The moment had come to make her choice.

Alexandra stood still, poised in between two lives, two futures. She could speak up now and tell Captain Bowen the truth, and go back to her life as the lonely Miss Packard with no suitors. Or she could keep quiet, not say a word, until the ship sailed and they left England’s shores. She could step into Georgia’s shoes and the role of Mrs Reid Bowen.

A memory of his face came to her mind. His blue eyes, his fair hair, tanned skin, the set of his broad shoulders, his warmth, his smile and his voice, even his smell had already melted into her skin, her blood, into her heart, and she could not, however sensible it might be, do anything to part herself from him.

Catherine March was born in Zimbabwe. Her love of the written word began when she was ten years old and her English teacher gave her Lorna Doone to read. Encouraged by her mother, Catherine began writing stories while a teenager. Over the years her employment has varied from barmaid to bank clerk to legal secretary. Her favourite hobbies are watching rugby, walking by the sea, exploring castles and reading.

Novels by the same author:

MY LADY ENGLISH

THE KNIGHT’S VOW

THE KING’S CHAMPION

THE BRIGADIER’S
DAUGHTER
Catherine March

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Chapter One

London—10 December, 1876

‘Congratulations, dear boy! Well done!’

Captain Reid Bowen rose from his seat in the lounge of the gentleman’s club in Mayfair and accepted the hearty handshake from his uncle, murmuring his thanks and waving a hand at the leather armchair opposite. ‘Would you care to join me, Uncle Percy?’

‘Indeed!’ He clicked his fingers at a nearby waiter. ‘This calls for champagne.’

Reid demurred, with a modest shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Come now, Uncle, let’s not go overboard.’

‘And why on earth not, dear boy? It’s not every day that my favourite nephew returns from India and is promoted to the rank of major!’

‘Uncle Percy.’ Reid Bowen laughed. ‘I am your only nephew!’

‘Indeed, indeed you are.’

‘And my promotion is not substantive until the spring.’

‘Major Bowen, humour an old man, please!’

They both laughed and a bottle of champagne was ordered.

With his usual generosity Percy, the Earl of Clermount, invited a few fellow club members to join them, but as the last drop of expensive and delightful golden liquid was drained and the gathering dispersed, Uncle Percy turned to his nephew with a gleam in his eye, to broach a subject that had long been a bone of contention.

‘Well, now, with your posting as military attaché to the Embassy in St Petersburg, you seem to be short of an essential item of kit, dear boy.’

Reid set down his empty champagne flute and looked at his uncle with a puzzled frown. ‘And what would that be, sir?’

‘A wife, of course!’

Reid laughed, and flicked up the tails of his black evening suit, before sitting down in the leather armchair. ‘I had not given it any consideration, but you may be right. I will need a hostess.’

‘A wife is far more than just a hostess, Reid.’

His nephew glanced at him with a twinkle in his dark blue eyes. ‘Shame on you, Uncle, I did not think you had such thoughts about the fairer sex.’

Uncle Percy blushed, his jowls wobbling as he shook his head and clucked his tongue. ‘I was thinking of progeny, my dear boy. Sons, to inherit all that I shall one day leave you.’

Reid Bowen sighed, and nodded his head, yet kept his thoughts within the seclusion of his mind.

Undaunted, Uncle Percy ploughed onwards. ‘Now, the Christmas Ball at Lady Westfaling’s this evening will be an ideal occasion to see what’s, um, er, on the market, so to speak. You did receive an invitation, did you not?’

‘Yes, I had the misfortune,’ Reid replied drily.

‘Splendid! We will go together and I will point out the most eligible young chits. There’s the Bellingham girl: pretty, intelligent, a little dull perhaps; and the Tinson-Byrne chit is a fine filly; not to mention the enchanting Packard girl, though she may be a trifle young and flighty.’

Reid gave him a keen look. ‘With all respect, Uncle, I think I am old enough to select my own wife.’

‘Then why have you not done so, Reid, dear boy?’ Uncle Percy returned his glance with one as equally penetrating. ‘I believe you will be thirty-four next spring, and it’s high time you got yourself down that aisle and acquired what every man needs most in life—the love and support of a good woman.’

‘When I find her, I will no doubt rush to drag her to the altar.’

‘Well, with that sort of attitude, it’s no wonder you’re still on the shelf.’

‘Indeed, Uncle?’

‘The chits today don’t much go in for the dragging bit; they much prefer to be courted with respect and devotion. I think you will find that, if you apply as much savvy to courting as you do to soldiering, you will have no trouble in finding a suitable wife.’

‘Sasha!’

Miss Alexandra Packard sat before her dressing table as her maid finished pinning up her hair. She glanced in the mirror at one of her three sisters, standing in her bedroom doorway and wailing with a most disgruntled expression on her pretty face.

‘What is it, Georgia?’ Her voice was soft and quiet, laced with a patience she was frequently called upon to exert.

‘I can’t find my white gloves. Have you seen them?’

‘I’m sure Polly laid them out on the bed, with your gown. Did you not, Polly dear?’ Sasha glanced at their ladies’ maid, who nodded her head and dipped a curtsy in confirmation of this fact.

‘Then someone’s taken them!’ cried Georgia, flouncing on her heel with a whirl of white petticoats. ‘Philippa!’

Sasha sighed and rolled her eyes at Polly, her glance skimming away from her own reflection. Compared to her beautiful sister Georgia, who had inherited their father’s blond and blue-eyed features, she felt there was nothing appealing about her appearance, being the only daughter to have the sable-dark hair and black eyes of their Russian-born mother, the Princess Olga Alexandrovna, now simply Lady Packard, who was also slightly built and somewhat pale. All that her sisters seemed to have inherited from their mother was her temperamental nature, sometimes passionate and full of life, at other times sinking into a sulk that could last for days. After the birth of four children in close succession, none of whom had been the son her parents had hoped for, her mother had been incapacitated by a weak heart and now spent much of her days lying upon a chaise longue, bravely insisting that there was nothing wrong with her and encouraging her daughters to go out and enjoy their own lives to the full.

It was left to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, twenty-three years old and fondly known as Sasha, to see to the girls: Georgia, the prettiest of them all; Philippa, nineteen and ripe for the marriage market, though she was cruelly afflicted by a glandular problem and a trifle overweight; and Victoria, the youngest, who shared her father’s passion for the library and spent much of her time with her nose buried in a book.

‘Thank you, Polly.’ Sasha rose from the dressing table, her fingers briefly touching the maid’s arm in an affectionate gesture as she passed to lift her maroon velvet shawl from the bed. ‘Don’t wait up, I’ll see to the girls when we get in.’

Polly smiled and wished her a good evening, rushing off to see to Miss Vic as she called urgently for assistance with her garters and stockings.

‘Come along, girls,’ Sasha called as she walked down the corridor, ‘Papa will be waiting.’

Voices shrieked, doors banged, slippered feet pattered on the thick carpet behind her, but Sasha did not pause or glance over her shoulder. She knew from experience that any sign of weakness on her part would be pounced upon and time would be wasted on whether this bracelet or that ribbon or those slippers were really the best to wear, so she merely glided as serenely as a swan, gathering her cygnets behind her as she descended the stairs to the hall.

Brigadier Sir Conrad Packard looked up as he fastened his cloak, and his eyes gleamed with pride as he watched his four daughters. No one could deny that he was the proudest of fathers, the only hint that he might have experienced some disappointment at the birth of a daughter being the bestowing of the feminine form of masculine names. Disappointment had long since faded, and he adored all his girls, fortified by the firm hope that one day soon he would be acquiring four strapping sons-by-marriage.

There was a flurry of activity as shawls were fastened and reticules clasped firmly about the wrist and then the butler, footmen and their father assisted and chivvied the four Packard girls into the waiting carriage. At last, settled in his seat and rolling his eyes in sympathy with their butler as the door closed, the Brigadier called, ‘Thank you, Lodge. We will not be too late.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Lodge bowed with a knowing smile at these familiar words and turned back to the house as the carriage set off, prepared for a night of rummy and copious cups of tea to keep him going until the early hours of the morning. He would not rest until the girls and the master were safely home again.

A fresh flurry of snow that afternoon slowed their progress as they joined other carriages on the slush-laden roads of London’s fashionable Mayfair, making their way to Lady Westfaling’s Christmas Ball. They were warm and snug within the carriage, a froth of white lawn petticoats, beneath silk gowns in shades of cream, red tartan and green, billowing as the girls sought to tame their skirts.

‘Do you think there will be a treasure hunt like last year?’ mused Philippa, offering a small bag of sugared almonds to her sisters.

The girls each selected one, and sucked on the sweet pink-and-white confections while they speculated on the evening ahead with eager anticipation.

Victoria helped herself to another sugared almond, her sister frowning and snatching the bag away, with an envious glance at Victoria’s slim waist. ‘I wonder if the Foreign Secretary, Lord Derby, will be there? I would so like to hear if the Turks—’

‘Oh, never mind that,’ exclaimed Georgia. ‘I wonder if Felix will be there? I want to dance all night!’

Their father looked up from adjusting his white bow tie, and offered snippets of advice and admonishments for their behaviour. A military man, he had served twenty-five years before a severe wound had forced him to retire from active service and spend a number of years in the Diplomatic Corps. He was a kind but very particular man, not overly tall and his pate bald of his once-fair hair, but he exuded the strength and bearing of a military officer. He still kept his hand in with the Army by making good use of his knowledge of French and Russian. Having tutored his own daughters, he now tutored young military officers who were in need of these languages. His quiet yet firm voice brooked no arguments and he was not known to suffer fools gladly, the antics of his daughters being no exception. They held him in slightly awed reverence, tempered by affection.

‘We’ll not be dancing too often with those young gentlemen,’ he said, glancing at Georgia with his ice-blue eyes, which seldom missed anything of importance. ‘Your mama was quite mortified when Lady Jessop called and commented about your behaviour at her dinner dance.’

Georgia pouted, recalling to mind the scolding her parents had delivered after that occasion, but made no reply as she sat back silently in her seat, peering out of the window as the wheels of the carriage slowed and they pulled into the portico of Lady Westfaling’s impressive mansion.

Sasha exchanged a glance with her father and smiled at him reassuringly, her silent promise to keep a better eye on Georgia. A golden glow from the lit hallway spilled out upon the steps as they descended from the carriage, with the assistance of several attentive footmen splendid in frogged uniforms. The Packards joined the crowd of other guests inching along a carpeted corridor to the ballroom, where the major-domo took the proffered invitation card from the Brigadier, rapped his staff upon the marble step and announced in stentorian tones worthy of any parade ground, ‘Brigadier Sir Conrad Packard, and the Misses Alexandra, Georgia, Philippa and Victoria Packard.’

They moved forwards, descending the steps to where their hosts, Lord and Lady Westfaling, their son, Felix, and daughter, Arabella, stood waiting in a line to greet them and to hand the young ladies their dance cards, which had tiny gilt pencils attached with ribbon.

‘Conrad, my dear,’ murmured Lady Westfaling, looking pointedly over the Brigadier’s shoulder as she let him kiss the air beside her cheek, ‘is Olga still not well?’

‘Alas.’ He shook his head and moved swiftly on from her cloying perfume and predatory clasp to extend his hand to his good friend, Avery, Lord Westfaling, with the promise to meet him in the library for cigars and brandy at the earliest opportunity. He nodded curtly at young Felix, who visibly blanched as he dragged his eyes from the delightful blonde-and-blue-eyed vision that was Georgia and bowed to the Brigadier, nervously murmuring good evening, punctuated with several ‘sir’s too many.

Sasha paused for a moment amidst the hubbub as her sisters chattered and looked eagerly about. Her glance fell to the dance card clasped in her white-gloved fingers. Wistfully she wondered if any gentleman would actually put his name down, or if once again she would be so busy chaperoning her sisters and dancing with her father to have time to dance with anyone else. Most likely she would be overlooked as the gentlemen made their choices elsewhere amongst the vast bevy of lovely and well-bred young ladies present. Unobtrusively she slipped the card into the tasselled reticule dangling from her wrist, and then looked up, with a well-trained smile fixed on her soft mouth.

The ballroom was indeed a magnificent sight, proof that Lady Westfaling had spent a good deal of money and employed numerous people to transform it into a Christmas wonderland. To one side, halfway down the vast room, stood a twenty-foot Scots pine, brought in from their own estate in Scotland, and decorated with red-and-gold baubles, ribbons, gingerbreads and tiny candles. The smell of the pine and ginger was very pleasant, refreshing the somewhat heavy atmosphere emanating from the odour of perfumed ladies and sweating gentlemen. Sasha breathed in the scent as they moved to examine the decorations, the orchestra playing discreetly in the background before the dancing began. She glanced at the garlands of holly and wreaths and ribbons festooned about the walls, and the brightly sparkling chandeliers that lit up the room so beautifully.

‘Who is that?’ Georgia murmured suddenly in her ear.

‘Hmm?’ Sasha turned as her sister’s urgent fingers dug into her elbow, looking in the direction of a gentleman greeting Lady Westfaling. He was handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, his ash-brown hair flecked with blond and his face unusually suntanned. Sasha turned away. ‘I have no idea, but do stop gaping, before Papa notices. Oh, look, Felix is about to mark your dance card.’

‘How wonderful to see you, Reid,’ Lady Westfaling greeted her guest, her glance slightly disapproving, ‘but not in uniform?’

Captain Bowen bowed. ‘My apologies, Lady Westfaling. I am on leave, added to which my uniform is sadly shabby. A friend has made me the loan of his tails for the evening.’

Her glance now admiring as she took in the wide set of his shoulders and the expanse of white shirt tapering to a flat stomach beneath a white waistcoat, Lady Westfaling murmured, ‘You must introduce me to your friend; from his clothing he seems to be a fine figure of a man.’

Taken aback, Reid narrowed his dark blue eyes as he took the measure of his hostess and swiftly retreated, moving on to extend his hand to her husband further down the line, casting a wry glance to his Uncle Percy over one shoulder.

‘Jolly good to have you back, Bowen,’ Lord Westfaling declared. ‘Take no notice of the old gel, she’s always had an eye for good-looking chaps, that’s why she married me!’ He laughed, but there was a note of warning in his tone. ‘All talk and no action, I can assure you.’

‘Of course,’ Reid murmured, practising his diplomatic skills by adding, ‘I have spent so long out in the field that I have forgotten how…charming ladies can be.’

‘Indeed. Now then, what’s this I hear about a promotion? Congratulations!’

‘Thank you.’ He accepted another handshake.

‘Must introduce you to our good friend Packard, Army man himself before a damn Abyssinian spear crippled his knee. How’s your Russian?’

‘Oh, Avery!’ cried Lady Westfaling, ‘Do stop nattering, you’re holding things up!’

The guests were merging in a crowd about the steps, forcing his lordship to curtail his conversation and usher them on, with the proviso, ‘Percy, bring him to the library, soon as I’ve got this damned dancing on the go.’

‘Avery!’

They walked away, Uncle Percy purloining glass flutes of golden champagne from a passing waiter, and raising one to toast his nephew. ‘Here’s to the future Mrs Bowen.’

Reid hesitated before he sipped his champagne, glancing around at the crowded ballroom and the dazzling array of women in evening gowns and glittering jewellery. ‘I must confess, Uncle, that I feel a touch nervous. I would rather be facing a hundred screaming tribesmen pouring down the Hindu Kush than entangle myself with any of these mamas and their offspring.’

‘Oh, pish! Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Uncle Percy finished his glass with a flourish and narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the room with a discreet yet discerning eye. ‘Let’s take a wander round. My advice would be to select two or three young ladies, a few dances, a little light conversation, then leave it at that for the time being. There are plenty more balls and parties between now and New Year.’

Reid laughed wryly. ‘Sounds to me as though you have the whole campaign well planned. Is this to be a full-frontal, noisy attack? Or a covert, silent offensive?’

‘My dear boy, do not be facetious!’

‘Speaking of time, I had a letter this morning from the Defence Secretary to say that my posting has been brought forwards. So I shall be leaving for Russia at the end of April.’

‘Damn me!’ Uncle Percy muttered. ‘It would have to be a whirlwind courtship, then.’

‘I am reluctant to rush into anything.’

‘So you have said. For the past ten years. Neither of us is getting any younger, you know.’ He paused, and lowered his chin as he murmured, ‘Now, there’s a girl you may want to get to know, Araminta Cunningham-Ellis. Well bred, elegant, plenty of money.’

Reid snorted, helping himself to another glass of champagne. ‘I may not be rich, but I have enough money of my own, thank you.’ He glanced carefully sideways at the strawberry blonde in question. ‘She’s rather tall, for a girl.’

They both gazed upon Araminta, Uncle Percy with frank admiration and Reid with amusement. ‘Come along,’ he urged his uncle, nudging his elbow, ‘before her mama cuffs you with that enormous fan she’s brandishing.’

‘Can’t see what you’re complaining about,’ Uncle Percy muttered. ‘Perfect breeding stock for sons—’ He coughed and cleared his throat as an elderly gentleman stepped into his path. ‘Good evening, Hallam, is it not a splendid do?’

They paused for a few moments in polite conversation and then moved onwards, Uncle Percy pointing out several more eligible females along the way. To his disappointment, and frustration, his nephew seemed little impressed and he could not persuade him to make any introductions. At last they came to the raised dais leading to open French doors and the verandah beyond. They mounted the steps on the pretext of taking in a breath of fresh air, yet from their elevated position they now had a perfect view of the ballroom. Uncle Percy looked towards four young ladies dressed in simple yet charming green, red and cream evening gowns, blending in with the Christmas theme.

‘Now you couldn’t go far wrong with one of Packard’s gels, all of them splendid creatures. And very useful, too, being fluent in French and Russian. Georgia, the one in the green dress, is the prettiest, and about the right age, I would say.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Almost twenty-one.’

Reid glanced discreetly, and had to admit that Georgia Packard was indeed very lovely, the sort of girl he would be attracted to and the sort of blonde, beautiful girl that in the past had been his mistress.

‘And there’s Victoria, the one in the tartan dress. She’s seventeen.’

‘Too young.’

‘And Philippa, in the maroon dress.’

‘The one in the cream dress, the small one with the dark hair, is she a Packard?’

‘Of course, that’s Sasha, christened Alexandra after her mother—a Russian princess by birth, you know. Very beautiful, but afflicted by poor health, and somewhat highly strung.’

‘Hmm.’ Reid mused doubtfully, ‘I would prefer a lady who is strong and capable.’

‘I am sure in nature Sasha is both of those qualities, but you never know if she has inherited more than just her mother’s looks. If it’s a strong gel you want, then you would be wise to settle on Georgia.’ They both surveyed the young lady. ‘Mind you, she would not give you a quiet life.’

‘Indeed?’ Reid smiled at the prospect of a challenge, as he gazed at the four young ladies hovering near the Christmas tree, blissfully unaware of his Uncle Percy’s grand designs. ‘What’s the papa like? I believe he’s an Army man himself, and not to be trifled with by all accounts.’

‘He’s a splendid fellow! Shall I introduce you?’

‘By all means.’

The orchestra began to play and Lord and Lady Westfaling opened the dancing with an elegant polonaise. Sasha felt the beat of the music vibrate through her whole body, her soul stirred by the rousing tune. Beneath the long skirts of her evening gown her brocade slipper tapped in time to the beat.

‘Don’t look, but he’s coming over!’

‘What?’ Sasha glanced at her sister with a puzzled frown. ‘What on earth—?’

‘Don’t look!’ Georgia repeated in an urgent undertone.

Puzzled and curious, Sasha did indeed look. Just for a moment her gaze met the dark blue eyes of the handsome, suntanned man they had seen earlier, before her lashes lowered and she glanced away. She did not know him, but recognised the Earl of Clermount walking at his side, and dipped a curtsy in greeting as her father beamed at his old friend.

‘Percy, old boy, glad to see you!’

‘Conrad.’ After an exchange of bows, Percy turned slightly. ‘I’d like you to meet my nephew, Captain Reid Bowen. He’s been out on the North-West Frontier for the past seven years, and now that he’s returned, bathed in glory and a well-earned commission to major—’

‘In the spring,’ Reid interjected.

‘Quite.’ Percy cast him an exasperated glance. ‘I am persuading him to enjoy life a little, before he takes up a posting to St Petersburg.’

The Brigadier perked up at this fact, and turned to Reid with hand extended. ‘How do you do? Which regiment are you with?’

‘The Royal Fusiliers, Seventh Battalion.’

‘Fine body of men. Queen’s Light Dragoons myself.’

‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir,’ Reid responded truthfully, and for a few moments they made conversation on military matters, before Uncle Percy’s sharp elbow in his ribs reminded him of his duty. ‘Might I have the honour of marking your daughter’s dance card?’

The Brigadier smiled, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. ‘Which one? I have four of ‘em, as you can see.’

Reid hesitated, just for the blink of an eye, in a quandary as to whether he should state where his interest lay openly, or be more subtle. He plumped for the latter. ‘Well, of course, I would be delighted with any Miss Packard who might care to risk my clumsy two left feet. It has been some while since I practised my dancing.’

Before he had even finished speaking Victoria and Philippa had already thrust their cards beneath his nose, and he dutifully surveyed them and pencilled in his name, while Georgia exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a shame, my card is full! Excuse me, Papa, here is Felix to claim me for the mazurka.’

‘You’ve already had a dance with him this evening, Georgia,’ the Brigadier growled, as his brows lowered upon an anxiously hovering the Right Honourable Felix Westfaling. ‘Scratch him out and let Captain Bowen take his place.’

‘Oh, Papa, that would not do at all!’ exclaimed Georgia. ‘It would be very rude, would it not, Sasha?’

Sasha felt a warm blush creep up her neck as all eyes turned on her, but she murmured in agreement, ‘It may be construed as rather impolite.’

‘Besides, Sasha has not had even one dance yet—can’t he go with her?’

‘I-I’ve lost my card,’ stammered Sasha.

‘Nonsense, it’s in your reticule.’ And with that Georgia whirled away with a flounce of green silk as she took Felix firmly by the elbow and set off to dance around the ballroom floor with him.

The Brigadier felt a brief spurt of annoyance, which boded ill, as his gaze followed that of his errant and impetuous daughter, yet he calmed as Sasha laid her hand on his forearm and murmured soothingly, ‘‘Tis but a phase, Papa, it will soon pass.’ She turned to Captain Bowen and smiled politely. ‘I would be delighted to dance with you, sir.’

‘Me first!’ cried Victoria.

Somewhat curious, Reid Bowen held out his hand to take Sasha’s dance card. He was puzzled, as he glanced at the blank sheet, and resisted the temptation to cast a perusing stare. What was wrong with the girl that no one wanted to dance with her? Buck teeth? Bad breath? A total bore? From his greater height, his eyes lowered, he looked at her, and though she was no great beauty he could find no fault with her neat features, smooth, pale skin and dark brown eyes that glowed with intelligence. He pencilled himself in for two dances, both of them a waltz, later in the evening, and then he turned to the young Victoria and escorted her onto the dance floor. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Victoria was overawed by the handsome and mature gentleman in whose arms she suddenly found herself, and for the life of her she could not think of a word to say, which suited her partner well enough. At the end of the dance, he returned her to her family and then bowed as he went off in search of a much-needed drink.

At ten o’clock a buffet of the most lavish and delicious food was served. Sasha indulged in a portion of sherry trifle and was licking her spoon when Captain Bowen returned to claim her for the first waltz of the evening. As he paused in front of her, with an amused smile and twinkle in his blue eyes, she hurriedly set aside the spoon and bowl, as he proffered his crooked arm to her.

‘Shall we?’

The strains of the ‘Blue Danube’ made her smile with anticipation and pleasure, the waltz being her favourite dance. She accepted with a small inclination of her head, and slipped her hand through his elbow as he led her forwards, every part of her aware of his tall frame at her side.

Though he had to stoop slightly, and she had to reach up to place her hand upon his broad shoulder, Reid was not in the least bit clumsy. Indeed, she had never enjoyed a waltz quite so much. She glanced up at his profile, his straight nose and lean cheeks very masculine. His jaw was firm and his eyes, when he glanced at her as he placed his hand on her waist, were a very dark blue. Following his lead, she swayed and stepped in time to the rhythm of the waltz, her feet and legs moving between his own as he guided her. Though she often had to dance backwards with no idea of what was behind her, her long cream silk skirts swirling about her legs, she had every confidence in Captain Bowen and the music as they swayed about.

‘You are an excellent dancer, Miss Packard.’

Reid noticed that she bowed her head, with a smile, in a shy yet charmingly graceful gesture, acknowledging his compliment and yet neither bold nor brazen in her acceptance. He noticed, also, the tiny speck of cream at the corner of her mouth, and agonised over whether to mention it, or remain silent. He found himself glancing time and again, as they danced, at her mouth, until she turned her head, aware of his gaze, a slight frown on her well-shaped, dark brows and a pink blush staining her neck and cheeks.

‘Forgive me, Miss Packard.’ It was unconscionably rude of him to have embarrassed a lady, so he erred on the side of truth and his judgement that Miss Packard favoured honesty. ‘But, um, please do not take offence, but you may wish to dab your handkerchief to the corner of your mouth.’

‘Oh!’ Sasha was instantly mortified. ‘Have I cream?’

‘Indeed you do. Just a tiny speck.’

Sasha felt a red-hot heat of embarrassment wash over her entire body, and wished with all her being she could flee. She made a tiny move to jerk from his arms, but he pulled her back and smoothly manoeuvred her through the flowing steps of the waltz.

‘Oh, sir, please do let me go!’

‘Why?’

‘I—I—’ Sasha stammered. ‘Let me retire to the ladies’ cloakroom, please.’ In agony she felt her cheeks blaze.

‘There is no need.’ As they danced into the corner, and his broad shoulders shielded her from prying eyes, deftly, quickly, he reached out with one gloved finger and flicked the offending blob of cream away. ‘There now, it is gone. All is well. And no one could see.’

Sasha tried to pull away again, but he held on to her, and she glanced up at him. ‘You must think me very…gauche.’

‘Not at all.’ He gazed down, saw the telltale glimmer of tears in her eyes, and repeated firmly, ‘Not at all. And in the grand scheme of things, what is a mere speck of cream? It’s not as though you had lost a slipper or, God forbid, a stocking trailed about your ankle.’

She could not help but laugh, nor could she help it as another painful blush warmed her exposed neck. ‘You should not speak of such things.’

He smiled, enjoying the pleasant sound of her laugh, and even her blushes, for it had been a long time since he had been close to a woman who could still blush.

‘No, indeed I should not.’ It began to dawn him on him then why Miss Alexandra Packard might not be the belle of the ball, for he sensed there was something infinitely fragile about her. To his surprise he felt the surge of a most unfamiliar emotion, as though he would fight dragons and villains to protect her from all harm. He brushed it off, annoyed with himself. This would not do, as many men no doubt felt, judging from her empty dance card, it would not do at all for an officer’s wife to be anything other than a strong and capable woman who could take care of herself, the home and the children while her soldier husband was away winning his medals.

At the end of the waltz they parted company, and Sasha wondered, as he coolly bid her adieu, whether he would return for the second. To her surprise and pleasure, he did, and firmly took the lead, moving her slender body about the ballroom with infinite ease and confidence. He made no move to open conversation, so politely she enquired if he was looking forward to his posting to St Petersburg, and from there they enjoyed a dialogue about Russia.

‘I must confess, Miss Packard,’ murmured Captain Bowen, above her ear, ‘that I have not enjoyed a dance quite so much this evening, as I have with you. Not only are you an exquisite dancer, but very interesting to talk to.’

‘Thank you.’

They continued the dance until its end—all too soon, Sasha thought—and then he walked with her back to where her father and her sisters sat. He did not depart at once, but lingered to converse with her father on the Army and the possibility of Russian lessons.

In the dark, early hours of morning the clop-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels roused Lady Packard as she lay dozing, waiting for the return of her family to their home in Roseberry Street. She stirred and reached to turn up the wick on the glass-shaded lamp beside the bed. Beyond her bedroom she could hear footsteps and the bang of a door, and her husband’s deep voice as he admonished his daughters to be quiet. She sat up and plumped her pillows, checked her braided hair and turned her face eagerly to the door. A few moments later it opened, and the Brigadier stepped in, tossing aside his white gloves and bow tie as he walked with soundless footsteps across the carpet.

‘Did the girls have a wonderful evening?’ she asked in her soft, husky voice, even after all these years still influenced by her native Russian accent.

‘My dear—’ Conrad turned to face his wife, as he shrugged off his jacket ‘—you did not have to wait up.’ He spoke gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gazing at her.

Olga held out her arms to him, and with a contented sigh he pulled her into an embrace, affectionate and yet restrained, mindful of her delicate health. He kissed the side of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and stroking back tendrils of dark hair from her temple. ‘How are you, my love?’

‘I am well,’ she replied gently. ‘I have missed you.’

‘You should have come with us. The Westfalings were asking after you, as well as Percy, and many others.’

Tears glowed in her eyes, her turbulent emotions easily aroused, ‘Next time, I promise. Soon I will be feeling much stronger. Did Georgia behave?’

‘No.’ Conrad could not help but laugh, his annoyance tempered by admiration for his daughter’s passionate, if stubborn and wayward, nature. He sat back and pulled off his shoes and stockings, undressing swiftly and then climbing into bed with his wife, a sigh escaping from his throat as he lay back. ‘I am getting too old for all of this nonsense.’ He turned his head on the pillow and gazed at his wife. ‘What a pair we are! It’s high time these girls of ours were married off. Their husbands can run around after them and we can enjoy a little time to ourselves.’ He mused for a moment, a vision of rusticating at their country manor in Shropshire taking hold in his mind, hopeful that the country air and quiet life would help improve Olga’s strength. ‘I think Georgia may have acquired a beau this evening, though not the one she would no doubt prefer. Percy introduced his nephew, a Captain Reid Bowen. I found him most personable and highly suitable, more than capable enough of keeping Georgia in line. However, he’s off to St Petersburg in the spring, on a posting to the Embassy as military attaché.’

‘Oh, Conrad, how wonderful.’ Olga turned to lie against him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Tell me more! Just think, one of our girls married to an officer.’

‘Steady on now, my love, they’ve only just met. Though he did ask my permission to call, and I have invited him for dinner on Christmas Eve. I hope that will not be inconvenient.’ He looked down at her with raised brows.

Olga shook her head. ‘We were short of one gentleman, so it will be perfect. But what of my Sasha? Did anyone dance with my Sasha?’

‘Only Captain Bowen, but as always she kept close to my side and seemed unable to overcome her shyness. I fear she does rather live in Georgia’s shadow.’

In her bedroom Sasha kicked off her slippers and padded barefoot to stand before the dressing table, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. Slowly she raised her hands and removed the pins from her hair, avoiding her own eyes and her flushed cheeks, hesitating as Georgia called from the adjoining bedchamber. She leaned a little closer then, bravely daring to look at her own face…How strange, she thought, she looked exactly the same, but she did not feel the same…not since Captain Reid Bowen had held her in his arms and waltzed her around the ballroom…

‘Oh, Sasha, darling, do hurry, I can’t wait to get this corset off!’ cried an indignant Georgia.

‘I’m coming.’ Sasha turned away from the mirror and hurried to her sister’s assistance.

‘I don’t know why Polly can’t stay up.’

‘It’s two o’clock in the morning,’ Sasha replied, nimbly dealing with the ribbons of Georgia’s corset. ‘It would be unkind to keep Polly awake all night just to unlace us, when we can very well do it for ourselves.’

Georgia scowled and muttered and then stepped out of the pool of her discarded gown, turning to do the same for Sasha. When at last freed from the constriction of their ball gowns and corsets, they laid them out on a chaise longue beside the wardrobe, for Polly to put away in the morning. Georgia flung herself down on her bed and began to brush out her long butter-blonde hair, her sapphire eyes glowing as she exclaimed, ‘Was it not a wonderful evening?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Felix is the most wonderful dancer, and he makes me laugh. I absolutely adore him!’

Sasha sat down and laid cool fingers on her sister’s wrist. ‘Don’t, Georgia, please don’t. You know Papa will never allow a match between the two of you.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You know very well why not. Felix was embroiled in that horrible scandal with the, er, enceinte governess.’

‘He swears that was nothing of his doing. She was lying through her teeth just to snare him!’

‘And he refused a commission into the Army, preferring to stay at home with his mama. In Father’s eyes that makes him well and truly damned.’

Georgia rose from the bed and flounced away, moving to the far side and drawing back her bedcovers. ‘Felix cannot help it if he has an aversion to killing people, and being sent abroad to God-forsaken places for years on end.’

Sasha suspected that Georgia was quoting Felix and not her own opinion. ‘Papa says he lacks discipline and is a coward.’

‘I am going to sleep,’ said Georgia firmly, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up over her shoulders. ‘Goodnight.’

With a sigh Sasha rose and murmured, ‘Goodnight, sweet dreams.’

Georgia grunted, and Sasha knew better than to pursue the matter further. Once Georgia had made her mind up about something, she could be very stubborn indeed. Sasha went to her own bedchamber and closed the connecting door, slipping beneath the heavy covers of her canopied bed and lying awake in the darkened room for some while. Her thoughts wandered back to the first waltz she had danced with Captain Bowen. Sasha squirmed, hugging a pillow in both hands as she remembered the embarrassing moment when he had pointed out she had cream on her face. She rolled over in the expanse of her bed, trying to convince herself the moment was best forgotten. In the grand scheme of things, as he had pointed out, it was of no importance. She remembered the feel of his broad, solid body as he guided her through the maze of other dancing couples, very sure and certain of himself, his voice a steady sound—even the smell of him, a clean masculine tang, lingered in her memory.

Yet whilst he had been talking to her papa, she had noticed him glance several times at Georgia, as she danced, and then as she had returned and chatted animatedly with her dear friend, Arabella. But he had also made conversation with herself, and Philippa, and even young Victoria. He had asked her father if he might call upon them, and her father, much to her surprise, had nodded his agreement and even gone so far as to invite Captain Bowen to accompany Uncle Percy to dinner on Christmas Eve. Sasha closed her eyes, falling asleep on her last, and pleasant, thought—that soon she would see the very handsome Captain Reid Bowen again.

Chapter Two

Despite retiring in the early hours of morning, Reid was awake and up at his usual time, his routine dictated by a lifetime of military discipline. He had declined his uncle’s invitation to stay with him and had taken a room in the Officer’s Mess of the Royal Fusiliers, conveniently situated for the town and stables behind the barracks near the Tower of London. At nine o’clock precisely his batman came in with his shaving gear and a bowl of hot water. Reid shrugged on a robe and dutifully sat down to be shaved, facing the light of a long sash window.

Through the open curtains of thick, dark green brocade, he could see a square of blue sky. He would take a ride in Hyde Park before luncheon; it would help to clear his mind. He was not a man who usually brooded, or had any difficulty in life that required mental wrestling, but on this bright December morning his thoughts were indeed a little disordered, and that irked him.

All was not going according to plan. The intention was that he would acquire a wife, take her with him to St Petersburg, and settle down to enjoy his career. But here was the rub—choosing a suitable woman was not as easy as he, or Uncle Percy, had thought it would be. In the past he had felt no inclination to acquire anything as permanent as a wife, and, though he was not a man who felt the constant need for a woman, he had enjoyed the occasional yet discreet liaison. Always with a woman who was very beautiful, not very intelligent and yet one who understood that she could expect nothing more than his presence in her bed. When the attraction had been satisfied, and one or the other of them had moved on, there had been no great dilemma or drama, as neither had expected any form of commitment. Ah, Reid mused as he rinsed his face clean in the hot water and stroked his fingers over his smooth jaw, perhaps it was the noose of commitment that he could feel tightening around his neck that bothered him this morning.

He went to his dressing room and selected a tweed riding jacket and fawn breeches, a cream shirt and matching cravat, pondering that perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was the memory that lingered in his mind of dancing a waltz with a certain Miss Packard. She had been so unlike any woman he had ever met before. Graceful—yes, she had been light as a feather dancing in his arms. Intelligent—undoubtedly, her knowledge of Russia, of languages and music and goodness knew what else had been most apparent, and yet she had not been a bore at all, interspersing her conversation with humorous, wry little snippets and that delightful, husky, almost shy laugh. Yet in appearance she was not the sort he would normally lust after—indeed not! He admonished himself, for Miss Packard was far too respectable to be his mistress! On the other hand, one does not choose a wife according to the standards of a mistress. She might not be blonde and buxom, but there was a certain charm about her dark-haired and creamy-skinned femininity that appealed to him. She was certainly intelligent and well read; he could envisage many a cosy evening together and the conversation would be neither boring nor stilted. She was petite, though, which in itself he found quite attractive and he entertained himself with delicious thoughts of carrying her up the stairs to bed, or sitting before the fire and letting her curl up on his lap, a prelude to making love.

However, Uncle Percy had mentioned the importance of producing an heir and he wondered if her small slim frame would be, er, adequate. He frowned, hesitating even within the privacy of his thoughts to dwell on Miss Packard’s nether regions. Well, one just wouldn’t breed a Suffolk Punch with a delicate little Arabian filly, now would one? It would not do. No, definitely not, he told himself firmly, it would not do at all.

He would be better off if he looked to the other Miss Packard, the blonde one, who appeared to be everything that he desired in a wife—confident, vivacious, and her figure was certainly admirable. Evidently a strong young woman, her speech and manners a little too loud perhaps, a little wilful…selfish, even? He hadn’t yet enjoyed a particularly entertaining conversation with her, and she was frequently looking over her shoulder at that damned Westfaling whippersnapper. His enthusiasm began to wane as he dwelled on the attributes of one sister, and then the other, but even as he made his way downstairs, enjoyed a hearty breakfast, and then to the stables, mounted his bay gelding and rode off in the direction of Hyde Park, he could not come to any satisfactory conclusion about either of them.

‘Sasha, wake up!’

From beneath a pile of bedcovers Sasha groaned, and shrugged off the hand shaking her shoulder. She burrowed deeper into the bed, in a vain attempt to escape a persistent Georgia.

‘Oh, go away, Georgia, leave me alone!’ she muttered from beneath her pillow, her heavy and aching eyes trying to sink back into the bliss of sleep.

‘Sasha, you must get up.’ Georgia marched over to the window and thrust back the curtains, flooding the room with bright sunshine. ‘I promised Felix that I would meet him in the park. Do get dressed, I’ve persuaded one of the grooms to be ready and waiting at ten o’clock.’

‘Ten o’clock!’ Sasha sat up then, turning to look at the clock ticking gently in its gilt case on the mantel above the fireplace, and then at her fully dressed sister. ‘Are you mad, Georgia, or just totally insensitive to other people? It’s the crack of dawn and I’m exhausted from last night.’

‘Rubbish! It’s almost nine and you’ve had plenty of sleep. Here, darling, put on your lovely blue riding habit and I’ll ring for Polly to bring you some tea and toast.’

Emerging from the dressing room with her arms full of Sasha’s riding habit, she laid it down on the bed and then crossed the room to pull the bell-rope.

Sasha yawned and stretched, seeing that there was no help for it but to get up. And now that she was awake, and her thoughts returned to the memory of Captain Bowen, she was far too restless to go back to sleep. She glanced out of the window at the clear blue sky, and mused that a ride in the park seemed just the thing. The snow had stopped and was beginning to thaw, and though later it would be slushy out, for now it would be crisp but not too cold or treacherous. She dressed and enjoyed a cup of fragrant Earl Grey and a slice of toast with butter and marmalade, ignoring Georgia as she nagged and badgered in the background. At last she was dressed, and stood before her mirror to place her top hat on, pulling down the spotted black netting over her face, and slipped her fingers into kid gloves.

‘At last!’ cried Georgia, springing to her feet and ushering her sister downstairs and out to the stables, glancing now and then over her shoulder.

Sasha became suspicious. ‘Papa does know we are going out? He gave his permission?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Georgia waved her hand airily, and beamed at the young groom waiting for them, holding two big, dappled-grey hunters by their bridles. ‘Good morning, Farrell.’

‘Mornin’, miss.’ The young Irish lad tugged at the peak of his cloth cap and then led the two horses over to the mounting block.

The Brigadier had trained his daughters to ride long before they could read or write, and the two girls jumped aboard and settled themselves side-saddle, waited while Farrell mounted his hack, and then the trio set off for Hyde Park, Georgia setting the pace at a smart trot.

Though the day was crisp and bright, there were not many people abroad at this early hour, and some families had left the city to spend the Christmas holidays on their estates. The limbs of the trees etched bare and stark along the wide avenue that Georgia led them down, and Sasha called out to her sister to slow down, but she was ignored. As they came to a long open stretch Georgia urged her horse into a canter, her skirts and veil flying on the wind as the hunter obliged.

Sasha sighed with vexation, giving the command to her own mount to canter, taking a firm hold of the reins and her riding crop, leaning slightly forwards as they rode after Georgia. She glanced back over her shoulder, to make sure that Farrell still followed; though he lagged behind on his ancient hack, he kept them within sight. By the time she had caught up with Georgia, her errant sister had dismounted and was happily engaged in building a snowman with Felix Westfaling. Sasha drew rein, breathing hard, her horse snorting and pawing the ground, and she gazed at Georgia with exasperation.

‘Your skirts are getting all wet,’ she called out, ‘and where’s your hat?’

Georgia laughed, her face glowing in the cold air and beautiful against the virgin white background of the snow, ‘Come and help us, Sasha!’

Felix straightened up from patting lumps of snow into the shape of an arm, scooped up a ball of snow in the palm of his hand, and tossed it in Sasha’s direction. ‘Good morning, Sash, do join us, got to get this finished before it starts to melt.’

Her horse leapt and shied to one side as the snowball splashed on the path, but Sasha kept her seat and replied, ‘No, I will not. Georgia, please, do put your hat on and mount up.’

Her sister laughed, whirling away as she and Felix pelted each other with snowballs. With a sigh Sasha glanced at Farrell as he sidled up. He merely shrugged and grinned while she looked in both directions to see if they had been observed. There was no one about, except a lone horseman in the distance. What harm would it do? And it did look like such fun. She handed her reins to Farrell and jumped down, her boots crunching through the thick, powdery snow as she walked over to the snowman.

‘I say, Sasha, how would you like a toboggan race? A whole bunch of us are meeting over at Birch Hill this afternoon.’ Felix was wise to the fact that if he could persuade one sister, then the other would follow.

‘I would not like it at all,’ Sasha replied tartly, surveying the round ball he was rolling together to make the snowman’s head, and then she gasped as a cold wet lump of snow hit her on the shoulder. ‘Georgia!’

With cries threatening revenge, she leaned down and made her own ammunition, and the three of them were soon lobbing snowballs, ducking and rolling in the snow amidst shrieks of laughter.

‘Good morning, Miss Packard.’

A deep, masculine, familiar voice echoed from behind her. They froze, Georgia and Sasha both turning to stare wideeyed at the horseman who had halted nearby. Sasha’s already flushed face deepened in colour as she recognised Captain Bowen. She dropped the half-made snowball in her hands, straightened her jacket and looked up to reply, ‘Good morning, Captain Bowen.’

‘Marvellous day.’ He waved his riding crop about at the park in general.

‘Yes, it is.’

From the corner of her eye she spied Felix and Georgia slinking behind the bulk of the snowman, leaving her to deal with the Captain on her own. Like Georgia, she had removed her hat and veil, and her cravat flapped all askew.

‘That’s a fine-looking snowman—need any help?’

‘Um, er—’ She heard a snort of suppressed giggles as her accomplices ducked. But, undeterred, the Captain had swung down from his horse and was striding towards them. Her heart sank. She must look a sight, she feared, brushing with the back of her hand at the escaped and messy tendrils of hair curling about her face, and the smudge of snow on her nose.

‘Miss Packard,’ he greeted Georgia as belatedly, and unavoidably, she straightened. ‘And young Felix, is it not?’

‘How do you do, sir?’ Felix flushed and brushed at his coat. ‘We were just—’

‘Just about to go,’ Sasha interjected, reaching to pick up her hat and pass Georgia her own.

‘Don’t rush away on my account. Please.’

Captain Bowen turned to look at Sasha, and she was struck again by the blueness of his eyes and how very good looking he was, his sun-bleached hair gleaming gold in the winter sunshine. She could not help but glance at his mouth, the welldisciplined line of the upper lip complimented by the slightly fuller lower, curving into an attractive smile. His shoulders seemed very broad and masculine, and his legs in beige jodhpurs left her in no doubt that he was a well-made man.

Georgia was not one to let her natural effervescence be dampened and, undeterred by the new arrival on the scene, she and Felix resumed their building of the snowman.

‘We need some twigs for his hands,’ Georgia said, looking about.

‘There’s a hawthorn bush over there,’ Captain Bowen pointed out.

Being the nearest to it, Sasha set off and trudged through the drifts of snow to a nearby flower bed, reaching out to grasp a twig and snap it off. But it was resistant to her efforts and she struggled, leaning forwards and tugging with both hands, trying to avoid the adjacent prickly holly bush, and then she gave a little cry as her feet slipped and she lost her balance. She teetered, but before she fell two hands fastened on her waist and pulled her back against the solid bulk of a very male and warm body.

‘Steady on, Miss Packard.’ Captain Bowen laughed. ‘Can’t have you falling into the holly and getting scratched now, can we?’

Sasha blushed, but it was hardly noticeable as her face was already so flushed from the cold and the exertions of the snowball fights.

‘Try that one over there,’ called Georgia with subtle cunning, as she directed her sister and Captain Bowen further away. ‘We need some big pieces and that bush is too small.’

‘Oh, Georgia! We really should be going,’ objected Sasha.

‘Go on!’ her sister urged, casting a glance at Felix. ‘And find two pebbles for his eyes.’

With a sigh and an apologetic glance up at Captain Bowen, Sasha turned and walked away, round the corner of the flower bed, her eyes searching for anything suitable. As soon as they were out of sight, Felix and Georgia fell into each other’s arms, the groom holding the horses discreetly looking in the other direction.

‘Here we are, this will do. Captain Bowen—’ Sasha turned to him ‘—would you be so kind? I can’t quite reach.’

‘Of course.’

He reached up and effortlessly snapped off two long twigs, while Sasha knelt and picked out some small dark stones from the flower bed. She tried to think of some polite conversation to say to him, but nothing came to mind.

‘Your father has kindly invited me to dinner on Christmas Eve.’ Captain Bowen took the initiative and spoke first.

‘Oh.’

‘I wondered if you might have any suggestions for a gift I might bring for your parents?’

‘Um,’ Sasha mused, nerves paralysing her thoughts. ‘Well, I’m sure anything will do.’ She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘We really must get back.’ She did not like to mention the fact that she feared what Georgia might be getting up to in her absence and, taking her skirts in both hands, turned about and began to march back to the snowman.

Unfortunately, she was not to know that beneath the snow someone had left a croquet iron; it was against this that her booted foot caught, tripping her up, and she fell headlong and face down into the snow.

‘Miss Packard!’ Captain Bowen hurried to her side and knelt down as she raised herself up, spluttering and gasping. ‘Are you all right?’

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sasha brushed off the cold wetness clinging to her face, ignored the offer of his helping hand and rose to her feet. ‘I am perfectly all right, thank you.’ Stiffly, she walked on, and called out in a tone much like her father when he would countenance no objection, ‘Georgia, we must be on our way.’

Her sister, having achieved her objective and realising that she had gone as close to the boundaries of propriety as she dared, made no protest, and quietly picked up her hat and set it upon her head as she walked to her horse. Sasha followed suit and, while Farrell assisted Georgia to mount, Captain Bowen offered his linked hands to Sasha and boosted her up into the saddle. Once the two Packard girls were mounted, he turned to young Felix and gave him a calculating glance before leaping up into the saddle of his own horse.

‘I take it you are on foot, Westfaling.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Felix stared back at him, with a slightly belligerent set to his mouth, elbows akimbo.

‘Well, then, I will escort the ladies home.’

‘There’s no need!’ Sasha exclaimed. ‘We have Farrell.’

‘Of course I must, Miss Packard. I would be failing in my duty as a gentleman if I did not.’

Georgia was having none of this, and with a wink for Felix, she dug her heels in and her horse leapt into a canter towards the park gates, her glance at Captain Bowen clearly challenging with a catch-me-if-you-can bravado. Sasha followed after her. It was obvious to him that both the Misses Packard were excellent horsewomen and he set his own horse into a gallop as he went after them, the groom Farrell struggling to urge his lazy hack into a trot and lagging far behind.

‘Georgia!’ Sasha called, the drumming hoofbeats of their horses smothering her voice.

Her sister thundered on, and only lessened pace as they neared the park gates and she was forced to slow her horse to a trot as they clattered onto the hard surface of the paved road.

‘Wait,’ Sasha told her sister firmly. ‘Captain Bowen will think it extremely rude if we do not let him escort us. I am sure he thinks I am a complete ninny as it is.’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Sasha darling,’ scoffed Georgia. ‘Besides, does it really matter what Captain Bowen thinks?’

‘Yes!’ retorted Sasha. ‘Yes, actually, it does!’

Georgia was somewhat taken aback by her gentle sister’s vehemence, and she glanced back at the fast-approaching Captain Bowen with a thoughtful light in her bold blue eyes. ‘Very well, Sasha, we will let him escort us home, and even invite him in for a nice cup of hot chocolate.’

‘Oh, but—’

Georgia looked at her with raised brows, her head tilted slightly to one side. ‘What, changed your mind? Come now, you can’t be blowing hot and then cold in the space of a few seconds.’

‘I am not blowing hot! Really, Georgia, you try my patience, you are the most exasperating—’ Sasha bit her tongue as Captain Bowen approached, and the girls drew their horses level on either side of him, making a picturesque tableau that drew admiring glances, the two elegantly attired young women on their dappled-grey hunters riding alongside the handsome gentleman astride his big, gleaming bay.

A few moments later they turned into the stable mews near Roseberry Street, and dismounted. Captain Bowen accepted Georgia’s invitation and spent a pleasant half-hour in the drawing room enjoying a cup of hot chocolate and the company of ladies, a novel situation for one who had spent years in the rough company of his soldiers in the wilds of the North-West Frontier.

Lady Packard had descended downstairs and was settled on a sofa in the drawing room, near the long window overlooking the gardens to the rear of the house, where she could gaze out and enjoy the warmth of the winter sunshine. A tartan rug covered her legs; she was pale and a little breathless, yet she smiled at Captain Bowen and he soon fell under the spell of her charm and beauty.

‘My husband tells me you are posted to St Petersburg,’ Olga purred in her sultry, heavily accented voice. ‘It is my home town, you know, I was born and raised there.’

‘Indeed, ma’am?’ Captain Bowen sat attentively on the edge of his seat, setting the cup of hot chocolate in its saucer as he answered her. ‘And you are quite correct, I am due to sail at the end of April, weather permitting.’

‘Have you been there before?’

‘No, ma’am, I have not had the pleasure.’

‘Do you speak Russian?’

‘Unfortunately I do not, but the Brigadier has offered to tutor me. I do manage to get by in French, though.’

‘Russian is a difficult language, not one that can be learned in a hurry.’ Lady Packard frowned, absently stroking her slender white fingers over the tartan of her rug, several ornate and expensive rings glinting. ‘I am a little puzzled, then, my dear Captain, as to why you should be sent, having no experience.’

‘Oh, Mama,’ protested Sasha gently, who sat on the far side of the room near the fireplace, where the light from the front window fell behind her, her figure a silhouette, ‘what an embarrassing question.’

Her mother laughed. ‘Sasha dear, I am sure Captain Bowen is made of sterner stuff.’

‘Indeed. I am flattered by your interest,’ he replied politely, glancing over at Sasha, and then to Georgia, seated to her mother’s right and as close to Captain Bowen as she could contrive, flashing her brilliant sapphire eyes at him. ‘I believe it may be my experience in Afghanistan that is the chief reason why I have been posted to St Petersburg. The Russians have long been conniving to get a foothold there.’

‘And why would they do that?’ Sasha asked, intrigued.

He turned slightly to face her, his eyes roaming over her shadowed face as he tried to discern her expression. ‘Because, Miss Packard, Afghanistan is close to India, indeed, a crossroads between Europe and Asia, and the routes from one country to the other are much valued, either for trade or war.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sasha looked away.

‘And do tell us,’ Georgia gasped in a breathy voice as she leaned towards him, ‘what Mrs Bowen thinks of her imminent removal to such a distant land?’

‘Um…’ He cleared his throat and looked at his cup. ‘Er, there is no Mrs Bowen. I am a bachelor.’

‘Oh, pardon me!’

‘It’s not a disease, darling.’ Her mother laughed. ‘I do believe you are to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve, Captain Bowen.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you, I am looking forward to it.’

‘Are you?’ Georgia asked, leaning towards him, her eyes soft and moist, inviting, holding his gaze for a moment almost too long beyond the limits of propriety, then her lashes swept down, and she looked away. ‘I do so love Christmas, don’t you, Captain Bowen? It’s a wonderful time of year, all the presents and the tree and the food, and then even better still is New Year. I do so enjoy a good New Year’s Eve party, with all the hugging and kissing under the mistletoe.’

‘Georgia,’ her mother admonished, in a soft voice, laced with mischievous laughter very similar to the sound purring from her daughter’s throat.

‘Indeed.’ Captain Bowen quickly finished his cup of chocolate and set it on a small table, rising to his feet. With a small bow towards Lady Packard, he bade her farewell and gave his thanks.

When he had left and the door closed behind him, Sasha leapt to her feet, exclaiming, ‘Oh, Georgia, I am so ashamed of you!’

Her sister looked up with a wide-eyed gasp. ‘Goodness, Sash, what on earth have I done?’

With a swish of her skirts Sasha hurried to the door, retorting over her shoulder, ‘Oh, you know very well! You were like a cat with a mouse! You are going to toy with him, just like all the others.’

‘Rubbish! Why would I?’ snorted Georgia with a little toss of her head.

‘To make Felix jealous! And just because you are so beautiful, you can!’

‘Of course not, darling Sasha.’ Georgia smiled, casting a wary, sidelong glance to her frowning mama. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? What others?’

‘Hamish?’

‘Oh, he had red hair and was a terrible bore!’

‘I liked him!’

‘He was no good for you.’

‘Robert.’

‘He was French!’ Georgia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

Sasha rarely lost her temper, but now she made a strangled noise in her throat, her fists clenched. ‘Sometimes, Georgia, I absolutely loathe you!’

The drawing-room door banged on her retreat and they could hear her feet pounding as she ran up the stairs. Lady Packard clucked her tongue and gave her daughter Georgia a look that was both a little amused and chastising. Georgia merely shrugged, with raised brows and a demure smile playing on her shapely lips.

In the next few days Captain Bowen was a frequent visitor to Roseberry Street, yet the girls saw little of him, as he spent long hours with the Brigadier in the library, engaged in intensive Russian lessons. Until the day before Christmas Eve, when the Brigadier summoned his daughters to assist him, a not unusual occurrence if he had more than one student. He directed Sasha to sit with Colonel Bellamy and converse with him in French, and Captain Bowen he assigned to Georgia. The two sisters, impeccably dressed in long-sleeved, crêpe de Chine tartan dresses, bustled and bowed, sat down at opposite ends of the room and not for the first time the Brigadier noticed that his eldest two daughters were not on speaking terms. He frowned, hands behind his back as he contemplated Sasha for a moment, and then Georgia, yet he had no idea what ailed them. He returned his grim attention to young Lieutenant Liptrott, whose inability to grasp the basics of either French or Russian would most likely get him killed in some far and foreign land.

Colonel Bellamy, a portly man well into his sixties, sprouting a thick white beard and a monocle from one eye, did not hold much truck with a snippet of a girl trying to educate him on the niceties of the French language. Sasha, too, was not greatly concerned with her charge, her eyes wandering across the room to where Georgia sat with Captain Bowen. They laughed a lot, and Georgia was leaning towards him, touching his arm with her fingers, tossing her blonde head in a most coquettish, annoying manner, Sasha thought. And here she was lumbered with Colonel Bellamy, who clearly would rather be somewhere else, the Officer’s Mess, presumably.

‘How are we getting on?’ The Brigadier stopped by their desk, hands behind his back as he made his enquiry.

‘Listen here, old chap—’ the Colonel began to remonstrate about his youthful tutor, but he was cut off mid-sentence by the Brigadier.

‘Sasha, I wonder if I might have a word?’

‘Of course, Papa.’ She rose from her seat, with obvious haste and relief.

‘Won’t be a moment, Colonel.’

‘But listen here—’ exclaimed the Colonel and then muttered, ‘Oh, damn and blast!’ What was the point? he fumed inwardly. He might have the advantage of age over Packard, but he was damn well outranked by him!

In a quiet corner of the library, between the heavy curtains and a potted palm, the Brigadier confronted his daughter in his usual direct manner.

‘What on earth is going on between you and Georgia?’ he asked in a soft voice, his bright blue eyes catching her firmly in their spotlight.

‘Nothing, Papa.’ Sasha turned her face away and stared out of the window, her eyebrows raised a little defiantly.

‘Oh, come now.’ Her father was not convinced by this nonchalant denial. ‘Something’s afoot, you are not speaking a word to each other.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Sasha, tell me at once what is going on!’

‘There’s nothing going on, Papa.’

‘Is it because of that young Felix Westfaling?’

Sasha turned to look at him then, with her dark, soulful eyes so like her mother’s, and assured him truthfully, ‘No, Papa, it is nothing to do with Felix.’

‘Aha! I knew it, there is something afoot.’

‘Papa, I really must get back to Colonel Bellamy, he looks fit to burst like a Christmas cracker, and liable to pounce on poor Lieutenant Liptrott at any moment.’

Her father turned then, and with a sigh hurried off to rescue the young cavalryman from a nasty verbal volley. The Brigadier realised that nothing more could be achieved on this afternoon when thoughts were wandering to the Christmas festivities and goodness knew what else. He dismissed the class, with a stern reminder to practise their vocabulary and to return in the New Year. As the three gentleman left, the Brigadier called out, ‘Georgia, wait a moment, if you please. Close the door behind you, Sasha.’

Sasha did as her father asked and turned to find Captain Bowen hovering, and he fell into step with her as they walked to the front of the house. He spoke a few faltering words of farewell in Russian, and she turned, with a smile, answering him in the same language. In the hallway, as Lodge handed him his coat and hat, Captain Bowen bowed to Sasha.

‘Your Russian is much better than your sister’s.’

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She smiled, her hands clasped as she waited for him to depart, but he seemed in no hurry to go. He was quite tall; she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and the late afternoon sun beaming in through the glass fanlight above the front door gilded his blond hair and shone a light in his dark blue eyes. He was certainly a most handsome man, she sighed inwardly, watching as he shrugged on his coat over broad shoulders.

‘I shall see you all tomorrow evening, then.’

‘Oh?’ Sasha frowned, puzzled.

‘Christmas Eve,’ he reminded her.

‘Of course.’ She felt her cheeks heat with a pink blush, and wondered why she always made the impression, with this man, of being a ninny.

‘Goodbye, Miss Packard.’

‘Goodbye, Captain Bowen.’

He bowed and walked to the door, and then turned back and called out in Russian, ‘Until tomorrow.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Da.’ Her heart was aflutter, hardly daring to believe that a man like Captain Bowen would even look at her. Not when Georgia was about.

Christmas was always a special occasion in the Packard home, and that afternoon on the Eve the four sisters spent a happy few hours decorating a magnificent tree in the hallway, despite the frosty relations between Sasha and Georgia, who, beneath their father’s watchful, frowning gaze, made the pretence that all was well between them. The house smelled pleasantly of pine, roasting turkey and plum pudding, and great boughs of holly and ivy were strewn in garlands about the walls and stairs and over the mantel of the fireplace. The girls had decorated oranges with cloves and ribbons to make fragrant pomanders, and hung them all about the drawing room and hallway. Presents had been wrapped and placed under the tree and by four o’clock they had hurried to their rooms to dress for the evening’s festivities.

When Sasha came downstairs, wearing an emerald-green, off-the-shoulder evening gown and her hair swept elegantly up, she went into the drawing room and checked that all was ready for their guests. A great silver punchbowl with mulled red wine steamed gently by the dancing flames of the fireplace, and a table covered with a snowy white cloth was being stacked by one of the maids with plates of fresh-baked mince pies, and small silver dishes of dried figs, nuts and pink Turkish delight.

The Brigadier carried his wife downstairs and settled her on the chaise longue near the fire, with a rug over her lap. If it was up to him he was quite content to spend the evening with just himself and the girls. Yet he knew how Olga loved company and so he had invited a dozen friends to dinner, including Avery Westfaling, to whom he was distantly related, although he had little liking for his wife and offspring. Lady Westfaling had a doubtful pedigree and he considered her to be a loose woman, and her son certainly seemed to have inherited her less attractive traits, being fickle and vain. Why, the boy would squander his inheritance before he was thirty and no daughter of his was going to get involved with a fellow like that!

The guests began to arrive, bearing gifts, the sisters taking turns to receive these and place them under the Christmas tree in the hallway. The drawing room was warm and noisy with the gathering, the hubbub of chattering voices interspersed with laughter. Olga was surrounded by her favourite friends, who remarked on how well she looked and would she soon be out in the park taking the air? The Brigadier and Sasha hovered nearby, anxious that she not be overexerted by the evening. When Lodge came in to announce that dinner was served, Olga refused to be carried, insisting that she could manage to walk the few steps down the corridor to the dining room.

The long table was beautifully set, with a white tablecloth, silver candelabra, sparkling cut-crystal wine glasses, and a splendid centrepiece of winter fruit, berries and flowers. Olga had deliberated long and carefully over the seating, and she had placed herself and the Brigadier at either end, with Sasha sat next to Felix, Georgia next to Captain Bowen, Philippa beside the son of a Scottish friend, and Victoria, still very young, between Percy and another friend she knew well. They were eighteen sitting down, and Olga looked down the table as she sat at one end, her gaze pausing on each of her daughters, a proud glow adding to her satisfaction.

Sasha was disgruntled about the dinner partner she had been placed with, but she enjoyed herself far more than expected. Felix was in a good mood and she could not help but laugh at his jokes and silly conversation; really, he was such a featherbrain that it was no wonder he and Georgia were so drawn to each other. Like two peas in a pod, they were. She glanced down the table at Georgia as she sat next to Captain Bowen. She thought her sister seemed a little pensive, and she wondered what her father had said to Georgia in the library yesterday. Glancing down the table as she finished her salmon pâté, she noticed that Georgia was listening attentively to Captain Bowen, but was not her usual bright and bubbly self. Sasha felt a pang, and made up her mind to bury the hatchet and make amends with Georgia as soon as possible. Why, there was no man on earth worthy of coming between sisters!

After dinner they returned to the drawing room, where Sasha sat down at the piano and played Christmas carols, the guests gathering around and singing in good voice, liberally loosened by the fine wines enjoyed over dinner. They played charades, enjoyed coffee and mince pies, and then those who were willing to accompany the family to midnight mass donned their coats. They were a mere few, the Westfalings, except for the son, and most others, declining and departing for their warms beds at home. So it was only Felix, Uncle Percy, Captain Bowen and two fellow officers who accompanied the Brigadier and his two eldest daughters to church, while the officers’ wives and the two younger girls stayed behind to keep Olga company.

The Church of St Ann was not far, and they walked in muffled silence, well wrapped up in coats, scarves, hats and gloves. The church bells of St Ann’s clanged with dull resonance amidst a fine flurry of snow drifting through the darkness, blanketing the night. The double doors stood open, welcoming the faithful, a golden light spilling out on the street. The vicar’s wife was handing out hymn books as they entered, and then they followed the Brigadier to the front of the church, and Sasha found herself standing between her father and Captain Bowen, the former frowning and twisting about to see where Georgia had got to. She was in a pew several rows to the rear, near the door, standing with Felix with as angelic a look upon her face as the alabaster figurine of Mary in the Nativity scene to one side of the altar. Sasha sensed her father’s wrath rise rapidly, and she put a soothing hand on his sleeve. But with Captain Bowen standing so close, they neither of them could utter a censorious word.

The organ creaked and groaned into the first hymn, and Sasha fumbled to find the page. She was a little short-sighted and peered at the board hanging on one pillar, the numbers slightly blurred.

‘Number fifty-two,’ Captain Bowen whispered in her ear, leaning down.

She flashed a smile of thanks and then found the page and began to sing. Beside her she noticed that the Captain had a very pleasant baritone voice, and not too loud, unlike her father, who consistently embarrassed his daughters as he bellowed out hymns, tone deaf and oblivious to that fact. She noticed, too, that her father was not the only one glancing over his shoulder at Georgia, and it irked her that Captain Bowen should be so easily smitten by her sister’s shallow charms. She began to rapidly revise her intentions about making up with Georgia, but relented as the vicar’s sermon rattled on about Christmas being a time for forgiveness and new beginnings.

After the service, the congregation exchanged greetings and well wishes.

‘Happy Christmas.’ Captain Bowen leaned down and kissed Sasha on the cheek.

She thought how nice he smelled, how warm his face felt against her own as his lips quickly brushed her cheek, the hint of bronze stubble on his jaw a rough and yet not unpleasant sensation. Then she turned to her father and hugged him, wishing him happy Christmas too, and she followed him as they filed out of the church. Georgia was waiting on the steps for them, but Felix had melted away into the night. The Brigadier said nothing, merely accepted Georgia’s wishes, her voice and her eyes apprehensive, and then the party trudged through the thick snow back to the house.

Though the hour was late, they gathered in the drawing room for welcome cups of hot chocolate, the men lacing theirs with brandy. With fewer guests, and those being close friends and family, there was a more relaxed air. Victoria sat in her slippers in front of the hearth, at the foot of her mother’s sofa, and Uncle Percy loosened his bow tie as he sat back in an armchair. Feigning a snooze, he watched his nephew, and the delightful Georgia, and the equally charming, though entirely different, Sasha. At last the party came to an end, the Brigadier hinting that his wife was very tired and wishing them all a very happy Christmas Day as he waved the guests goodbye from the front door.

Reid and his uncle settled in their seats as their carriage took off, the light and warmth of Roseberry Street a loss they both felt as they plunged into the dark streets.

‘Do stay the night, Reid, no sense in continuing across London to your mess rooms. Besides, you would only need to come back again in a few hours for lunch.’

Reid laughed, and nodded his agreement. ‘Very well, Uncle, as you wish.’

After a few moments’ silence Uncle Percy said, ‘Charming people, the Packards. Did you enjoy yourself?’

‘They are, indeed, and, yes, I enjoyed a very pleasant evening.’

‘Superb meal.’

Reid nodded, and glanced sideways. ‘Is there something on your mind, Uncle?’

‘Indeed.’ He hesitated for a brief moment. ‘Charming girls, Georgia and Sasha.’

‘They are.’

‘Made up your mind yet which one of ‘em you want?’

Laughing, Reid shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I have.’

Uncle Percy made a grunting noise. ‘I noticed young Felix Westfaling sniffing around Georgia. I’d pop the question to her fairly soon, before the rascal snaps her up.’

‘He’d have to get past the Brigadier first, and somehow I don’t think Westfaling is up to the job.’

His uncle made another throaty rumble of disapproval. ‘Well, time is marching on, dear boy, time is marching on.’

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