Page 19 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

At the polished desk in his gloomy study, Silas Frostwick, the Earl of Coldharbor, pored over his ledgers with painstaking care, his eyes fixed on the stark columns as the guttering flames in the grate cast shadows across the walls.

The numbers fell into place like soldiers, obeying his command.

Numbers, unlike people, could always be counted on.

The heavy, forest-green draperies, drawn tight against the night, kept the world at bay. Even the air seemed heavy and thick, forcing back any shred of warmth that managed to venture near him.

Christmas Eve. Bah, humbug!

He was grateful to be alone here at Coldharbor Manor on this chilly evening.

Christmastide was a terrible blight on the year for him.

The last time he’d even acknowledged the holiday, he’d lost the woman he’d loved.

However, it had turned out she hadn’t loved him, so in the end, no great loss.

He’d avoided such entanglements ever since.

For hours, he sat unmoving, lost in the ritual of calculation, blind to anything that was not committed to his ledgers. Nothing disturbed his cold vigil. Nothing dared.

Then, without warning, a loud knock rattled the heavy door, shattering the long, oppressive silence and momentarily breaking Silas’s concentration.

The door creaked open, spilling light from the hall and revealing his nephew Benedict’s tall frame.

The younger man’s smile, warm and hopeful, cast a bright contrast to the chamber’s chill.

“Who let you in?” Silas snarled by way of greeting. His staff should know better, but Benedict, as the future heir to the earldom, had always been able to work his way around Silas’s orders.

Benedict only smiled and sauntered into the room. “Don’t be angry, Uncle. I elbowed my way past your poor old butler. He tried to stop me, I can assure you.”

Behind him hovered Curruthers, the butler in question, who looked absolutely mortified that Benedict had gotten past him. Silas waved him away impatiently, and Benedict grinned.

“Won’t you join me tomorrow for Christmas dinner, Uncle Silas?

” he asked as he took the chair on the other side of the desk.

His hazel eyes crinkled with good humor, and his presence filled the room with light.

Whereas Silas’s clothing was somber and severe, Benedict’s was an elegant blend of comfort and style, and his brown hair, a lighter shade than Silas’s, was slightly disheveled from the wintry weather.

For a moment, his nephew’s resemblance to Silas’s older sister, Elyse, caught him off guard, setting off an unwanted ache in his chest. Elyse had been gone for ten Christmases, but Silas still thought of her sometimes, recalling the fun they’d once had together.

Silas dropped his gaze back to his ledger, feigning indifference. “I have no wish to engage in such nonsense,” he said, his tone clipped and unyielding. He dipped the quill in ink, the act a deliberate dismissal.

Benedict leaned forward earnestly, completely undeterred. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he urged. “You could come tonight as well. The evening will be filled with joy and laughter. How long has it been since you had some company other than these dusty books?”

A sneer tugged at the corners of Silas’s mouth, his eyes cold as flint as he looked up at his nephew. “How many times must I reject your invitations before you stop issuing them?”

He truly wanted to know. Benedict was the only person on this earth who seemed to care about him, even though he’d done everything he could to drive his nephew away. He found it somewhat disconcerting.

But Benedict pressed on obstinately. “I know it’s been difficult after...” He hesitated, obviously searching for a way past Silas’s defenses, for some chink in his armor. “But shutting yourself away won’t help anything. Come over tomorrow. Let us spread some of our good cheer.”

“Cheer?” Silas said mockingly. “What a hollow word, fit only to adorn Christmas cards.”

He met Benedict’s gaze with unwavering defiance.

He would not bend, would not yield. Not this time, not any time.

He could think of nothing he’d like to do less than attend a loud, boisterous Christmas party with his nephew’s family and friends.

And he knew Benedict didn’t really want him there.

Why would he? His nephew clearly felt some obligation, but Silas heartily wished he didn’t.

There was a long pause, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the heavy tick of a distant clock.

Benedict seemed at a loss, as if he’d never fully considered the depth of Silas’s determination to remain alone. But he quickly rallied, his voice gaining strength once more. “It’s not too late, Silas. Don’t let the past steal your future. Please come by tomorrow, even if just for a short while.”

“You might as well stop asking,” Silas said, a chilling finality in his voice. He dropped his gaze, turning his attention once more to his ledger.

“I promised my mother I wouldn’t give up on you, and I won’t. I’ll keep asking you, and one day, I think you’ll say yes.” Benedict pushed to his feet and crossed the room, but in the doorway, he hesitated. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Silas,” he said softly.

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a muted echo that left the room emptier than before.

The silence resettled like a heavy fog, and the fire sputtered completely out.

Silas was once again alone, the brief flicker of connection extinguished, leaving only the austere companionship of numbers to fill the void.

Even his servants moved about the house like wraiths, keeping to the shadows per his commands and careful never to be in the same room with him.

He had sought this emptiness, had built his life around it.

But tonight, it threatened to suffocate him, its edges cutting sharper than before.

Benedict had somehow gotten under his skin, as had thoughts of Elyse.

She would have hated to see him this way.

Even as she’d lain dying, she’d wanted to be surrounded by those she loved, and she’d still kept the spirit of Christmas alive.

She’d passed away ten years ago, on Christmas Day. He hadn’t celebrated the holiday since. And Elyse hadn’t been the only person dear to him he’d lost that year.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he closed the ledger, its pages meeting with a muted thud. He ran his fingertip over the embossed leather cover, trying to draw some comfort from the fact that the estates his father had nearly run into the ground were now prospering, but it didn’t work tonight.

Rising from the desk, he extinguished the candle on his desk and left the study with measured intent. His tall figure cast long shadows as he crossed the polished floor of the dark hallway. The air was frigid, his breath a ghostly wisp that marked his progress.

He forced himself not to remember or let the past destroy the fragile peace he had constructed. Still, the very walls seemed to conspire against him, murmuring of days when light and warmth were not strangers to this place. Days he refused to acknowledge.

But the harder he tried to shut those memories out, the louder they whispered.

Of Christmases past, of laughter and love and all the things he told himself he no longer needed.

He clenched his jaw against the insidious noise, willing himself to maintain control.

Yet somewhere within, beneath the hardened shell of his resolve, something flickered—a small, unwelcome reminder that he had once been someone else.

He passed door after door, all closed. He hadn’t entered half of the rooms in years.

Coldharbor Manor was his fortress, but it was also his prison.

And he knew there was no escaping the sentence he had pronounced on himself.

He ran his empire through letters sent to estate agents, never had visitors other than his nephew and rarely went out. It was better that way.

In the oppressive silence, he became very aware of his heart's slow and steady beat, as if the effort to keep it going was a challenge. He was not accustomed to such awareness, but Benedict’s visit, the promise he claimed he’d made to Elyse, had unsettled him in some soul-deep way.

He quickened his pace, determined to outrun the strange sensation that had begun to take root within him.

He finally reached his bedchamber but hesitated at the door, strangely reluctant to enter. Unfortunately, the rest of the manor lay silent and dark behind him, offering no comfort, no reprieve. There was only one path, and he had chosen it long ago.

With a swift motion, he opened the door, stepping inside. The fire was already low, the air chilling fast. He closed the door with a soft thud, sealing away even the memory of Benedict’s visit, his nephew’s concern, and the unwelcome emotion it had stirred.

He allowed himself a small, grim smile at the triumph of having once again shut out the world.

He didn’t care about his nephew. He couldn’t, for he knew all too well that love brought nothing but heartache.

Crossing the room, he poured himself a glass of brandy, drinking deeply to quiet the anxiety racing within him.

When he started to feel the numbness he preferred, he threw a few more logs on the fire and sat in his comfortable chair, reaching for the book he’d been reading.

He'd spend this Christmas the way he preferred.

Alone.