Page 105 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

After two lively hours baking a cake for Cornelius’s birthday with his nieces, Imogen relished the cool bite of winter air.

Snowflakes brushed her cheeks like a lover’s kiss.

She could not recall the last time she’d actually played outdoors, or baked for that matter.

Everything was so new, bright, wonderous.

Being with Cornelius and his family was like breathing air for the first time in a hundred years.

It was new, yet it reminded Imogen of being apart of a family.

They all accepted her with ease, a stranger, no one of consequence, warmed corners of her heart that she had not realized were cold.

Baking with the girls was a delightful chaos.

She’d organized her small army as best she could.

Each girl was given her own task, unless Imogen wanted a full-on dispute.

Rosalind presided over the eggs with quiet authority.

Penny scattered the flour with precision and ease, while Clara poured the sugar with nonstop chatter and sweet Emmy stirred the mixture with child-like excitement.

Fortunately, Mrs. Martin had all the necessary ingredients needed as she was prepared to make plum pudding for Christmas. So together, Imogen and the four girls made Cornelius a birthday cake, which turned out rather grand despite the fact she hadn’t touched a baking tin in a hundred years.

The world shimmered white as they walked the familiar path to Hyde Park.

It was much more beautiful during the day than it was at night.

Rows and rows of elegant townhouses gleamed along the snow-covered streets of Mayfair.

When Imogen was alive, she’d never had the privilege of visiting the elite neighborhood of London’s Society.

“Must you return home, Miss St. Croix?” Rosalind’s voice floated back to her, bright and curious.

Ahead, Rosalind and Penny walked arm in arm, bundled in their winter cloaks, mittens, and scarves, their sweet little voices rising like bird song in the cold crisp air.

In the time they had spent baking, Imogen had learned more about the precious girls in Cornelius’s care.

Rosalind tried to be the mother of the small group, but was often met with defiance from Clara, who argued at every possible second.

Penny would follow her sister into any fire and often wouldn’t say a word unless it was in defense of Clara.

Emmy—sweet little Emmy—found joy in every single thing.

Imogen would miss them. The girls were everything she’d want in daughters, and Cornelius was everything a man should be.

“Can you please stay forever?” Emmy asked, one small, gloved hand in Imogen’s, the other clutching her new doll.

They reached the mostly deserted park, freshly fallen snow crunching under their boots. Her thick wool day dress and green pelisse kept her warm from the elements. More pieces from Emmy’s late mother’s wardrobe.

“Yes, please stay!” Clara added from beside Cornelius. “Uncle never bakes with us, or sings.”

“We all will be singing tonight for Uncle’s birthday,” Imogen said, giving Cornelius a firm look.

His jaw was clenched tight, dark eyes on her. She gave him her best smile, determined to celebrate him. He was too important to his family not to be celebrated…to important for her.

“Can we have a ball?” Penny asked, her mahogany skin alight with excitement.

“A ball? Can we, Uncle?” Rosalind took Corneilus by the arm, practically shaking him.

He laughed good-heartedly while tightening the loose bonnet on her curly head.

Delight filled Imogen at the idea of a ball, even one with children. “I’ve never been to a ball before,” Imogen said wistfully.

Her father hadn’t been a part of London Society, and they always had work to attend to. She’d often wondered what it would be like to wear a fine gown and dance with a handsome man—an earl perhaps.

Beside her Cornelius’s eyes widened in shock. Imogen supposed it was rare for a young lady to never attend a ball, but there was never an opportunity for her.

“Then this shall be your first,” he said, with a twinkle in his dark brown eyes, his full lips turned up into a sly grin that had her heart pounding within her chest.

For a heartbeat, the world around them disappeared. It was just him and her. No cold, no thoughts of curses or gaining one’s wings, just Cornelius and Imogen.

“We’re having a ball!” Emmy cried out, interrupting the intimacy of the moment with her childish delight.

The children ran ahead, the wind blowing the fresh snow around them like a gentle storm. They laughed in delight as they danced in a circle, shouting, “A ball! A ball! We’re having a ball.”

It was a magical sight, and Imogen couldn’t contain her own glee. Finally, she would experience what it was alike to attend a ball.

Cornelius stepped in front of her and bowed elegantly. “May I have this dance, my lady?” He offered her his gloved hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Imogen’s cheeks heated like she’d just taken a sip of rum. Stars twinkled in her abdomen, bright as flames as she slid her hand into his.

Cornelius pulled her flush against his hard chest, his body scorching hers despite the layers between them and the brisk winter weather. His large hand was tight and secure around hers as he led them in a dance. The wind was their music, the girl’s laughter their musicians.

Imogen stepped on his toes several times, trying to follow the flow of his steps in the snow. “I’m sorry. I’ve never danced before.”

“Never?” he questioned, never stopping the easy way he led her around.

She shook her head. “There was never time for things like balls and dancing or going to the park.” She stumbled again.

“What were you doing instead of dancing?” His piercing gaze unnerved her in ways she’d never experienced before.

Her hands were on fire in the confines of the warm gloves Mrs. Martin had supplied.

Heat gathered in her palms until it was like a burning inferno.

Imogen’s fingers prickled with reckless urgency.

She flexed them around his strong grip, seeking relief from the heat trickling through the leather fabric as it clung to her like a second skin, dampened by her nervousness.

Swallowing hard, she fought to steady her breath, to calm the pounding of her heart. To satiate the wild, aching need that threatened to consume her right there on the frozen grass beside the Serpentine. “I was a rum maker—”

He stilled their dance, gaze lowering to hers. “A rum maker?” he asked, his cool breath brushed across her lips.

Her body hummed with the urge to rise on the tip of her toes, tilt her head back, and press her lips to his. Madness. Utter madness.

“My father owned a rum business,” she said, freeing her hand from his. “There was never any time for leisure activities like dancing.”

Imogen took several steps back. She drew in a sharp breath, allowing the scent of fresh fallen snow and lake water to clear her mind. Air. Sweet, blissful air.

She could not…would not, allow her emotions to rule her. She was dead. And when the assignment ended, Imogen would remain dead, while Cornelius would live.

She turned from him, her gaze falling on Emmy and Clara sprawled in the snow, their little arms sweeping wide to craft perfect angels.

Wings.

The word pierced her like a knife. For a hundred years, Imogen had longed for her wings, the highest honor an angel could receive.

“What became of your father’s business?” Cornelius asked, standing by her side.

A short distance from Clara and Emmy, Penny and Rosalind rolled snow into neat perfect balls for a pair of snowmen.

“A fire,” she whispered.

Memories crashed over her, her old life consumed in a single night of flames.

Her papa’s laughter, their shared glee. That night, she and Papa had completed a large order.

It was to be the last one at their small shop.

With Imogen’s help, the business had increased significantly, so much so that they had begun construction on a new warehouse off the Thames.

It was meant to be their shining achievement.

The first step in expanding their reach around the world.

She swallowed, blinking back tears recalling Papa’s kiss on her brow, his voice full of pride as he proclaimed, what a fine business partner she had made.

“Was your father lost in the fire?” Cornelius asked, gently.

She nodded, her throat so tight that she was unable to find her voice. His hand settled on her back, grounding her, as tears slipped free. Imogen had missed her father every day since awakening. It had been a century, and yet she still saw no glimpse of him, nor her mother in the afterlife.

Cornelius guided her to a nearby tree where the girls’ laugher carried through the crisp air. From the depth of his great coat, he drew out a folded handkerchief and placed it in her hand.

“Thank you.” Imogen’s gloved fingers brushed his as she accepted the handkerchief. She dabbed at the traitorous tears on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, offering the folded cloth back to him.

“It’s yours,” he said, waving his hand at her. “You have nothing to apologize for. Grief claims us all. You do not have to bear it alone.”

His thumb caressed her cheek, the heat of his touch scorching her from within.

She tried to look away, fought with herself not to lean into his warmth.

A beat of uncertainty whispered in the back of her mind, but she Imogen done fighting.

Finished with denying herself the one chance of feeling alive.

A hundred years of waiting, wanting. She would wait no more.

Without another thought, she leaned forward, stood on her tip toes, and pressed her lips to his.