Page 106 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

For a breathless moment, the world disappeared.

The snow, sky, even the girls’ laughter, drowned beneath the sound of Imogen’s heartbeat crashing against her chest and the heat of his lips on hers.

For the barest second, she feared that her advances were folly, but then his arm banded around her waist and pulled her into the wall of his hard body.

He claimed her. His mouth slanted over hers with a hunger that stole her very breath away and left her quivering with need. Helpless against the storm that was Cornelius Harcourt, she surrendered, lips parting like they were made to kiss him.

His tongue teased and tasted, a slow wicked caress that melted every doubt away. It was rich and decadent like the first sip of spiced rum after a winter storm.

A sound escaped her throat, low and wanton, shocking in its intensity. Her body came alive under his touch, a new world waiting to be discovered. It was like she was a thousand stars falling and burning all at once.

It was glorious.

The hand that was on her cheek slid to the nape of her neck, controlling and deepening the kiss. She bent to his will, eager and freely, as he kissed a sinful path to her neck that had her mewling in pleasure.

His hands splayed against her back, fingers searing through layers of clothing as though he could brand her, claim her as his for eternity. Feather light kisses, followed the same path back to her trembling lips.

The kiss deepened, long and languid, as if they had all the time in the world. Yet there was a desperate urgency coiled beneath the velvet glide of his tongue against hers. Every brush of his lips erased all reason. Every shared breath stole her senses, obliterating everything but him.

She longed to free herself of her gloves so that she could touch him freely without a barrier.

Imogen longed to know what it was like to trace the breadth of his shoulders, to have his naked body pressed against hers in a sinful embrace.

She desired to memorize the taste of him—dark, heady, and forbidden.

The world tilted. The centuries between them disappeared. All that remained was the thundering of her own pulse, the dizzying sweep of need in her abdomen, and the cruel sweetness of his mouth devouring hers.

He pressed her against the bark of the tree, his body molding to hers like clay.

Her hands clenched at his great coat, wishing she could free him from it.

It was the best kind of torture. Her body awakened under his fingertips, nipples hardening, wetness pooling, an aching need pulsated from her sex traveling through her like a violent wave.

Slowing the kiss, his large hands framed her face, his dark gaze capturing her in its intensity, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to reclaim their stolen breaths.

“Angel, come look at my wings!” Emmy’s voice, sweet and unknowing, carried across the frozen distance to their hiding spot behind the tree.

That sound, so innocent and bright, instantly snapped the spell that Imogen had found herself under.

His touch retreated like he was reluctant to release her. Reality came crashing down around her. She’d just kissed the man she was sent to save—a first among angels, she was sure.

“I-I better check those wings,” she whispered, forcing herself to step around him.

The crunch of snow under her boots, filled the taut silence between them. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to turn and fall into his arms again, but she pushed forward one trembling step at a time.

She sank to her knees beside Emmy forcing a soft smile on her lips. It was all she could do to mask the storm raging underneath her skin.

“These are the most beautiful wings I’ve ever seen,” she praised, lifting the little girl gently out of the snow.

Imogen refused to look over her shoulder to see if Cornelius was watching her.

She could feel the weight of his gaze unraveling her control piece by piece.

She ignored him, refusing to think about their kiss.

How his mouth had claimed hers like he’d been waiting to taste her for centuries.

She didn’t want to dwell on how his hands held her like she was precious or how her own body answered the call of his touch like she was made for him.

And Imogen especially did not dwell on how delicious he’d tasted on her tongue—forbidden, wicked, hers.

The long-neglected ballroom of Lindhurst House was the largest room Imogen had ever seen.

Like the rest of the townhouse, it bore the faded grandeur of better days.

Cracked cornices, peeling paint, and a hush that seemed to linger over the once-impressive ballroom.

Yet quiet had been broken by laughter and music.

The entire house had gathered there to honor Cornelius’s birthday.

High above, the once-magnificent chandelier was laced in cobwebs, a ghost of its former glory.

Tables and chairs exiled to the walls were draped in white linen.

One small table stood proudly, unveiled, cleared of dust, and adorned with the prize of the day, the cake she and the girls had baked with their own hands.

Imogen lingered at the threshold, her breath catching at the magnificence of it all.

She wore an opulent gown of deep burgundy satin, its skirts pooling at her slippers.

Sweet Mrs. Martin had unearthed it from a long-forgotten wardrobe in Imogen’s borrowed chamber.

Jenny, the bright-eyed and eager maid, had insisted upon dressing Imogen, even coaxing her hair into a whimsical chignon.

When last she had lived, Imogen had never worn anything so fine. Never had she been treated like royalty.

The memory of the afternoon lingered, like her pulse beneath her skin. The park, the snow, the warmth of his mouth on hers, how it felt to be cloaked in his arms, she could not banish him from her mind.

Dear heavens.

She pressed her hands to her skirts, willing her composure to return. It was to be a celebration, an impromptu ball conjured together from the wish of children. Yet for Imogen, it was more than that. For her, it was a night she’d never forget.

“Miss St. Croix!” Clara ran toward her, dressed in a green gown. Her dark curls were pinned up in a waterfall of curls hanging down her back.

“You look beautiful,” Penny whispered as she and Clara reached Imogen.

Penny wore a red gown with green embroidered flowers, her hair styled like her younger sister’s, a sea of dark silk curls cascading loosely at her shoulders.

“I think you two are the beautiful ones.” Kneeling, Imogen smiled at the girls, their resemblance to each other uncanny. “Your gowns are glorious.”

“What about mine?” Emmy asked, racing to Imogen, Dolly hanging from her hand as always. The youngest niece was dressed in a similar gown to the others, in gold, with a red ribbon wrapped around her waist and a matching one tied in her hair.

Imogen wrapped her arms around Emmy, hugging her tightly. “You look extraordinary, Miss Emmy.”

“What about Dolly?” Emmy held up the doll for Imogen’s inspection. “Rosalind changed her dress.”

“Dolly looks very pretty.” She touched the lace white dress of the doll. “You all do.”

“I had to borrow the dress from the new doll Grandmother bought that Emmy refuses to even look at.” Rosalind joined them, her uncle close behind.

Her red dress was similar to the others, but instead of stopping at her ankles, the skirts of her elegant gown swept against the fading marble of the ballroom.

“Miss St. Croix.” Cornelius glided to a stop beside them. His red embroidered waistcoat clung to his lean frame, as she had clung to him beneath the wintery sky.

It was nearly impossible to be near him and not remember what it was like to be in his arms. The memory of his strong, pliant lips pressed against hers stirred a need inside of her that she tried to ignore.

The girls ran away, leaving Imogen and Cornelius awkwardly standing at the door of the ballroom. She tried to avoid looking at the handsome earl in front of her, but it was near impossible. Her gaze always ended on him. His dark eyes, the rich brown skin that her fingertips longed to touch.

“You look lovely.” His smooth deep baritone voice interrupted the chaos of her mind.

Her traitorous body leaned forward, desperate to feel him again. “Thank you,” she whispered, finding the tip of her slippers fascinating.

“Shall we join them?” he asked, tilting his head to where the girls stood with Jenny and Finch in the middle of the ballroom.

Mrs. Martin sat dutifully at the piano. The beginning of a lively tune filled the room.

The entire scene was magical to Imogen, who had only danced once in her existence. Her brief but poignant dance with Cornelius in the freezing elements would stay with her for the rest of eternity.

He offered her his arm, a teasing smile on those lips. She remembered the decadent feel of the stubble of his jaw brushing against her skin. The heat of the memory snaked up her body, settling on her cheeks, hot and insistent.

Ignoring her body’s reaction, she entwined her arm with his. “Happy Birthday.”

The excitement of the afternoon had consumed her so much that she’d forgotten to wish him a happy birthday. All she could think about was the kiss and how she was going to face Clarence.

Imogen hadn’t seen her angelic supervisor since their time at Latchwood Manor. Although it seemed like ages, it had only been two days, and soon, she’d return to her lonely existence.

“Thank you. I admit that I am looking forward to eating that cake.” His eyes gazed over to where the cake sat in a position of honor on the small table.

For the first time since meeting Cornelius, there was no sign of melancholy or despair in those dark eyes. He looked happy like there wasn’t a curse, or empty coffers, or ruined estates.

“If you wish for cake, then we shall have cake.” She leaned into his shoulder, loving how easy it was for her to be herself with him.

Placing his other hand on top of hers, where it gently lingered in the crook of his arm, he squeezed gently before leaning in and whispering in her ear, “I am glad you are here to celebrate with me.”

The words startled her, causing her to stumble over the heavy skirts of her gown, heat rushing to her cheeks as she righted herself.

Before she could find her voice, Penny’s quiet voice rang out.

“Uncle, can you teach us how to dance like they do at a real ball?” Penny asked, her hands clasped together shyly.

“Oh, please, Uncle! Please!” Clara twirled in place, her red ribbon flying behind her.

Cornelius chuckled, the sound warming the cold room more than the candlelight ever could. “Very well. Ladies, please line up, two on each side. We will do an English country dance.” His gaze flickered to Imogen with amusement and a need that made her pulse race.

“I’ve always wanted to learn an English country dance.” Rosalind rushed to the center of the ballroom, Emmy running behind her clutching Dolly in her arms.

“A country dance!” Emmy squealed in delight.

Imogen couldn’t contain her joy as Cornelius escorted her to the center of the ballroom, where all four girls stood impatiently waiting for their dancing lesson. He placed her beside a bouncing Clara before taking his spot beside Penny.

“Miss St. Croix, will you do me the honor?” He bowed to her, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

“It would be my pleasure, my lord,” she whispered, longing and regret swirling low in her abdomen.

“Mrs. Martin if you please,” Cornelius called to the housekeeper, a wide smile on his handsome face. “Girls, follow Miss St. Croix and I.”

“Yes, Uncle!” They all said in unison, unable to hide their excitement.

The music started, uneven and slightly off tune but joyful.

Cornelius guided her down the line the girls had created, laughter on his lips and a warmth in his gaze that she hadn’t seen before.

The girls followed behind them, Clara running instead of dancing, Emmy clutching Dolly against her chest. Rosalind and Penny both concentrated on learning the steps as if they were attending a real ball.

It was all so new, so wonderful, so perfect. For a fleeting a moment, Imogen could almost believe it was her life, her family, her earl.