Page 111 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Five Years Later

Snow fell heavily outside the windows of Latchwood Manor.

The old house, once-ruined, now gleamed with renewed splendor.

The grand ballroom glowed with candlelight, garlands of evergreen and holly draped along the walls.

The polished chandelier gleamed like crystal stars sparkling high above the dance floor.

Candlelight glowed in every corner. The warmth inside was warm and cozy, a perfect contrast to the winter storm beyond.

Not long after the fire at Latchwood House, Cornelius sold the land to a duke, securing the family’s fortunes. The new wealth had allowed them to restore Latchwood Manor to its prior splendor and ensure dowries for the girls. His family’s future was secure.

It had become their tradition to host a Christmas ball each year, not for society but for family and servants. What began as a quiet celebration after Cornelius and Imogen’s miraculous survival from Lindhurst House had blossomed into a joyful ritual.

Laughter filled the room as the girls, no longer little but blossoming young ladies, twirled across the marble with William, Cornelius and Imogen’s four-year-old son.

He was the very image of his father, with smooth brown skin and dark brown eyes.

His personality, however, was all his mother. He was fiercely opinionated and loyal.

At the pianoforte, Mrs. Martin played happily, her smile wide at the spectacle the children were making. Servants clapped along to the tune. Joy spread through the ballroom.

Cornelius stood at the edge of the ballroom, his gaze fixed on the large oak doors.

He still remembered the first Christmas after the fire—their wedding day.

He and Imogen married in a simple heartfelt ceremony, the girls, his mother, and Woodbury in attendance.

Woodbury was kind enough to allow the entire family to remain at his townhouse in London while Latchwood Manor was repaired.

His wife entered the ballroom, their one-year-old, daughter, Rose, on her round hips. Cornelius’s heart swelled at the sight of her. His wife was breathtaking in a green gown, her dark curls longer than they had been five years earlier.

“I see you’ve all started without me,” she said in greeting, a knowing smile on her face.

He bent eagerly, without hesitation, and pressed his lips to hers, ignoring the gasp from some of the new maids.

She tasted of rum, sampling one of her own concoctions he was sure.

They had long abandoned the pretense of propriety, something his mother still tried to instill in them, but he simply could not help himself.

Imogen was alive and his, and every kiss was a reminder of the miracle they had been granted. He would kiss his wife anytime he wanted. She was his after all, and he was hers.

She gripped his matching green waistcoat, deepening the kiss even further.

A loud throat clearing—Woodbury no doubt—had Cornelius ending the passionate kiss early.

“Blame the children. They were eager to start the ball,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist, his gaze softening at his daughter happily enjoying her own hand. “I was waiting patiently for you.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, thankful that she was there alive and beside him.

Cornelius never woke without a moment of fear that the last five years were all a dream, that Imogen, William, and Rose were just an illusion. But it was real, their life was real, their children happy and healthy.

“Aunt Imogen.” Emmy raced over to them, William at her heels like always. The youngest of his nieces had claimed William as her “new baby” from the moment he was born.

“Mama!” William greeted loudly, attaching himself to his mother’s skirts. “Rosalind is teaching us a cotillion, but she scolds me because I keep stepping on her toes.”

Cornelius chuckled at his son and lovingly grabbed his head, which was cut short like Cornelius’s.

“Then you must dance with me.” Imogen gazed down at their son like she still couldn’t believe he was real.

She had confided in Cornelius of never having dreamed of living again or having a husband and children. A hundred years of waiting on her wings and, in the end, she chose him.

“Uncle, come dance with us,” Clara demanded, nearly as tall as he was at thirteen.

He smiled widely, happy that she was still deciding to stay a little girl awhile longer. He escorted his wife and children over to where his mother, Woodbury, and the girls were dancing.

“There is my darling granddaughter,” his mother said, taking Rose in her arms and kissing her head.

“Are we nothing to you now, Grandmother?” Rosalind asked, a smirk on her lips. At seventeen, she was eager to come out in Society. She promised to be a diamond of the first water, but Cornelius was determined to keep her a child a little while longer.

“We’re older now. She should prefer Rose and William and any other children Aunt Imogen may have,” Penny said simply, smiling knowingly at her aunt.

It seemed as if his wife was not hiding her illness as well as she thought she was.

“What?” his mother said, her gaze going from Imogen to Cornelius and back to Imogen.

“Splendid!” Woodbury clapped Cornelius on the back several times. “This will make us grandparents of ten in total. We must get a bigger house, darling.”

“Oh Cornelius! How wonderful!” his mother cried, giving him an awkward one arm squeeze, Rose happily babbling in her other arm.

“Thank you, Penny,” Imogen smiled fondly at their niece. “For revealing the Christmas surprise early.”

Penny smiled proudly, that she had guessed correctly. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I’m still surprised.” Penny reassured her, her eyes twinkling.

“We’re having another baby?” William asked, pulling at his mother’s skirts. “Can it be a boy this time, Mama?”

Laugher erupted around them. Seizing the opportunity, Cornelius took his wife by the hand and led her onto the ballroom floor as Mrs. Martin began playing a new piece.

“I guess everyone knows now,” he said, leaning in to kiss the tip of her nose.

He twirled her around several times in a silent waltz only meant for the two of them. He was sure the love and happiness in her eyes matched his own.

“I can’t believe we’re having another child,” his wife said, laying her head on his shoulder. “It’s another miracle.” She sighed wistfully, before gazing back up at him with tears in her eyes.

“Our entire life is a miracle, my darling.” He pressed his lips to hers, wishing that they were alone. “And it’s all because of you.”

For years, he had thought his life ended with the Latchwood curse. Now he was surrounded by his family, loved by his wife, and expecting their third child, all because of an angel sent from heaven to save him.

She was his miracle. His forever. His wife.

The End.