"My dear Olivia! You take too much upon yourself!" Lord D'Urst protested. "Surely the surgeon knows best."

"I am not convinced," she said quietly. "You may leave if you wish, my lord. James is no trouble to me."

Yes, leave, by all means, James thought. It hurt too much to turn his head, but he could hear Pete Winston huffing off to sit in the window seat. Olivia continued to hold his hand, stroking his wrist until he wanted to pull back the covers and usher her inside. I am three parts dead and she moves me, he thought simply. I astound myself.

When the doctor came, she took him immediately to task, mincing no words, overriding all his protests until the man appealed to James.

"Do what she says," he told the surgeon. "I trust her."

"Over my own judgment?" exclaimed the doctor.

"Over your own judgment."

With a great sigh, the doctor mixed more powders, then left the room without a word. When Olivia followed him into the hall to continue her argument, James couldn't help but think of a mother wren, fluttering and chattering at foes twenty times her size.

"She's certainly a managing little baggage," Lord D'Urst said from the window seat. "Charles never told me that about her."

"New to me, too," James said.

She returned to the room and quickly prepared another dose of powders. She put her arm under his head to raise him and whispered, "This is much stronger and will put you under for a while. James, Lord D'urst can help me locate the furniture in the attic."

He groaned, but not from pain this time. He closed his eyes and yielded himself without a murmur into the sweaty arms of Morpheus.

There he stayed, through several days that had no meaning to him. He was dimly aware of a.s.sistance to the commode from his footmen, and his father's presence now and then. Olivia came, he thought, because at least once there was a rustling of skirts and the faintest fragrance of almond extract.

And then one morning he woke to see snow falling. He lay as still as he could, unwilling to invite the stab of pain so familiar to him now. He lay on his back and watched the snow fall, feeling at peace with his body for the first time in days. On experiment, he moved his foot slightly and was rewarded with a dull throb, instead of shooting agony. "Well that is better," he said out loud.

"Eh?" Charles sat by his bed this time, his eyes on the book in his lap. "Are you in the land of the living again, Jemmy?"

"I could be," he said. "Give me a hand, Charlie, and help me sit up."

His friend obliged, and in a moment he was upright again, propped against the headboard with many pillows. He raised his knee slowly, antic.i.p.ating the pain, and then relaxed when he discovered that pressure on his leg actually felt good now, from that angle. "I may live," he announced. He ran his hand over his chin. "Another week and I'll have a beard," he commented, pleased that he felt well enough to joke. "Charlie, did you get nominated to keep this morning's death watch?"

"Something like," he teased in turn. "We've all been drawing straws. The short straw loses and gets you." He patted James's shoulder. "Don't despair about the refurbishing you were attempting with Livy. She and Pete have been careering about the countryside from warehouse to warehouse, acc.u.mulating paint and wallpaper enough to redo Prinny's palace at Brighton."

"I'm delighted," he said with what he hoped resembled grat.i.tude, even though he felt none.

"Knew you would be pleased, lad," Charles said. He leaned closer. "And I am pleased, as well. Your accident may have turned out to be just the thing to guarantee Olivia's attachment to Lord D'Urst, a thing I have been plotting for some time now. I suspected they were suited for each other. How gratifying to have one's efforts borne out."

James sighed. Charles looked at him in some consternation. "Are you certain you are feeling better?" he asked.

"Of course I am," he lied.

"I knew you would be pleased, considering how you and Tim- G.o.d bless his memory-used to practically share Livy as a little sister." Charles stood up. "Let me summon the watch from below stairs, Jemmy. You'd probably like a trip to the necessary, and maybe a shave. Some gruel or barley water?" he joked.

Slip some strychnine in my nourishing broth while you're at it, James thought. "Thank you, Charlie. I appreciate your ministrations and leave you at perfect liberty to return to Hannaford."

"Not so fast, James!" Charles said. He tugged on the bellpull, then sat down again. "Louisa showed up two nights ago-I suppose it was the day after your accident-and who should she have in tow besides children and husband?"

"I can't imagine," James said.

"Her stupid brother-in-law!" Charles declared. He made a face. "I think Papa has been telling the world of his concerns for Livy, and Louisa communicated them to Felix, who has somehow convinced himself that he will be the answer to Livy's prayers! You remember him, don't you? I'm quite happy to sit over here at En-derfield from Christmas Eve until Twelfth Night, with that lunatic loose at Hannaford, don't you know."

James nodded, feeling weaker by the moment. "Certainly Felix is my favorite man milliner and Bond Street beau! Charles, could you help me to lie down again? Perhaps I am hasty in sitting up."

Charles did help, smoothing down the covers with some of that same touch that Olivia possessed. "Lord, Jemmy, the worst of it is watching Pete and Felix glare at each other and dog poor Livy from room to room," he said as the footman came into the room. "If she can escape, I'll send her your way."

That vague promise was his only consolation as the day wore on. I can understand Olivia's desperation to avoid Felix at all cost, James told himself, when she did not materialize. He will make Peter seem all the more palatable. And what female would not be impressed by a diplomatist who has been everywhere from glittering St. Petersburg to backwater Washington, D.C.? Wearily, he waved away his father's efforts to administer more powders. I have an entire new wardrobe on order in London, but it would never impress Olivia, he told himself. The moment I hang clothes on my frame, they wrinkle. Dust b.a.l.l.s see me coming and climb aboard for the ride. I look in the mirror, and my hair tangles. And now I am too clumsy to negotiate stairs I know as well as the ones here at Enderfield. I am probably even a threat to national security.

If he could not walk at present, James discovered how effortless it was to spend a day pacing up and down in his mind, wondering if a cloister in the French Alps would take a Protestant, or if only felons were allowed to go to Sydney or Melbourne. His heart bruised more surely than his ankle, he knew he could not bear to be the recipient of a wedding invitation from Olivia Hannaford.

He drifted in and out of sleep as the afternoon waned, not caring much whether he lived or died. He told himself that he was cured of love, until he woke as someone lighted the branch of candles by his bed, and he opened his eyes to look upon Olivia.

"James," was all she said as she took his hand and held it. After a long moment in which he was certain he was holding his breath, she brushed the hair from his forehead and leaned her cheek against his for the smallest moment. "It is so blissfully peaceful here."

"How did you manage to escape?" he asked, wishing that she would stay close to him, even as she returned to her chair.

"Felix exhausted himself playing jackstraws with my nephew David and had to lie down." She looked beyond him to some blank s.p.a.ce on the wall. "Lord D'Urst has closeted himself with my father and mother." She sighed, and with a visible effort, returned her gaze to him. "He has declared himself, James. He promises me exotic locales and libraries galore and tutors."

"For geometry?" he asked, not trusting himself to say more.

She shook her head. "I mentioned geometry to him, and he laughed." Olivia was careful to avoid his eyes. "He says it is wonderful that I am so smart, but thinks that a female should be more interested in poetry and Shakespeare. I do like them," she added hastily. "Don't think me ungrateful." She ran her finger along the stripe in the blanket. "He wants to shape my learning. He says that he wants his children to be raised by an intelligent woman. Not our children, but his children. Mama tells me that Lord D'Urst is all a woman could wish for, and it is a good offer."

"Your father? What does he think?"

She hesitated. "I cannot tell. He became so quiet when I told him of Lord D'Urst's offer. Mama says he's just melancholy because I am his youngest child. What do you think?"

"It probably is a good offer," he said after excruciating thought. He gritted his teeth and raised himself up on his elbow. "You know how much you enjoy scholarship. Here is a grand opportunity, even if it must be Shakespeare instead of Euclid." What puny words, he thought. I love her beyond all measure, but what could she possibly see in me? Sir Waldo, you were wrong.

She said nothing for a long while, returning her gaze to the distance. Her wordless indictment smote his heart. He wanted to reach for her hand, to tell her of his love and beg her patience with the foolishness of the male s.e.x in general and him in particular. He closed his eyes instead. When he opened them, she was on her feet and looking down at him with an expression of real sorrow. "Lord D'Urst says he even knows of a maison de coiffure where they will tame my hair." She fingered a curl that had declared its independence from the bun low on her neck. "Right up until he said it, I thought I wanted that, too."

To his total misery, she kissed his forehead and went to the door. "Lord D'Urst says that I am a work in progress. Do you see that when you look at me?"

"Sometimes," he said. "I must be honest."

"Do you know what I see when I think of you?" she asked suddenly, the words coming out with some force.

He shook his head, almost afraid of the intensity in her voice.

"I see a good man, not a brain or a t.i.tle, or a double first. Just a good man. 'night, James."

He cried himself to sleep, something he had not done since the death of his mother. He was sick to his soul, and the pain far exceeded the throb in his ankle. Just what is any man after in a wife? he asked himself. As he lay still finally, exhausted by his tears, it occurred to him that he could pinpoint the moment he fell in love with Olivia Hannaford. He closed his eyes to see the moment again, to watch her striding along the lane between the two houses, her topknot bouncing about, the picture of energy and endless fun. It had nothing to do with her scholarship, or whatever potential she represented, he decided, but only the breadth and depth of her. Olivia just is, he knew now, and when she is, I am.

He roused from melancholy long enough to share dinner with his father, who ate from a tray in the sickroom. "I trust you will not mind, son, but Lord Nuttall has invited me to play whist tonight."

"On Christmas Eve, Papa?" James asked, amused, in spite of himself.

Lord Waverly laughed. "It is the proclivity of two old widowers to entertain each other as we choose, son! I am only an estate away, should any crisis strike."

It already has, James thought. "Very well, sir. Let me wish you Happy Christmas now, for I plan to be asleep before you return."

He had asked the footman to gather up his treatise from the book room and bring it to him when he heard a firm knock on the front door. When his heart leaped into his throat, he reminded himself that Olivia never knocked with such firmness. All the same, he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. The door opened. "Oh, it is you, Peter," he said, unable to hide his disappointment.

Dressed in his overcoat and wearing a natty beaver hat that just shrieked Continental good taste, Lord D'Urst made himself at home-except that to James's eyes, he did not look comfortable. When he did not say anything, James spoke. "Are you on your way to Christmas services with the Hannafords?"

"I am, James, and that is why I have come."

Lord D'Urst stared down at the floor as though expecting to see a message written on the carpet. James peered at him in some surprise. I could almost suspect contrition, he thought, or at least a near relative to it. "Pete?"

Lord D'Urst looked up, roused from whatever reverie he had permitted himself. "I don't go to church often, Jemmy, but own to a certain squeamishness about a subject sitting somewhat sore on me." He cleared his throat. "I did push you on the steps, and I wanted to apologize." He sat on the edge of his chair, as though in a hurry to end such self-reflection. "I had no idea you would fetch such a sprain, but, Jemmy, I wanted time to court Olivia, because for some reason I cannot fathom, she seemed to favor you. I hope you'll be understanding."

James could think of nothing to say.

"She is all magnificence," Lord D'Urst continued, his eyes lively. "And so charming! When I think of what I can make of her, I am almost bereft of speech."

"What you can make of her? I do not understand."

"Jemmy, sometimes you are so simple! What man could resist to tinker with such a female?"

I could now, he thought. "Have you made her an offer?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And ... and did she accept you?"

Lord D'Urst smiled. "She said she would let me know tomorrow. I am ready for the best news." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an elegant case. "What do you think of this?" He touched the clasp and revealed a single ruby on a gold chain.

"Beautiful," James said, and he almost meant it.

"I have written this note, and I will give it to her first thing. I'll own that you are good with a phrase. What do you think of this?" he asked, handing a sheet of paper to James.

James read the little note, gulped, and read it again, his spirits rising. " 'My beloved, you are my Christmas ornament, my own pretty bauble. Peter.'" He let his breath out slowly. "Precisely the right words, Pete. I couldn't possibly have said it better." He returned the note, willing his hand not to shake.

"Yes, I thought it would be the right touch," Lord D'Urst said modestly. "She is a pretty bauble, isn't she?"

She is, if that is all you see, James thought. "She certainly is. I don't know that I feel full of forgiveness for this thick ankle, Pete, but I do know that you'll get what you deserve tomorrow."

"No hard feelings, Jemmy?"

"Not one."

He could hardly wait for Peter Winston to quit the room. He broke into a sweat that left him trembling, but he managed to hobble to his bookshelf and retrieve a dusty volume. He shivered in his nightshirt, but sat at his desk a long moment, staring at Euclid's theorems, before he dipped his pen in the inkwell. " 'I am no great shakes at mathematics, Olivia,'" he wrote on the flyleaf. " 'Between us, I believe one plus one equals one. Somehow, it equals two as well. Marry me?'"

He wrapped the geometry text in brown paper discarded from another book, tied it with string, and wrote in big letters on the outside, open after lord d'urst's gift. His heart peaceful, he summoned his footman, let the man help him to bed, then told him to take the package to Hannaford. He went to sleep then and dreamed of pleasant doings.

He woke early, refreshed and hungry for the first time in a week. Even his father was surprised at the prodigious breakfast he packed away. "Now, Father, if you would help me to the window seat, I am expecting a visitor."

"Olivia?" his father asked, his expression full of concern.

"If I am supremely lucky, and I wager I will be."

What a sunny Christmas day, he thought as he leaned back against the pillow his father had thoughtfully provided. The blanket was warm against his bare legs. He needed a shave, and he had spilt porridge on his nightshirt, but he didn't think Olivia would mind.

"If I recall Tim's habits from earlier days, you Han-nafords will eat breakfast first, and then open presents," he announced to the winter birds that fluttered around the suet ball outside his window. He made himself comfortable, reached for his treatise, and turned to page twenty, where Olivia said he had lost the drift of the argument again. He found the spot and was beginning a correction when he saw Lord D'Urst's traveling carriage moving at a rapid pace down the road. "Oh, G.o.d, Thou art kind to sinners and foolish men on this Your day," he prayed out loud. No matter that he understood anatomy; his heart was so high in his throat that he knew if he opened his mouth, it would flop into his hand. He swallowed mightily and then almost shuddered with delight at his next sight from the window.

Olivia hurried down the lane. She had not taken the time to do her hair, and it perched in his favorite topknot. He peered closer, noting his book clutched to her breast. He held his breath as she stopped and stared at his house for the longest time. To his everlasting joy, she began to run. With a wince and a gasp, he hobbled back to bed. In another moment he heard light steps on the stairs, and then Olivia threw open the door and practically catapulted herself into the room. Without a word, he pulled back the covers. "Just look out for my ankle," he warned as she threw off her cloak and lay down beside him.

She kissed him, and he quit worrying about his ankle. "Yes, I will marry you," she said when he let her up for air.

"I take it you said no to Lord D'Urst," he said, pillowing her head on his arm.

She raised up to look at him, indignant. "He had the nerve to write that I was his Christmas ornament! Can you imagine such a thing?"

He could, and did, then tucked the words away, never to be used again. She pillowed her head on his chest. "And then I opened your package. Thank you, my love, from the bottom of my heart."

"That was what did it?" he asked, relishing the warmth of her.

She laughed and touched his face. "No! Well, it helped, but I had resolved to marry you weeks ago, James Enders."

He stared at her in surprise. "Even when I was b.u.mbling, and erring, and apologizing around the clock?"

She nodded, burrowing herself in closer to him. "Before that. I have a confession to make. Before you arrived, Papa took me aside and told me that he thought you would make an excellent husband. He said that you were coming home for Christmas to make me an offer, and that I should accept it, as you were the best possible choice for me."

James could only gape. "Even when I was looking like your worst nightmare?"

"I own you did strain it, James," she agreed, her breath soft on his neck. She kissed his ear. "I trust my father; I always have. He told me that you would do, and I trusted him until I could see for myself that he was right."

Sir Waldo, I will be a most grateful son-in-law, he thought as his heart filled with love for his neighbor. He held Olivia close. "You realize, of course, that it would be easier to marry Peter."

She nodded and looked at him, and he could see how serious she was. "That occurred to me as I was walking over here, love, and I had to stop and think a moment," she told him. "How simple it would be to let someone take charge of my life! But you will not do that, will you? That's a little scary, James. Are all women loved so much, or only a privileged few?"

"Your life is your own, Olivia," he whispered in her ear. "All I ask is that you share it with me and our children. I will protect you and shelter you, but before G.o.d, I will not try to change you."

There were tears in her eyes now. "And it will be the same with me. I love you." She kissed him thoroughly.

This is a better cure than powders, he told himself when he could think again. "I'm not so certain I will be up to cutting much of a dash in a wedding dance, Olivia, unless you prefer a lengthy engagement."

She shook her head. "We should wait only just long enough for the crisis to pa.s.s at my house; that is all."

"Crisis?" he asked. "I take it your mother is not too excited about this turn of events." He kissed her. "Face it, Olivia, you are marrying a s.h.a.gbag, instead of an elegant diplomatist."

She turned her lively eyes on him. "Oh, the crisis is much more diverting, James. What should my nephew David do this morning but throw out spots! Louisa is certain it is chicken pox. Those tidings of great joy sent her stupid brother-in-law Felix into a dither from which I am certain he will never recover. Charles is still laughing about it." She gasped then and put her hand to her mouth. "Lord D'Urst doesn't even know about this! Should Papa write and tell him? Suppose he breaks out in spots in Paris at the treaty table?"

"Our elegant Lord D'Urst?" James said. "Such a crisis! Oh, I wish it did not hurt to laugh!"

Olivia's eyes opened wider still. "Do you suppose du Plessis or Louis the Eighteenth have had the chicken pox?" She started to laugh. "Oh, my, what a Christmas gift that will be!"

It required no real imagination to pick up the thread of her thoughts. He settled himself more comfortably on his back and tightened his arm around his darling, who gratified him by resting her head upon his chest and putting her arm across him in a gesture he could only call possessive. "Think of it, my love: the source of contagion will be traced to Lord D'Urst, and there will be diplomatic reprisals of the worst kind. He will be sent in disgrace to ... to ... oh, what is the dreariest capital imaginable? Perhaps Washington, D.C., where the politickers conspire and duel with one another. What do you think, lovely lady?"