“You will not allow her to play Snapdragon?” he asked. “Most certainly not,” she retorted. “I seem to recall that we played at a fairly young age.” “And at that tender age, you burned both your sleeve and your eyebrows, do you recall that?” He laughed. “I had forgotten.” —From The Spinster's Christmas

She turned her face toward him, and even in the darkness he could see the gleam of her smile. He answered with one of his own, and he reached out to touch her cheek because it seemed the most natural and necessary thing for him to do. Like in the carriage when he had touched her hand, he wanted to be connected to her in a powerful way that he could not understand. Her skin trembled beneath his fingers, then she turned her face away again. —From The Spinster's Christmas

“Your knee is paining you?” She stated it calmly, already knowing the answer. “No, I am—” “There is a poultice I can make for you that will soothe it. I shall give it to your man later.” He wanted to say that he was well and in no need of any poultices, but Miranda was well known for her skill in the stillroom and sickroom. If it would indeed ease the pain, he ought not to indulge his pride and act like a muttonhead. Say thank you, Gerard. “Er … thank you, Miranda.” “You are welcome.” No fussing. No censure. Just a poultice for his knee. Miranda put him at ease like no one else had cared to do. —From The Spinster's Christmas

He had not had opportunity to speak to Miranda since the attack, but she was her usual calm self. When he had made it up the stairs to see how Ellie was doing in the nursery, Miranda had been there after finally coaxing her to sleep. Miranda had not looked as though her nerves were frayed or that she were likely to take to her bed, which was what his mother had done for an hour after he returned. She had changed, as had them all, for dinner. Her dark blue dress made her skin even whiter, and her hair glossy like a raven’s feathers. When he first saw her, she looked so lovely that he hadn’t been able to speak for a moment. Luckily, she hadn’t been looking at him, and then all the guests had started working on decorating the house with the greenery. —From The Spinster's Christmas

Gerard pulled his mouth wide in what he hoped looked like a smile and passed Miss Church-Pratton a fir branch. “Oh, Captain Foremont, are you certain your leg is not paining you?” She gave him a soulful look that brought out the blue of her eyes. “I am perfectly well, Miss Church-Pratton.” Gerard ignored the ache in his knee. “I do appreciate your help but I would not wish to cause further injury to you.” He seemed to be mostly recovered from the events of this morning. He moved a little more slowly and he was not climbing ladders in order to help decorate the chandelier, but he was perfectly able to collect greenery and deliver it to the women who arranged it around the house. Unfortunately, Miss Church-Pratton seemed to call him quite incessantly for more greenery. —From The Spinster's Christmas

She was used to hiding. She’d had to hide who she was, it seemed all her life—from her own parents, from most of her family. People had seemed to constantly remind her that she wasn’t quite right. That she was different. Her father had been disappointed that she wasn’t charming, that she was too quiet and uninteresting. Her mother had been upset that she’d been hopeless at catching a husband during her season. Felicity disliked her so much that she was eager to foist her off rather than keeping an unpaid servant. And aside from all that, there was the one secret no one could know, the one sin she could never rub out. —From The Spinster's Christmas

The last time Miranda had gathered greenery with Gerard had been sixteen years ago, the Christmas before he went to sea. He would be with the men and the yule log if his knee would have allowed him to keep up, or allowed him to ride a horse without pain. He joked with Ellie and with the other children, but every so often, the distant sound of a man’s voice in the woods made him look up, and a harshness would settle over his face like a mask. Or rather, perhaps his cheerfulness was the mask. —From The Spinster's Christmas