A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kleypas Page A

fuss.”
    â€œI’m going to protect you from him,” Hannah said grimly. “Because if Mr. Bowman compromises you, you will no longer have any choice. You’ll have to marry him.”
    â€œWell, I’m certainly not going to consider a betrothal without finding out how he kisses.” Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t cross me, Hannah. Leave us alone.”
    But Hannah persevered. Eventually she found herself standing unhappily at the side of the lower terrace while Natalie and Rafe Bowman conversed. Bowman seemed unperturbed by Hannah’s presence. But Natalie was furious, her voice lightly caustic as she observed aloud that “One can never talk about anything interesting when a chaperone is present,” or “ Some people can never be gotten rid of.”
    Having never been the focus of such brattiness from Natalie before, Hannah was bewildered and hurt. If Hannah was in Natalie’s debt because the girl had always been kind to her, the reverse was also true: Hannah could have made Natalie’s life far less pleasant as well.
    â€œDon’t you find it irksome, Mr. Bowman,” Natalie said pointedly, “when people insist on going where they’re not wanted?”
    Hannah stiffened. Enough was enough. Although she had been charged with the responsibility of looking after Natalie and chaperoning her, she was not going to allow herself to be subjected to abuse.
    Before Bowman could say anything, Hannah spoke coolly. “I will leave you with the privacy you so clearly desire, Natalie. I have no doubt Mr. Bowman will make the most of it. Good night.”
    She left the lower terrace, flushed with outrage and chagrin. Since she could not join any of the gatherings upstairs without raising questions concerning Natalie’s whereabouts, her only options were to go to bed, or find someplace to sit alone. But she was not in the least sleepy, not with the anger simmering in her veins. Perhaps she could find a book to keep her occupied.
    She went to the library, peeking discreetly around the doorjamb to see who might be inside. A group of children had gathered in there, most of them sitting on the floor while an elderly bewhiskered man sat in an upholstered chair. He held a small gold-stamped book in his hands, squinting at it through a pair of spectacles.
    â€œRead it, Grandfather,” cried one child, while another entreated, “Do go on! You can’t leave us there.”
    The old man heaved a sigh. “When did they start making the words so small? And why is the light in here so poor?”
    Hannah smiled sympathetically and entered the room. “May I be of help, sir?”
    â€œAh, yes.” With a grateful glance, he rose from the chair and extended the book to her. It was a work by Mr. Charles Dickens, titled A Christmas Carol. Published two years earlier, the story of redemption had been an instant sensation, and had been said to rekindle the cynical public’s joy in Christmas and all its traditions. “Would you mind reading for a bit?” the old man asked. “It tires my eyes so. And I should like to sit beside the fire and finish my toddy.”
    â€œI would love to, sir.” Taking the book, Hannah looked askance at the children. “Shall I?”
    They all cried out at once. “Oh, yes!”
    â€œDon’t lose the page, miss!”
    â€œThe first of the three spirits has come,” one of the boys told her.
    Settling into the chair, Hannah found the correct page, and began.
    â€œAre you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Scrooge.
    â€œI am.”
    The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.
    â€œWho, and what are you?” Scrooge demanded.
    â€œI am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
    Glancing around, Hannah bit back a grin as she saw the children’s mesmerized faces, and the delighted shivers