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“What about above the mantelpiece?” William ventured. “A toasty spot to soothe the nerves of whichever maiden hopes to claim a kiss.”

“Ha!” came the gruff laugh of their host. “You do not think it will be the menfolk, then, who do the stalking tonight? Well, I daresay you’re right. These are modern times. Women are far more brazen now than they were in my youth.”

As if to lend gravity to his statement, a heavy knock at the great doors echoed into the room. Moments later, the sound of footsteps preceded the appearance of the sinewy butler at the doorway to the drawing room. “Brigadier Fairchild, your lordship,” he announced.

Fairchild marched into the room. He was a burly chap with a ferocious moustache and a booming voice to match.

“Sorry I’m late, Penrose!” the brigadier all but shouted. “The meeting ran long. Nice crowd you’ve got here. All the better to celebrate the news, what ho!”

“If you’re referring to the treaty with America,” said the baron, “that is hardly news anymore. It was ratified a week ago. All of England has been apprised of the fact.”

“My dear!” Lady Penrose chastened her husband. “Whether it is a few days in the past, surely the end of a war is worth celebrating? Especially with so many of our officers here who have now been spared battle.”

“You are right, of course,” said the baron. “Fetch the brandy!” he called to the footman. “We shall toast to peace and the fine men who may stay in England to enjoy it.”

William wasn’t so sure it was something he wanted to drink a toast to.

It was all well and good. War was a messy thing.

He hadn’t particularly looked forward to it.

Not at all, to be honest. But the absence of war made for a military that served little purpose.

How was he to earn a higher commission without a battleground on which to prove himself?

Certainly, flaunting his uniformed good looks in front of the ladies was a pleasant pastime.

Evenings with his comrades-in-arms were enjoyable. But they had their limits.

William had other dreams. He never talked about them to anyone.

He wasn’t sure people would believe him if he did.

He had played the role of a Don Juan so long and so well that he had almost become persuaded it was his true self.

Until he had met Ellena. She had stirred up a forgotten desire within him.

Not carnal as such, but deeply passionate.

He had wanted—more than anything—to woo her properly, to be worthy of her.

She would have been the great love of his life.

For her, he would have been a better man, a good man.

Everything else had turned on the axis that was Ellena.

When she had cut him out of her life, his had lost all meaning. If he could not wake up in her arms, be teased by her eyes, cautioned by her wisdom, he was an empty husk of a man. The dream stayed buried in a heart that was too wounded to give it wings again.

His parents would be confounded by the truth—that he wished to be just like them.

Like his brother, his sister. All happily ensconced in marriage to someone they adored.

Sadly, no ladies of his acquaintance ever promised the romantic fulfilment he craved.

Oh, they giggled and promenaded and tilted their fans just so .

They circled him like bees round a honeypot.

Empty-headed, buzzing things. So he became the honeypot they wanted.

In time, he forgot he wanted to be anything else.

Ellena had ignored the honey completely. She had demanded more. And he had found himself listening to a voice he’d thought he had lost. The one that spoke of a home and children and growing old together.

But she would be growing old with Lord Howell.

And William, well, he had tried to find meaning in something smaller.

The military. Something to keep him busy while he mended a broken heart.

An occupation where he could establish himself.

So that one day, if, by some miracle, he met another Ellena, he could offer her everything she deserved.

And he could have the one thing that seemed to constantly escape him: his one great love.

A glass of brandy was pushed into his hand.

William blinked. He lifted the glass automatically to join the toast. In his other hand, he still gripped the bough of mistletoe.

He glanced toward the fireplace. The footman, having seen to the brandy, now stood waiting patiently next to a stepladder.

William pushed through the small crowd until he was face-to-face with the fellow.

“Let’s get the job done, shall we? Is there a nail to hook it on?”

The attentive footman turned his head toward the wallpaper above the mantelpiece. An ornate hook was cleverly disguised in the pattern of the paper’s design.

“Jolly good.” William set his foot upon the ladder.

The servant at once took hold of the frame to offer stability.

In a trice, William had reached up and over and snagged the kissing bough onto the hook.

It was the perfect height. Just about anyone could reach the berries.

And the more diminutive ladies would no doubt be assisted by eager gentlemen.

As soon as William was back on the ground, the footman spirited away the stepladder.

He looked up at his handiwork, such as it was.

It gave him no pleasure. The waxy, white berries mocked him.

So many mouths waited for his, waited for him to seek them out, hungry for the touch of the most charming man in the room.

Oh, the conquest! Empty, bitter conquest.

He would put on a brave face. He would laugh and flirt. It was expected.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, as if they could seek sanctuary there.

But what was this? He drew out the slightly bruised sprig of mistletoe, its single berry clinging steadfastly to the stem.

He stared at it. What had possessed him?

Revulsion rose within and he flung the object into the fire.

He must not be that man. Small wonder Ellena had abandoned him. If he was ever to be worthy of someone like her, he would have to do better.

A tingle in his spine told him he was being watched. He swiveled to the right and was met with a coquettish smile from Frances Penrose.

He was standing under the mistletoe.

Mercifully, it was not yet dinner and Miss Penrose was heeding her mother’s reprimand. He was safe. For now. At some point later in the evening, he would have to satisfy her relentless pursuit. He had all but promised. He must play the role of gallant a little longer.

He forced what he hoped was a grin upon his face. It appeared to have the desired effect. The young lady lowered her lashes, touching the tips of her fingers to the low, embellished neckline of her dress.

Mercy! He had had his fill of such ardent women during his summer in Steeples.

It was no surprise he hadn’t found a suitable bride.

At least Miss Lockhart had not thrown herself at him with such fervor.

Or any fervor, for that matter. It had been a refreshing change.

Perhaps he had misjudged her. Just a little.

He sighed. Peace in England was going to make military life more dull than he imagined.

What on earth was he to do with himself, month after month?

At least he could look in on his sister.

She was the one woman he could always count on to be sensible.

Even if her husband did try one’s patience.

She might even steer him toward a better class of young lady.

Of course, Charlotte always tended to see the best in others.

A most unfortunate habit. Who knew what terrible flaws she might fail to spot in the ladies she recommended?

Then again, James would be quick to point out any faults his wife had missed.

William could always trust his brother-in-law to offer a barrier of mean-spirited discernment.

It was only Charlotte who could bring James gently to heel.

Even in their marriage of opposites, there was tenderness.

William swallowed down the rest of his brandy. It hit his throat like a glowing coal, flaming its way down to his stomach. What he needed now was dinner. And bed. And a chance to forget all his life’s disappointments.

If he could get through an evening in the company of Miss Frances Penrose, everything would look better in the morning.