Page 101 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Moonlight painted the path in silvery streams as Cornelius escorted the mysterious, angelic woman toward his home. A quiet force pulled him to her, an allure that surpassed beauty and stirred the hidden corners of his soul.

Her light brown skin gathered the moon’s glow as dark curls, still damp, brushed tenderly against narrow shoulders.

Her round luminous eyes revealed depth and strength as they passed a gas lamplight.

The unwavering focus of her warm brown eyes unsettled him with the intense gravity of her attention.

A gently curved mouth, hinted at a softness and a strength that he’d only witnessed in her.

Imogen St. Croix.

It was impossible to ignore her beauty. His body constantly reminded him of just how appealing she was. The image of her standing in nothing but a wet chemise still burned in his mind. Lush breasts peeked through the thin fabric as shapely calves begged for his kiss.

Steady yourself, man. She’s a lady.

He didn’t want to seem impertinent; he’d offered her his protection after all. The least he could do was not have improper thoughts about her. She was a woman, alone in England with no family connections or funds, nothing.

If she were his mother or one of his nieces, Cornelius would want someone to show them kindness in turn.

Imogen St. Croix was an enigma in the best possible way imaginable. Not only did he want to uncover her secrets, but he also had the fierce desire to provide and care for her. It was odd, to say the least. She was a stranger, who’d appeared in the middle of the night like a mirage in the desert.

Not only was she in possession of great beauty, but she seemed to know things about him.

Amongst London Society, the cursed Earl of Latchwood was known to all. Mothers clutched their daughters closer when he was near; fathers acknowledged him with cold civility. What use was a penniless earl fated to die by his thirty-fifth birthday?

None at all.

She twirled before him in the snow, her laughter lighting the night sky like Christmas bells. The sight of her, joyful as a child meeting their first snowfall with unguarded glee, disarmed him.

“Have you abandoned your plan?” Imogen asked, his great coat wrapped tightly around her.

The garment was far too large for her, its hem dragging against the snow-covered ground as they walked.

Cornelius tried to prevent his gaze from lingering on her, but it was impossible.

He couldn’t stop himself as he hungrily tracked the delicate lines of her face with desperate eyes.

Nor could he ignore the way he leaned toward her seeking out the warmth that seemed to radiate from her mere presence.

“My plan?” he asked, perplexed by the question.

They turned onto the long street that had cradled Lindhurst House for nearly eighty years. At the head of a row of immaculate townhouses, the building loomed, proud and worn, its faded grandeur whispering of better days.

She halted abruptly, her knowing eyes clear, observing him. “To end your life,” she said, her tone gentle, almost innocent, yet it carried weight.

He jerked to a sudden stop. “I-I.” He struggled to find the words to tell her that she was wrong, but instead of the prepared lie running through his mind, he said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

It was true. How could this radiant woman possibly grasp the weight of carrying an entire family on one’s shoulders? Had his mother not married Woodbury, she too would’ve been one more life dependent on him.

You’re worth more dead than alive.

Miss St. Croix’s hand came to rest lightly on his forearm, grounding him in a way he’d never thought possible. There in the hush of the winter night, there was no curse, no birthday lingering like death around him, no smothering dread of turning thirty-five. There was nothing but her.

“Really?” she murmured. “How would you know unless you tell me.”

When she released him, the cold returned with startling clarity, biting through the dampness of his clothes.

The coverlet from the keeper’s cottage hung loosely around his shoulders.

He’d surrendered his greatcoat to her once he’d retrieved it and his hat.

Both had been abandoned in his haste when he’d leapt into the Serpentine.

Even then, it baffled him that she’d actually leapt into the lake.

At first, he’d feared that she meant to harm herself.

But the memory of the moment played repeatedly in his mind, revealing something else entirely.

Joy had shone in her face, a fierce light dancing in her pretty brown eyes.

She’d been luminous on the bridge, an ethereal glow surrounded her, lighting up the Serpentine with her mere presence.

Breathing in the fresh air, he held it in before releasing it, watching it dissolve in the cold air. “My family is cursed,” he admitted, the words heavy in the quiet. “Five generations of Latchwood earls have perished at the age of thirty-five.”

His gazed dropped to the snow, tracing the tip of his boots as he stepped through the light covering. Speaking of the curse to a complete stranger should’ve felt careless, but with her, it was oddly comforting.

Cornelius had long avoided the company of women. The curse, and the extra responsibility of raising nieces, made the thought of a courtship feel oddly selfish.

“So,” she said gently, her voice nearly lost in the wind, “you believe that dying would be better for your nieces?”

A protest stirred on his lips, raw, aching, desperate, but the words dissolved before he could form them. There was nothing he could say. The thought of leaving his nieces terrified him, but a buried, selfish part of him wanted to live, if only to hear their laughter once more.

Before he could respond, she shocked him by lightly brushing his hair. Her fingers teasing down his temple, the light touch lingering, warm against his frigid skin. The intensity of her gaze nearly melted away the shields of his heart.

“Yes,” he admitted, solemnly. “I’ve arranged for each of them to receive an annuity upon my death, so you see, I am better off dead than alive.” The truth hung between them, heavy and suffocating.

The cruel truth was that his death would provide more for his nieces than he ever could in life.

“I think,” she whispered, “you want to live. I believe the last thing you want to do is to leave your nieces alone in this world.” Her voice was adamant and full of passion.

“They won’t be alone; they’ll have my mother and her new husband to care for them.” The words were heavy on his tongue.

Before he’d met this strange, enchanting woman, Cornelius had taken comfort in knowing that the girls would have his mother.

Now, however, his hand pressed against his chest, trying to alleviate the unbearable pain seizing him.

He couldn’t bear the thought of his nieces growing up without his counsel or his love.

They would miss him. God help him, he knew they would. But the wound of losing him would eventually fade, and one day, he’d be nothing but a memory.

Sighing, she turned away from him, her skirts swaying in the wind, continuing their walk toward Lindhurst House as if she’d known which townhouse belonged to him.

“It seems you have it all figured out.” She halted abruptly, her perfect eyebrows nearly meeting as she fixed him with an intense gaze on her exceptionally pretty face. “Shall I walk back to the Serpentine with you, so that you can jump in? That is what you truly want, is it not?”

Shame washed over him colder than his plunge into the dark lake. His brothers and Sophia were all harshly taken away by fate, but he was choosing death over life.

“I want them cared for, and this is the only way—”

“If you end your own life, ruining the gift that God has bestowed upon you, there is no forgiveness from that, Corenlius.” Her voice blazed with conviction, her green eyes gleaming with something fierce and beautiful.

“The curse,” he rasped, punching his right hand to his chest, “it will claim me, don’t you understand!”

Cornelius did not know why he needed this beautiful stranger to understand, only he did.

“Then let it claim you!” she declared. “If the curse is to take you, spend every second you have with the girls, who love you like a father. Instead of giving up your life, the most precious gift you’ve been given.”

She stood before him, smaller in stature, but towering in spirit, a figure of grace and strength. In that moment, she did not look merely human but majestic, like destiny itself.

He startled when her warm hand pressed against his chest, heat radiating through fabric and flesh until it reached his very soul. The urge to draw her closer so that he could feel the weight of her in his arms, their bodies pressed together, was so overwhelming it nearly undid him.

His gaze fell to the exquisite goddess in front of him. Without thinking, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering to feel the silk of it. The curl slid away, and yet their eyes held, the moment expanding space and time.

His shoulders sagged. “Perhaps it would be better if I’d never been born.” The exhaustion of the day had finally claimed him, all Cornelius wanted to do was sleep until his cursed birthday arrived in a few short hours.

She studied him, eyes deep and knowing as if she’d solved a great mathematical problem. Titling her face toward the heavens, starlight crowning her its queen, she said, “Very well.” Her tone carried the strange weight of prophecy.

Wind and snow swirled around them; the air alive with whispered voices. But before Cornelius could make sense of it, he seized her hand—it was small and warm. Together they ran through the blinding storm toward the safety of Lindhurst House.

Unlike Latchwood Manor, Lindhurst House was not in total ruins. It was indeed in need of repair, but life still pulsed through its walls. Standing in the center of the comfortable drawing room, with dolls and pieces of ribbon scattered on the floor, it was a home.

Imogen walked around in pure delight, her fingers trailing over the worn furnishings. Unfinished embroidery and paintings lingered to one side of the room. Her smile was wide as she gazed fondly at the paintings of flowers, the sun, and what looked to be a man with four tiny people beside him.

“My niece Penny painted that one.” The sound of his deep voice had Imogen turning abruptly. The exceptionally handsome earl stood at the entrance of the drawing room, his clothing wrinkled from their late-night adventures.

“Did you teach her how to paint?” she asked, stepping closer to the painting.

The broad, bold strokes held a child’s unrestrained joy. The man, surely Cornelius, was surrounded by four laughing faces and what appeared to be a small dog at their feet.

He reached her side, a delightful smile on his lips. “No.” It was impossible to ignore the fondness in his voice. “She is far more talented than I ever could be. Penny began painting when she was four.”

“Four!” Imogen said in shock. “How old is she now?” She enjoyed the way he glowed with life whenever he spoke of his nieces.

“Penny is ten. My eldest niece, Rosalind, is twelve.” He pointed to each figure in the painting as he spoke. “Clara is eight, and the youngest, Emmy, is four.”

“And the dog?” she asked, wanting to listen to him speak of them forever. It was a strange thought, especially since she only had seven days, and now she knew exactly how she was going to convince him that he really did have a wonderful life.

“There is no dog. This painting is actually supposed to convince me to get one for Christmas.” He laughed, shaking his head.

Peering up at him, so carefree and full of life, she couldn’t help but to wish that such a man existed when she had been alive.

“Have you been convinced?” She traced the painting of the white, fluffy dog with long ears.

“No, I hadn’t thought of it to be honest. All I’ve thought about was…” he trailed off, his voice laced with shame.

“The curse,” Imogen said, taking him by the hand. “What if for once you forget about the Latchwood curse?”

“Forget about the curse?” He trudged toward the fireplace, the bright embers shinning against his skin. “How can I forget about it when my birthday is in a few hours?”

She followed him to the hearth and placed her hand on his broad back. The feel of his breathing through his damp clothing sent a jolt of excitement through her.

Their eyes locked once again. His were heavy and full of something she could not recognize.

“Do not let the curse dictate the little bit of time you have left with your nieces. Live your life, Cornelius,” Imogen whispered, gazing at him.

His strong jaw was clenched tight like he wanted to argue more on the subject, but instead, he took her hand in his.

Her insides blazed, her entire body warm as if she’d overindulged in Papa’s rum. Everything beyond the parlor ceased to exist. There was nothing and no one in the entire world but him and her.

Imogen leaned closer, drawn by the invisible thread she’d felt since the moment she’d seen Cornelius Harcourt. His fingers teased her skin, the faded smell of brandy tickled her nose as his gaze captured her.

“The lady’s room is ready, my lord.”

Imogen released his hand and took several steps back.

A portly woman stood in the doorway, waiting patiently for his reply.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin, please show Miss St. Croix to her room and send up fresh clothing and tea.”

“Right away, my lord. Follow me, Miss St. Croix.”

Imogen glanced at Cornelius one last time. “Goodnight,” she whispered before she followed the housekeeper out of the drawing room.