He stopped and studied her face, delicate and stubborn and pulled into a frown. He had known it from the start: she was soft femininity and strong determination rolled together. He had known he loved her at her first volley of smiling insults. There was no one like her.

"I did not know that I would one day love you."

"I don't believe you," she said coldly.

"Which part?" he asked, smiling.

"Any of it. All of it," she said. "You are just trying to soothe me."

"Yes, I am trying to soothe you, but that does not mean that I am not being truthful. How much truth is there in you, Clarissa? You are English, whether you want to be or not. And Lindley was a soldier and Perry is about to buy his commission. Of what are they guilty? Some Irish murder other Irish and some Irish never kill anyone. It is not nationality that determines a man's acts, but the man himself."

"But you killed someone," she whispered.

"And you watched," he said. "I am sorry for that. I was sorry then. But would I shoot him again? Yes. It is an uncomfortable truth, but it is the truth, and I believe that you want nothing less."

Did she? Some truths were very ugly, very painful. What sort of truth did she want? Only the truths that pleased her or served her? She would not be that sort of woman.

But this truth was very hard; it challenged all that she had believed for a lifetime. Yet if what she had believed was half lie and half childish terror, what was gained by clinging to it?

Yet what she felt in her heart was not so simple as that. Choosing a husband by cold logic was one thing; choosing a memory was quite another. And how much logic had there truly been in her choosing of Beau? She loved him, Englishman though he was.

"I do not think I can do this," she whispered.

"I know you can," Beau said, his voice warm with confidence.

"This pain is not so easily dismissed," she said, looking at the fire. "I think I may, after all, disappoint you."

"Never," he said. "Never."

And when she looked into his eyes, he smiled his belief.

"It will take time to forge a new memory and lay aside the horror of that day, but you will succeed. You are a woman ruled by reason and not emotion. Does any other woman compile a list?" He smiled gently. "We will attack this together and we will win."

They looked at each other, hope beginning to reign over her features, confidence riding his.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked, reaching out his hand to hers. "Any and all of what I declare?"

His hands were large and strong, the fingers long and graceful. Those hands had carried her to safety when she was a child. They would not drop her now.

"I'm not certain," she said, slowly taking his hand, feeling the hard warmth of him. "You did, did you not, say you loved me?"

"I did." He nodded.

"Were you sincere or were you just hoping to calm me?"

"Clarissa, when a man tells a woman he loves her, he is not hoping to calm her."

He loved her. Was it as simple as that?

He loved her. There was nothing simple about it.

"When did you know?" she asked.

Beau collapsed in his chair with a groan and tugged her over until she sat on his lap. "Now is not the time for conversation, truthful or otherwise."

"But I only want to know-"

"And I want to know if you love me, my dear, or in this conversation of truths to which you are so addicted, are the truths to be all my own? I believe I have quoted you accurately? And I not only want to know if you do love me, but when you first realized it and what it is about me, exactly, that you find so admirable, beyond my Irish estate, that is." He grinned, awaiting her response.

Tell him she loved him this early in the marriage? Hardly wise. His arrogance would be insufferable if he knew he had won her heart so easily. There was time enough to confess her love… perhaps in a year? Or two?

She grinned in return before saying softly against his ear, "You are so right. This is not the time for conversation."

"Really?" he asked, running his hand up her thigh to her hip. "Convince me."

"A doll just like the one in Werster's window. That's what I want for Christmas."

Prudence smiled slightly at her sister's words as the younger girl hugged their mother and kissed her good-night. Charlotte had been making her wishes known for weeks now, and Prudence and her mother had been working very hard at making a similar doll for her for most of that time. The doll itself was finished, though not completely satisfactorily. They were not professionals at the job, but they had done the best they could. Charlotte was a good girl, though; she would love it no matter its imperfections. Especially since they were making tiny little dresses for the doll that matched each of the girl's own gowns. Prudence was positive the child would be pleased.

"Goodnight, Pru!"

She gave a grunt as her younger sister launched herself at her, hugging her hard before spinning away to rush out of the room. Prudence watched the little whirlwind go with affection, then glanced at her mother, frowning when she saw the unhappiness on her mother's face as she peered out the window.

"What would you like for Christmas, Mother?" she asked after a moment, hoping to distract her from whatever thoughts troubled her. Meg Prescott remained silent, so Prudence moved to her side to peer out and see what distracted her so.

Outside, two men stood on the front stoop arguing with Bentley. The last of their male retainers, the older man served as butler, valet, stablemaster, and anything else that was required. His wife, Alice, was their last female servant. The two did their best to keep the house running as smoothly as possible, but if things did not soon change, even they would have to be released. Prudence watched sadly as the older man doggedly shook his head and finally sent the two men on their way.

"Creditors," she muttered with disgust as she watched them go, though who the disgust was for she couldn't say. She could hardly blame anyone for attempting to get funds owed them. If her father would just-

"All I want for Christmas is for your father to stop his gambling before he sees us in debtor's prison."

Prudence glanced at her mother's strained face. Apparently she had heard the question after all. Her gaze returned to the two men as they went through the front gate and pulled it closed with an angry clang. Creditors were starting to arrive at the door every day now. And there were a lot of them. Her father, of course, was never available. When he was home, he was sleeping off the drink from the night before. When he was awake, he wasn't home but off drinking and gambling them closer to ruin. Bentley had managed to turn away the creditors so far, but soon they would not be brushed off. Debtor's prison was becoming a very real possibility. Why could her father not see what he was doing?

She glanced at her mother again and felt her heart tighten at the weary grief on her face. Things had been bad since Pru's brother John had died in a carriage accident. He had belonged to the Four Horsemen's club, where the sons of nobility went to race carriages they really didn't have the skill to drive. He had died when his carriage lost a wheel and he'd been sent flying into a tree and broke his neck. That was when their father, Edward Prescott, had started to drink and gamble. He had taken the loss of his oldest child and only son poorly.

"That is all I want for Christmas," her mother said now. "And I pray to God for it every day."

For a moment Prudence felt sadness weigh her down; then she grimly straightened her shoulders. Her mother was of the old school, where a wife did not question her husband or his behavior. Prudence was of the firm belief that when the husband was destroying his family, someone needed to alert him to the matter. Besides, it had always been her opinion that God helped those who helped themselves. Which left it up to her to see if she could not help God wrap this Christmas wish up for her mother.