Page 100 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Cold.

Freezing, bone-deep cold.

Imogen plunged into the Serpentine’s murky depths, the shock of the water stealing her breath. Her simple day dress, now sodden and heavy, clung to her skin like a vice, the layers of clothing dragging her deeper and deeper.

Panic soared. She had the sudden realization that in her twenty-six years of life she had not once learned how to swim.

What had she been thinking?

Imogen and her papa were always working, too busy, too practical, to spend time on such frivolities as swimming lessons.

But as her skirts tangled around her legs and the surface slipped farther from view, she realized just how foolish she’d been to not consider that small, essential detail before she had decided to jump.

At the moment, her only thought had been to prevent him from doing the unthinkable.

From her brief glimpse she’d had into his life, she was well aware of what sort of man Cornelius Harcourt was—the kind who would leap into a freezing lake to save a total stranger.

Or so she’d believed when she’d devised the plan.

Panic seized her chest, sharp and paralyzing. She flailed her arms, flapping wildly, desperate to break the surface.

She needed air.

If only she’d remained dead for the seven days, she wouldn’t be so frantic, so alive. But Clarence was clear on his instructions. She would remain for seven days only, and in that time, Imogen would be entirely human.

Before Imogen could surrender to death again, strong arms wrapped around her waist, securing her against a hard frame.

He was there. Dragging her up to air, to light, to life.

She gasped, sputtering as sweet air rushed into her lungs.

Water streamed down her cheeks and her chin, her limbs heavy and shivering as he dragged her across the lake and onto the shore.

She lay crumpled against a hard, solid body, trying in vain to gain some semblance of decorum.

But her body betrayed her, wracking with coughs and breathless gasps.

Strong hands gripped her firmly at the waist, the heat of them seeping through the soaked layers, warming her from the inside like rum on a blistering night. She pressed her palm against his chest, intent on pulling away, but her fingers betrayed her, curling into the damp fabric of his waistcoat.

When she finally raised her head, Imogen’s gaze met Cornelius Harcourt’s rich brown eyes, wild and full of worry. In that moment, she was perfectly aware of what she’d missed during her life.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” Cornelius snapped, his voice filled with fury, though his handsome face betrayed him, revealing concern.

The corners of his eyes were narrowed into slits, his full brown lips pursed in disapproval. She tried to ignore how water clung to the fine stubble along his jaw, or how his hands stayed tethered to her waist as if she was his own personal salvation.

Despite how her body longed to stay nestled in his warmth, Imogen forced herself to roll off the angry earl and onto the snow-covered grass. Teeth chattering, limbs shivering uncontrollably, she tried to reply with a witty retort, but her voice failed her.

A hundred years of being dead and she’d forgotten the fragile complexities of a human body. Now, splayed across the icy ground beside the Serpentine, the realization of mortality came crashing back.

To be alive again was a miracle, but the aching, helpless cold was not something she’d missed at all.

“I-I had to save you somehow,” she finally said, staring up at him as he rose to his feet.

He reared back, blinking at her as if she was mad.

Offering her his hand, he said, “You’re freezing. Come let me assist you before you catch your death.”

Wrapping her smaller hand around his much larger one, she ignored the overwhelming notion of being protected. The last person to protect her was Papa, and she’d not seen him in over a century.

Cornelius pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arm protectively around her waist as he led her away from the water’s edge.

Trudging through the small layer of freshly fallen snow, Imogen huddled against his chest, searching for warmth. Or so that was what she’d told herself as the scent of lemon, bergamot, and fresh air assaulted her, warming her in spite of the bitter cold surrounding her.

The wet clothes clinging to her body, water dripping from her hair, none of it deterred the heat that his touch inspired inside her.

Cornelius led her toward the small keeper’s cottage that sat nestled in between a covering of English oak, silver birch, and London plane. The faded windows and aging wood gave the empty place an ethereal spirit that called to her.

Once they were safely inside and away from the elements, the earl gingerly placed her down on a dusty sofa before he rushed to the deserted hearth.

The keeper’s cottage was one room that consisted of a sofa, a small bed, a table, and a fireplace.

It reminded Imogen of the first flat she’d shared with her parents.

It had been no more than a hovel in the rookeries, but they had been blissfully happy.

They had always been happy when they were together.

Warmth suddenly spread through the barren building. A roaring fire began blazing as Cornelius prodded at the small gathering of coal and wood with a poker.

Sighing, Imogen stood, needing to be free of her sodden clothing. The garment she’d appeared in was simple and appropriate for the time. Instead of the overbearing skirts, bustle, petticoat, and stomacher of the seventeenth century, her green day dress was easier to dispose of.

First, she removed her soaked cloak, laying it across a small table in the corner.

Her simple leather boots were next, revealing white-stockinged feet.

She reached behind her to unlace the back of her dress.

A difficult feat without assistance. Once the soaked fabric was hanging off her body, she pulled it down, groaning as the weight lifted off her.

Laying the dress beside the cloak, she spread both out so that they could dry faster, before sending a silent request to Clarence.

Without the wet garment clinging to her, the heat from the fire was more inviting.

The thought of freeing herself of the wet chemise was all too appealing; however, being bare in front of the handsome lord would not be very smart, especially with the overabundance of emotions she’d been feeling since he’d saved her—or had she saved him?

The details of who saved whom were becoming rather muffled, especially since she’d almost drowned in the Serpentine.

“Dear Lord!”

Imogen looked up from her discarded dress to find Cornelius, the Earl of Latchwood, staring at her. His eyes were as round as the full moon that shined through the small windows of the keeper’s cottage, his mouth agape.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, tilting her head.

He looked up, his head swiveling right, left, then right again. It seemed everything was more interesting to look at than Imogen.

“Y-yes, your lack of clothing, madam.” Turning, he walked to the small cot in the corner of the room and pulled the coverlet off with great insistence.

Marching to her, he whipped the coverlet a few times, freeing it of dust and whatever else had clung to it in its abandonment. He wrapped it around her securely and stepped back to gaze down at her.

“That’s better.” His breath fanned her face, the faint smell of brandy filling her nostrils. Meeting his heated gaze, she touched his still wet cheek, quivering from the jolt of familiarity.

For several moments, they did not move or speak. There was no sound in the empty cottage but their labored breathing. The beating of her heart pounded in her ears, her body shivered, and she was completely aware that it had nothing to do with being cold.

In life, Imogen had never met a man that awakened any type of feeling or hunger in her.

Having witnessed her parent’s love, she did not want anything less than utter devotion and mutual affection.

Often, she was envious of those rare individuals who’d found a love match.

It was uncommon in her time for someone to find true love.

Marriages were arranged by convenience, wealth, or necessity.

Dragging her gaze from his before she did something she’d regret the rest of her existence, like kiss the man she was supposed to be saving, she stepped out of his arms. “Thank you, Cornelius.” She moved toward the now roaring fire.

She had no idea what was happening to her.

From the moment she’d entered Cornelius’s memories, witnessed his kindness and love for his family, something had awakened within her.

A long-buried part of her she thought lost forever.

One that remembered what it was like to feel. One that longed for more.

“Why did you jump into the Serpentine?” he asked from behind her, his voice uncertain.

She turned to face him. His wet clothes clung to his tall frame like a lover’s touch. Something sharp and unexpected twisted in her abdomen. Want. Need. If only she could wrap herself around him, cuddle into the warmth of his body.

Oh dear.

“To save you, of course,” she said simply, trying to ignore the traitorous thoughts suddenly assaulting her. Surely, no other angel had every harbored such sentiments for their assignment.

“Save me?” He shook his head as if she’d said something absurd. “I didn’t need saving. You, however, did.”

She chuckled, amused at how quickly he’d forgotten his intentions after leaving his solicitor’s office. Imogen had seen it all, the darkness that had consumed him like a tide, until he stepped onto the Serpentine Bridge.

The very moment she became human again.

“Didn’t you?” she challenged, lowering herself onto the worn, dirt-covered floor, the fire at her back.

Warmth finally returned to her cold limbs, and she pulled the wool blanket tighter. Wiggling her toes beneath the hem of her chemise, she let out a gleeful giggle, throwing her head back. A spider web was stretched across the ceiling beams above her.

She was alive.

And not in that brief moment of humanity she’d had with Clarence outside Lindhurst House and Latchwood Manor. This sensation weaving through her bones, awakening every part of her—this was life.

Every heartbeat felt like a cannon fire. Every breath an awakening.

“Are you mad?” he asked, crouching in front of her. He studied her closely, elbows perched on his knees, gaze sharp and tentative like he was searching for signs of illness.

There was none. Life was her affliction, and she intended to live every second of it. She had seven days to save Cornelius but also to live like she’d never done before.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I’m alive. Isn’t it wonderful?”

She laughed, loud and hearty, letting it echo through the empty cottage. It bounced off the walls and returned to her like a melody. Perhaps she had gone mad. Maybe the last hundred years had been a fever dream.

“May I escort you home?” he asked, gently.

Home.

The words jolted her. She had not even considered where she would spend the next seven days. Had Clarence forgotten that minor detail?

“Oh,” she said, pressing her fingers to her lips. “I’m afraid I do not have one. Not in London at least.”

“You do not have a home in London?” he repeated, puzzled. “Are you staying with relatives then?”

Imogen shook her head slowly. Confiding the truth was out of the question. Angels weren’t common fact, not in her time and certainly not now.

“I’m only here for seven days. I suppose I did not consider that I’d need a place to stay.” She rose, the coverlet falling from her shoulders and crossed to where her day dress lay crumpled on the worn table.

“I doubt that is dry,” Cornelius said quickly, turning his back to her.

“If I may be so bold… would you like to come to my home? My mother and her husband are visiting, but they will be leaving soon. My nieces are there as well. I can assure your safety, and in the morning, we can arrange for proper accommodations.”

“How very kind of you, Cornelius,” she said, slipping her now dry dress over her shoulders.

Thank you, Clarence.

Cornelius stood facing the hearth, broad back rising and falling with each breath. “It is the least I can do for a lady in distress—”

“I’m not in distress,” she interrupted, her tone light. “But I thank you, nevertheless. Perhaps I could stay with you and your family?”

“Of course. And all you need is seven days?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes.” She stepped toward him, closing the distance. “Will you help me won’t you, Cornelius?” she whispered.

He turned startled. “How exactly do you know my name and I do not know yours?”

“I know everything about you, Lord Latchwood,” she replied, simply, not wanting to reveal the truth about herself. “My name is Imogen St. Croix.”

“It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss St. Croix.” He paused a moment, looking at her dress suspiciously. “Your dress, it’s dry already?”

“Yes.” A knowing smile graced her lips. “Miracles do happen,” she replied, innocently.

“Not in my experience,” he murmured, watching her warily. “But perhaps in yours.”

She tilted her chin up, searching his kind but sad eyes. “I’m certain you’ll receive a miracle one day.”