part, since there was something warm and soft in everything about Clare.

      She directed him to a small farm before talking once more. Jared felt the taps of snow on his beaver hat, felt a flake or two on his cheek and heard under the pleasant sound of her musings, the jingle of the harness.

      Though her every word registered, he tried to reconcile today with reality, having flashes of himself when young, dealing with his volatile parents, recalling glittering and elaborate holiday gatherings, not in the guests and rich foods, the lit mansion, but the quarrels and fights lasting all night, and the sounds of boots on the stairs as men came to his mother's chambers. He recalled those duels, always prodded on by his father, his responsibility to fight for honor when there was none, and uphold a rep too black to be called anything but…And, his own reckless disregard for his life. By the time he was sixteen, he had drink, women, and wildness in his own life, following in footsteps that he detested, but needing some release from the turmoil.

      Jared recalled that Christmas too, though the details were a fog, because of the shock, of Helen hanging from the rafters, and the red blood soaking her silver gown, dripping onto the floor below…

      “I am chattering your ear off?”

      He realized he was scowling and felt the tightness in his body and voice. “Not at all.” He glanced at Clare, guessing, when he saw her smile fade, that the ghosts lingered in his eyes. “Please, go on. You were speaking of Ivers…the farmer.”

      “Yes,” she said, though her gaze searched his face, in a way that he knew her thoughts were not on the words. He looked back at the road.

      “He lost his legs. His son takes care of the farm, his wife has passed, and there are no other children. Nevertheless, he has great pride, too much at times, and though all neighbors help each other, he refuses unless he can return the favor. So he has taught himself to repair tools and fashion reapers, and has invented quite a few things he may give them to ease their work. You must not mind if he seems gruff and rude, and you must ignore whatever he says, that may be amiss. For he still feels the pain from the legs that aren't there, and his son says, dreams of himself walking and running again.”

      He had heard as much from wounded soldiers.

        She went on gently, “He loved his wife, and was one of the best dancers about, they tell me. The harvest gatherings were a special time for himself and Jane, for they would dance and walk miles home, courting as young lovers.”

      Jared glanced at her, surprised, despite her age of twenty-six, that she would mention that. Young females were oft missish and silly about such things. One of those contradictions that people oft raised their daughters on. Claire met his glance and wrinkled her nose. “Tis rare enough, don't you think, in this world of arranged marriages, that courtship and weddings, the relationship, has real meaning? “

      He had no idea, given his experience with the union. “I suppose so.”

      She nodded and looked back to the road.

      “Why have you not wed? “ He heard himself asking without intending to. “Aaron said. That you declined a season because of the mourning period. But he rather thought it was his own life…so unsettled, that deprived you of it.”

      “Goodness, no,” she exclaimed softly. “There is nothing in London I desire. I enjoy the trips there and find it exciting, but I wanted no season to husband hunt. Though I enjoy the young ladies he has brought down, can admire their sophistication and town bronze, it is not in my nature at all.”

      She admitted, “My sewing and singing, as bad as it is, also includes painting. Should some gentleman be checking the usual requirements for a wife, I fall woefully short. No, I am blissfully content to pretend ignorance of things other females are in either agonies or raptures about, when it comes to a season. Here, I am simply Miss Clare and no one minds my shortcomings.”

      Jared had seen females of every sort in his lifetime, had lived amid the fast set and knew in his youth, both the coy deb, and, the calculating lady. He could not put Clare in a category from today's events, any more than he could before he met her. As much as he could have told her that those things she counted as losses, proved nothing about the woman's character, or her being a fit wife, they were nearing the farm and he held his normally silent tongue too late, mentally muttering as he helped her down, that he was so remote from everything, he could not seem to remove the rust from his manners and skills to make polite conversation.

* * * *

      Ivers was all that she claimed and more, Jared found upon entering the roomy farmhouse. The son, a brawny man of mature age, mumbled as he bade them enter, “He is in a fit mood. I have the wife and children to see to, so I will wish you both merry now, and bid you overlook any insult.” He bowed to Jared then went for his coat and wool cap, adding over his shoulder, “Blessings to you both.”

      Jared followed her to the table, setting the items down while he eyed the man by the roaring fire. Clad in plaid shirt, cap and wool breeches, with the missing lower legs evident by the folded under edges. The man still held brawn in his upper body and still looked of vigor, though his face was lined with pain and what could be sadness, but came across as disgruntled as he puffed his cob pipe.

      “I've brought your Christmas, meal,” Clare told him. “Kimball says to greet you warmly for him. And Mrs. Hansen will need eggs delivered next week.”

      The man grunted, saying around his pipe. “Foolish to come out on such a day. No sense at all gadding about spreading good cheer. What's so good about this year that any other does not bring?  Christmas... Hah.”

      Clare looked at Jared and hid as smile, motioning him to assist her in setting the table.

      Jared did, finding more substantial portions and sweets being the bulk of the dishes. Though as Ivers grumbled about the weather, last year's crops, and the son who had too many mouths to feed, and on and on and on, he thought it would take more than sweets to get the old grump less sour.

      As he moved around the table, Jared had forgotten his own limp, until he heard the man fall silent, and saw him staring at him, as if he had not noticed him before.

      The old man stared. When Jared had to take a step, to set a candle in its holder, he heard the under the breath comment of, “Got that falling off a horse, no doubt. You fancy gents and your sports. Decent man looses his legs and his livelihood, and what's your sort know of it, even a limp to some wealthy lordlings ain't likely to do more than keep you off the dance floor.”

      He heard Clare gasp and then mutter something. However, Jared looked at the man, meeting his eyes under those pulled down bushy brows. “You have two good hands that supports you, and a son who works your land, and likely tolerates your ungratefulness. I do not consider that the existence of a man who needs pity.”

      “I do not want pity! I said no such thing!” Ivers face was red and his big fist thumped on the chair arm.

      Nevertheless, Jared said quietly, “Then be gracious and thankful, particularly that you have a home and son, a family, and to Miss Clare, who has more of a need to be home with her brother, than to venture out in snow to bring you this Christmas meal.”

      The old man looked strangled for a moment, before he jerked his head to gaze in the fire.

      Jared was almost reluctant to look at Clare. It was nothing to him, and he had done, as she requested not to. He bloody well dreaded the moment their eyes met. He had just proved his harsh and cold character.

       Clare was standing with her hands on the back of a chair, looking at him calmly but with great feeling in her eyes. In addition, Jared had his own feeling, that he done something right, though he didn't know what, until he heard a nose from the old man.

      Ivers looked at Clare, and not quite meeting her gaze, said gruffly, “Return my greeting to Kimball, and tell Mrs. Hanson that young Tom will bring her eggs. And…and, I thank you… for the meal.”

      “I shall, and you are welcome,” Clare said, though she was looking at Jared. “His lordship will bring your chair closer.” She nodded.

      Jared did so, lifting the man and the chair so that Ivers sat at the table. When he was about to leave, as Clare was getting her coat, he found a hand covering his gloved one on the table. He met Ivers gaze, not expecting, but hearing him say low and out of Clare's hearing, “There's no heart so big nor warm as hers. Any man or beast that refuses to admit it is worse than low.” Those eyes watered and the man swallowed. “Sometimes her joy and kindness is more than I can stand. I long to see her and yet when she leaves, I miss my own dear one, ‘til I hope she never comes again, to remind me.”

      He removed that hand and Jared nodded, going on to join Clare and watching her latch the coat, wondering and supposing, that she already knew that about Ivers. Thus, she excused his gruff manner. Before leaving, he looked back at the man. Ivers was drying his eyes on the handkerchief.

      Later as he helped Clare up, the Earl had to wonder that there were so many who had joy and tears, pain and hardships, and it seemed obvious that Clare understood it all.

      It was edging toward evening as they headed back. He thought of Aaron, the young buck he'd found wet and freezing, having gone to some hunting lodge and ventured with his party for a night of revelry in the village. Aaron had been robbed and beaten, and was too foxed to feel the mess his hands and face were in. While Jared bathed and bundled him in blankets, getting coffee in him by the fireplace, the boy had murmured one thing before sleeping, “Poor Clare, what a burden I am to her. How I have brought her more tears and worries, when I love her so.”

      He had thought it a wife until he realized, later, when Aaron was sober and dressed, that it was a sister. In addition, Aaron had said, “There is no one like Clare, who loves me as I am, when I am less than I should be.” That handsome face had smiled past cuts and bruises, and Aaron murmured, “And who is there to hold her and assure her of right things? Clare is so giving, and strong, that we all take it for granted that she doesn't need anything else.”

      Later, he recalled viewing the townhouse Clare had refurbished, finding it dignified and comfortable, a proper home for a viscount, yet with warmth and ease where anyone would feel at home.

      Jared looked at Clare again and saw that she was watching a rabbit scurry across the snow, leaving tracks and sniffing the air. He mentally shook his head, for he felt as if he had spent days in her presence instead of hours, so new were the thoughts and emotions that had passed through him; like channels in a cold and frozen stream, slowly thawing and allowing trickles of water to pass through. After so much stillness, so much immobility, being encased in his shell, it would take time to allow it and not instantly shut down, as was his instinct. It was real and yet surreal. He had spent a few hours in the presence of someone who treated him like a human again.