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Julia called. “What is your opinion of matching costumes?”
    He forced his attention from the window to focus on her pretty, expectant face. “My opinion must depend on the preferences of my partner.”
    “And on her identity?” Julia suggested, with a sideways look at poor Whitmore.
    Lucien was already tired of her game, but he had come to Moulton to play. Because he needed a rich wife. “Certainly on her identity.”
    Julia dimpled, satisfied. “Then perhaps you should apply to Mrs. Pockley for suggestions on your own costume.”
    The chit was telling him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to dress to match her own disguise.
    He bowed. “I will be guided by Mrs. Pockley’s expert knowledge.”
    The conversation around the fire turned to what feathers and trimmings the dressmaker might have in stock, what ribbons and laces might be purchased locally, what treasures might be found in the guests’ own wardrobes or in the attics. A reconnaissance trip to the village was proposed.
    Outside, Aimée and the children had abandoned snow angels to troop to the open summerhouse. She lined them on the bench while she dug through the basket. Lucien caught the glint of metal, a tangle of straps. Skates.
    A smile tugged at his mouth. His first winter at Fair Hill, Tripp had taught him to skate on the mill pond.
    “And I must have silver ribbons,” Julia declared. “Perhaps we will go this afternoon to look for silver ribbons at the shop. What do you think, Mr. Hartfell?”
    Aimée kneeled before the smaller girl to strap on her skates. They were not her children. But she cared for them as if they were.
    Did she have so much love to give, then, that she would lavish it on anyone?
    He watched her hold the little girls’ hands as she coaxed them to stand.
    “I think,” Lucien said slowly, “I would rather go skating.”

     
    “Stay near the shore!” Aimée called as ten-year-old Peter Netherby struck out for the center of the pond.
    After three days confined to the house, she understood the boy’s restlessness. Fortunately, the harsh weather that had kept them all in the nursery had also frozen the pond across. Aimée was almost as happy as the children to be outside again. But she was not taking any chances with their safety.
    Near the bank, Harriet, two years younger than Peter, waved her arms and fought for balance.
    Five-year-old Lottie Netherby clung to both Aimée’s hands, her short, double-bladed skates scratching back and forth on the ice. “Look at me! I’m skating!”
    Aimée smiled down at her, towing her gently along. “You certainly are.”
    Lottie’s cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, her lips almost blue with cold. Despite their thick stockings, pantalettes, and petticoats, the girls’ pelisses and play dresses simply did not provide the protection of Peter’s breeches and overcoat.
    It had been a mistake to make snow angels before skating, Aimée admitted. The back of her hair and her skirts were damp, and ice had melted under her collar. She would have to herd the children back inside soon before they all caught cold.
    A burst of women’s laughter floated like snow on the air, followed by the rumble of men’s voices. Aimée glanced toward the house. A line of bonnets and top hats bobbed along the balustrade—the house party, coming to invade her snowy sanctuary.
    Howard. A chill trickled down her spine.
    And Mr. Hartfell.
    Her heart beat faster. She knew him at once, his powerful body and chiseled profile making him stand out from the other gentlemen.
    But it was more than his golden good looks that drew her. Something about him teased at her memory or imagination like the refrain of a familiar song, like a scent from childhood, beloved and familiar. As if her body recognized him, as if her soul responded to his.
    Lucien Hartfell.
    Julia’s suitor.
    Who believed she was encouraging Howard’s attentions.
    She gave herself a mental shake.
    “Peter! Harriet! It’s time to