Page 50 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

But she couldn’t. He was no intruder. He was an angel, and she let him continue his business.

He moved swiftly, carefully, between rows, tucking the children in, dropping tokens where they would not be lost. Almost done now.

His bag hung limp over his shoulder, and he made for the iron stove in the corner, knelt, and emptied the bag into the coal scuttle.

She heard the hard plinks all at once, like bullets in the dark silence of the dormitory.

The man froze, seemed to curve in on himself.

She muffled a chuckle with her palm, waiting for the children to wake.

Surely one of them would. But no. And he flowed back into movement once more, carefully placing a small pile of the new coal into the stove.

A flash of dying embers crackled, welcoming new fuel.

Jane’s heart fluttered and flew, frantic with thanks.

Jameson had kept the fuel allowance the same despite the growing winter chill, an order from her uncharitable brother.

And now this stranger, this intruder, this god of charity, would warm them.

She could see the children’s smiles, hear their squeals of delight when they woke to find their gifts. Yes, an angel…

He turned toward her, began his long-legged journey in her direction. She wasn’t holding the fire poker up any longer. It had become a heavy, dragging weight at her side, an extension of her limp arm.

“You’re shivering,” he said when he stood toe to toe with her once more. “I have exactly what you need.” The sack lay limp across his shoulder. Surely nothing else remained in there.

“I need nothing. Thank you… for this.” What an inexplicable thing for anyone to do—breaking into a foundling hospital to weave a bit of magic for a group of lost, forgotten children.

They lived in her brother’s magic, and it did them no good, possessed no substance.

But this little trick, this angel’s tiny toys, the coal he’d unexpectedly heaped into the fireplace…

He’d broken rules this night, broken the law, but he’d done something soul right, too. “Thank you. For them.”

His expression shifted. Even in the dark she could see.

More like sense it, the falling away of easy flirtation in the tilt of his lips, the hardening of some resolution in the set of his jaw.

“I never think of myself, you know. But perhaps… just this once…” He stepped closer, bowing over her.

His hand, large and gloved, was on her chin before she knew it, and his nose brushing against her own.

Then—oh!—she gasped because his lips settled on her own with the softness of winter’s first snowfall.

Snow that was like the steam rising from a warm cup of mulled wine—spicy, invigorating. And over too soon.

He stepped away from her. “Thank you, Miss Dean.” Hoarse, deep voice.

It rippled a shiver through her. He reached into his sack and pressed something from it into her free hand.

His lips rasping near her ear, he said, “Merry Christmas, brave beauty.” Then he turned in a flash, with a dramatic sweep of his greatcoat, and slipped out of the window more gracefully than he’d come.

One leg, his torso, the other leg. Gone.

Not even a parting wink for her to keep.

What the bloody hell had just happened?

An intruder who left things instead of stealing them.

A kiss in the shadows. A gift. She stayed near the window for some interminable time, clutching the poker, clutching something softer, waiting for him to return, for another intruder.

Simply waiting in case something else equally unbelievable occurred.

But the children slept, and night wore on, and her legs gave out as sleep buzzed at the edges of her brain.

Demanding. She climbed the stairs out of the dormitory and to her chilled, barren room.

She finally released the poker and lit a candle.

Though her body yearned for the bed, her mind needed to know what she held, what the intruder had given her.

Soft. Knit. Dark in color. Rolled into a small bundle.

She held it up in the thin, flickering candlelight and let the length of fabric unroll.

My. How… red. The stockings were finely made, though. They would be warm, too.

Red stockings. An outrage. Clearly. Had he simply had them lying about? Ready for anyone? Ready, specifically, for her? He did seem to know her, but she had not a clue who he could be.

A man did not give a woman stockings. She rolled them back up and hid them away in the back of a drawer. She’d thought him a miraculous benefactor.

More likely, he was mad. A rogue at the very least.

She climbed into her cold, narrow bed. Alone and discarded, she was like her charges now. An orphan. She possessed no power of any significance, no influence. But she knew how to survive, and she’d teach her charges how to do so as well: Follow the rules society set in stone.

One, know your place in the world—titled transcendents with the power of glamours ruled society, laboring alchemists with power over metals built society, sly potion mistresses with power over plants hovered on the fringes, and no ones, like Jane, with no talent whatsoever, simply did not matter.

Pawns to be moved, they could not move themselves.

Two, fit in it as best you can, excelling only as far as you’re allowed and never drawing attention to yourself. The perfect quiet bastard daughter, the best-behaving stepsister, a stern governess who kept the children in line.

Three, never question the rules. Their order offered sanity, protection. To defy them was chaos—a cold street for a bed and an empty belly, just like the life she’d known before her father had taken her in, before her stepmother had taught her how to avoid her mother’s fate.

And four, never accept red stockings from a stranger. That last rule a new one, but terribly important. Midnight intruders were rule breakers, chaos makers, and she wouldn’t let the allure of sparkling eyes and a well-formed quirked-up mouth tempt her to disobey.

But… tonight chaos had looked like mercy, like love. Somewhere out in the dark night, a Christmas angel existed, and just the thought of his finely shaped arse sneaking in through the window made her feel a little less alone.