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not stop atkisses. Suddenly she knew why she had been feeling so restless… Panic filled her and she struggled to sit up. Immediately Lawrence rolled away.
    ‘Very well, Mrs Westerhill, let us now agree to that truce!’ He jumped up and held out his hand to her. ‘Will you cry friends with me?’ Even the touch of their gloved hands was unsettling. As soon as she was on her feet Rose pulled her fingers free and turned away, knowing she was blushing, but the thoughts of making love to him refused to leave her mind. He said quickly, ‘I hope I did not hurt you?’
    ‘N-no.’ She concentrated on shaking out her skirts, speaking sharply to cover her discomfiture. ‘But that was very irresponsible of us. Our clothes will be wet through.’
    ‘Here, let me help you.’ She started when he began to brush the snow off her back. ‘There.’ He turned her to face him. ‘Forgive me,’ he said gently, ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’
    Her eyes flew to his face. She was nervous, overset, but he had done nothing, save be there.
    ‘Oh, no—that is, it was as much my fault as yours.’ She struggled to smile. ‘I fear the snow has made me a little light-headed.’
    ‘It makes everything different,’ he agreed, looking around them. ‘It is like living in a fairy-tale world.’ He held out his arm. ‘Friends?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Friends.’
    When they reached the kitchen garden Sir Lawrence stopped.
    ‘It is Christmas Day and I have no present for you.’ He reached across to a snow-covered bush and pulled off a small twig. ‘Here. Rosemary, for remembrance.’
    Rose took the spiky little branch and held it to her face, breathing in its scent. She never wanted to forget this day, however dull and respectable the rest of her life might be. The smell of rosemary would for ever remind her of Sir Lawrence.
    ‘Thank you.’ She tucked the stalk carefully into her pocket. ‘But now I am in your debt.’
    He put his fingers under her chin. She yielded to the pressure, tilting up her face, and he kissed her.
    ‘Now we are equal.’
    His kiss was brief, light as a feather, nothing like the impassioned, ravaging embrace of her imagination. It meant nothing, she kept telling herself. It was a friendly gesture, to reassure her that he had no designs upon her virtue. She was not sure she wanted to believe this argument, but as they walked back to the house she made a great effort to regain her composure. By the time they walked into the kitchen she had recovered sufficiently to smile at Evans’s look of surprise.
    ‘We have been very imprudent,’ she told him, pulling off her cloak. ‘Sir Lawrence will be able to change, but I shall have to rely upon a good blaze in the drawing room to dry my skirts.’
    ‘Aye, well, I did build up the fire there for you and banked up the fires in the bedrooms, too, but you’ll never sit around all day like that, Miss Rose,’ declared her groom. ‘Why, I can see from here that the back of your gown is soaked through!’
    Sir Lawrence had been arranging their gloves on the mantelshelf, but now he turned, saying, ‘If you would like to follow me, ma’am, perhaps we can find something for you to wear while we dry your clothes.’
    Rose shook her head. ‘I must put the chickens on the spit to roast—’
    ‘I can do that for you, Miss Rose,’ said Evans, waving her towards the door. ‘You had best get out of those wet things before you catch your death.’
    ‘That is the problem with servants one has known since a child,’ she remarked, frowning at her groom, ‘they tend to bully one.’
    ‘But you know he is right,’ replied Sir Lawrence. ‘Come along, ma’am.’
    There was nothing but friendliness to be read in his expression, so with a nod Rose followed him up the stairs, aware that her wet undergarments were becoming increasingly chilly against her skin.
    ‘This is my bedroom,’ he announced. ‘You may come in or stay outside, but pray do not keep the door open, you are