A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic

by Elizabeth Rolls

  ‘You might think twice if you knew what they were.’ Finn gave her a wry smile and relinquished the ribbons. It wasn’t often a lovely woman drove him around with her hair hanging down her back, snowflakes tickling her nose. In fact, there’d never been a time that he could recall.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with Lord Swale.’ Catherine’s mother stroked the brush through her hair and Catherine met her mother’s gaze in the mirror of her dressing table. She wasn’t fooled by the casual tone. Whenever her mother called Finn Lord Swale, something was afoot.

  Catherine shrugged, trying to make light of it. It had been hard enough to explain to Meredith today. She couldn’t imagine making sense of it to her mother. ‘He brought me home from shopping, that’s all.’ There was no need to mention the skating expedition. Her parents hadn’t even been there for it.

  ‘He brought you home considerably later than the other sleighs,’ her mother added.

  ‘I was late. He was kind enough to have waited for me.’ Definitely no need to say anything about racing the sleigh, their quiet talk in the woods or Finn’s disclosure about his future.

  Her mother set aside the brush and met her eyes in the mirror. ‘At the end of the day, he’s a viscount. Some day he’ll be an earl, Catherine, and you’ll still just be you: the daughter of well-respected gentry with a baron for a relative somewhere in the family tree. You’re well born, but not high born, whereas Finn Deverill is both.’ She paused. ‘What I am trying to say is that he can’t marry you. I have it on good authority from the countess herself that they fancy a match between him and Lady Eliza.’

  The daughter of the marquess, someone more suitable for a man of Finn’s station, a viscount waiting to be an earl. Her mother was implying something else too—a warning perhaps that a lord might dally and flirt where he liked without making promises. It was hard to imagine Finn as such a man. Then again, Lady Eliza was here. He’d taken the marquess’s daughter into supper, but he’d been kissing her.

  Was this what he’d meant by the balance of duty and desire? In the woods, she’d thought he’d been talking of the Caribbean and his work versus the responsibilities of the earldom. In reality, he might have been talking about her balanced against his duty to marry well. Family was important to Finn. He would not let them down with an indiscreet match. He’d indicated as much today. It wasn’t in his nature to pick his heart over his head.

  ‘He’s a friend, nothing more.’ Catherine managed a smile even though a small piece of her was breaking inside. Maybe not even a small piece. It might very well be a large piece. Catherine had to concede, her mother’s logic made too much sense. Finn had not once alluded to their kisses beyond calling the first a mistake. He’d made no promises, no claims in words and he wouldn’t. No matter how angry he was over Channing kissing her under the mistletoe ball, he was going to court Lady Eliza Dewhurst of the adequate bosom and the more-than-ample pedigree because it was the right thing to do.

  Her mother kissed her cheek. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt. It’s better to head these things off before they become confusing.’ In other words, before they become dangerous, before the rashness of youth and hot blood took them down a path only one of them could afford to travel. Catherine thought it might be too late for that. Oh, there was no physical damage done. She knew the real damage her mother alluded to. One couldn’t come of age in Paris and not know. But emotions, her emotions, were engaged and she rather thought Finn’s were, too, even if he would deny them.

  ‘Now, darling, we need to get dressed. It won’t do to be late to the ball when we don’t have to go any further than downstairs.’

  All she had to do was go downstairs? Catherine thought. She might as well go to the moon. Going downstairs was proving to be nearly as difficult. She stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Was a dalliance all Finn saw when he looked at her? Did he look at her and see a nice but unsuitable girl? Her mother had meant well with her blunt speech, but now Catherine had to face the opening quadrille with Finn and her newborn doubts.

  No, she wasn’t going to think of it that way. Catherine put her mental foot down. She’d been looking forward to the Yule Ball and she had a beautiful gown she’d been saving for the occasion. She wasn’t going to let a warning about Finn get in the way of that. Forewarned was forearmed. She would dance with Finn and with Channing and with the other young men present and that would be that. Except perhaps with Channing. She’d spent precious little time with Channing today. With her mother’s warning tucked in her mind, tonight might be the perfect opportunity to return more fully to her original intentions.

  The maid came and helped her finish her preparations, fussing with Catherine’s simple hairstyle and helping her slide into the frothy gown of white silk and lace. ‘Oh, miss...’ the girl sighed appreciatively as she tied the wide blue sash about Catherine’s waist ‘...you look an absolute treat. The gentlemen won’t be able to keep their eyes off you!’

  Catherine smiled and studied the gown in the long mirror. The bodice, done en coeur, left her shoulders bare, the delicate fall of lace veed to the centre of her bosom, drawing the viewer’s eye downwards to the tight-fitted waist and the gentle, natural curve of the full skirt over her hips. The skirt would bell out nicely, but not obtrusively, when she danced. The style was simple, but the fabrics were of the finest, the tailoring of the latest preferences from the fall of lace at the bodice draped à la Sevigne to the silk-de-chine scarf she would carry for effect. The ensemble was perfection.

  Catherine slipped her feet into matching white slippers, an enormous luxury. She wouldn’t get more than one night out of the delicate shoes before they would look dingy. But her great-aunt had insisted and bought them as a farewell gift. The image in the mirror smiled.

  * * *

  By the time Catherine joined her parents in the receiving line her resolve had returned.

  And was immediately tested.

  Finn stood at the ballroom door alongside his mother and father, greeting guests who’d been invited along with the house party, looking resplendent in dark evening attire. His jacket was cut tight across his shoulders, emphasising their breadth, and tapered at the waist to show off the trim, masculine line of him, long legs and all. His hair, walnut-dark like his father’s, gleamed in the light, his jaw stern. But his eyes! Oh, his eyes were like liquid chocolate, warm and seductive all at once. It was his innate sincerity, Catherine thought, that created the look. She wanted to fall into them. Surely, any woman would want to. Funny, how she’d failed to notice such charms until now.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Emerson, Mrs Emerson,’ the countess gushed sincerely. ‘Catherine, dear, you look stunning.’ Finn’s mother smiled warmly. ‘The girls are already inside waiting for you. Finn, doesn’t Catherine look lovely?’

  She felt Finn’s eyes on her as she curtsied to the earl, trying to act formal and informal all at once as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was odd enough to curtsy to the earl, who was like a second father to her, to say nothing of feeling Finn’s not-so-neutral gaze while she did it. But the proprieties must be observed on such occasions. Both the countess and her mother were sticklers on that account. Familiarity bred complacency and complacency bred slovenly behaviour.

  ‘I thought you might miss our dance,’ Finn said once she reached him. He offered her his arm. There was to be no reprieve then, no time to drift over to visit with Meredith and Alyson and let her senses settle. ‘The sets are starting to form and you’ll want to see the ballroom.’ He bent close to her ear conspiratorially. ‘Mother has outdone herself this year.’

  Catherine felt herself start to relax. Decorations were a safe topic and they conjured up a host of memories. The countess used to let the children have a sneak peek at the ballroom every year before the guests arrived and they were shooed up to the nursery. ‘I remember the year yo
ur mother had the poinsettia theme.’ The columns had been draped in white swathes of fabric and the niches throughout the room had been filled with vases of the imported plant. The effect had been simple and stunning.

  ‘Euphorbia pulcherrima.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s the Latin name for poinsettia. It means the most beautiful of the euphorbiae. It has other names, too, like lobster flower, the flame flower.’ The low timbre of Finn’s voice, private, intimate even though they were in a crowd, created the impression the flower wasn’t all he was discussing in terms of beauty. A delightful shiver went through her, although she knew better than to allow such a reaction. Her mother’s warning haunted the recesses of her mind. But she had no time for warnings as Finn ushered her inside the ballroom. A little gasp of awe escaped her as she took in the decorations of white and silver—and was that ice? It was. They perfectly mirrored the weather outside and created the ideal winter scene inside.

  ‘It’s a winter fantasy,’ Catherine breathed.

  ‘That’s exactly what my mother calls it—her winter-fantasy ball.’ Finn chuckled. ‘I’ll tell her you approve.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ And it was. She could hardly take it all in. White gauzy fabric spangled in silver wrapped the columns, white hothouse roses adorned the niches in tall, elegant gold-and-silver urns. Even the ceiling was decorated, hung with giant glittery silver snowflakes and long crystals that simulated icicles. But the pièce de résistance was the orchestra dais set up at the top of the ballroom, where bunting held with navy-blue bows denoted the orchestra and two giant-swan ice sculptures graced each end like bookends. The effect was stunning and drew the eye down the length of the ballroom.

  She and Finn took their place at the head of their set with three other couples and the dance began. ‘Our first dance together,’ Finn whispered with a smile as they began the opening figure. ‘Le pantalon.’

  ‘The trousers,’ she said, trying to keep her mind on the dance. They were the lead couple so they danced the pattern first. It was difficult though when her eyes wanted to watch Finn and trousers was the very last thing she should be thinking of, especially his.

  ‘You seem distracted,’ Finn said when their portion of the set came to an end, his voice low, his presence potent beside her. She could smell the spicy, cinnamon scent of him, warm and welcoming, and yet the spice was a reminder of danger lurking beneath the surface for the unsuspecting.

  ‘You’ve surprised me.’ Catherine kept her eyes on the other dancers. He had surprised her. He was proving very good at flirtation with those dark eyes of his that knew just how to skim a woman’s body with their gaze and his casual touches that conveyed confidence, offered provocative suggestion of other touches, more private touches that might be had under different circumstances. It was common wisdom in the Paris salons that a man who knew how to touch a woman in public would not disappoint in a more intimate setting. Catherine flushed; the thought of sharing such a setting with Finn heated her cheeks, the forbidden question rising to the fore: what would Finn be like as a lover?

  It was a hypothetical question at best. She knew women in Paris who took lovers, but Paris was a far different society than England. Here, she should not even think of such a deed and yet the very thought would not leave her. Throughout the second figure, through La poule and La pastourelle movements of the quadrille and into the finale, the thought persisted: the image of Finn naked in the candlelight, his body covering hers, his hands clasping hers as they reached over her head.

  She had to stop. These wanderings of the mind were precisely the dangers her mother had warned her of. Finn bowed to her, the quadrille over and thankfully so. Lord Richard claimed her for the next set and Finn moved off, hopefully unaware of her imaginings. She wouldn’t see Finn again until the third waltz, the dance that would close the evening hours away. She had her reprieve.

  Chapter Eight

  Before she knew it, Channing had claimed his waltz, the first one of the night while Lady Alina glowered a little further down the floor in the arms of the squire who looked positively thrilled at his good luck. To their left, Finn took up a position with Lady Eliza. On the sidelines, Catherine noted, his parents looked on with smiles.

  ‘Your parents seem pleased to see Finn with Lady Eliza,’ Catherine said as the dance began.

  Channing gave a mock frown. ‘I haven’t seen you all evening and that’s the first thing you can think of to say?’

  She gave a playful smile. ‘You could have seen me earlier.’

  Channing swung them into a turn. ‘I did, I simply couldn’t get away. I was bowled over at the sight of you in that dress. I still am, so is everyone else. I’m dancing with the prettiest girl in the room and they know it.’ Channing winked. ‘Maybe my parents are smiling because I’m dancing with you. They might not be smiling at Finn at all.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘I don’t think you’ve changed a bit.’ The comment was just like Channing. He saw the world through his eyes and that world revolved around him. He was his very own Copernican theory, the planet around which all the minor suns orbited. It didn’t make him selfish. Channing was a kind-hearted individual, she knew that. It simply made him Channing and it made him different from Finn. Conversation with Finn wasn’t necessarily all about Finn.

  ‘Cat, I want to talk to you,’ Channing began. ‘There’s something I need to ask. Do you think we might slip off somewhere quiet?’ She was aware of his hand at her waist, holding her closer than the rule. But this was Channing, handsome, charming Channing, and this was what she’d come home for.

  Channing led them to a little sitting room down the hall. He checked to see that it was empty. ‘You never know what some people get up to at a dance,’ he said with a chuckle, ushering her inside. Catherine stood before the fire, her hands clutched, her insides churning with butterflies. She told herself it was because the fairy tale was about to come true.

  Channing raised a hand to her hair, smoothing his hand over it, a smile on his face, his blue eyes intent. ‘You’re lovely, Cat. I meant it when I said I was bowled over by your beauty this evening. There isn’t a woman in there who can match you.’

  ‘Not even Lady Alina?’ she had to ask. That relationship seemed murky at best.

  Channing shook his head. ‘She’s business.’ He cupped her jaw and ran his thumb along her cheek. The gesture was soft and gentle, but it raised no prickles of heat down her arms or sent any shivers of delight down her back. ‘You, Cat, you are my pleasure. I have obligations in London I must see to, but when I come back?’ He paused. ‘What I’m trying to say is will you wait for me? When I return, we can announce our engagement if you’ll have me.’

  The proposal was so Channing. It had been all about him; his obligations, his return. ‘Don’t you think you should ask me first?’ Catherine laughed.

  He took her hand. ‘Will you marry me?’ There was a winsome boyish hope in his voice that excused the lack of pomp behind the question. ‘We’d be the most dashing couple in London. We’d do all the parties, all the balls. Everyone would want to have us.’

  He was sincere in his own way. She knew him well enough to know that. But in those moments he was laid bare to her in a way he’d never been. As a friend, as a childhood playmate, his bonhomie, his love of a party, an outing, any social activity, had been enough. He had been the centre of attention and it had been fun to be in the centre with him. Catherine pulled her hand free. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she knew what her answer had to be. It was an answer she’d never thought to make. ‘Marriage has to be more than fun, Channing.’

  He knitted his fair brows. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Of course he wouldn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t. It might not be in his make up to understand that things had to be more than fun, more than dares and larks.

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ he pr
essed softly. ‘You and I just bashing around London?’

  Catherine gave a sad smile. ‘I can see it, that’s why I must decline.’ It would be fun for a while. Channing would lavish every extravagance on her, they would live in the Deverill town house, have every convenience. Most of all, she’d have the one thing Channing didn’t even know he was offering. She’d have what she always wanted—a chance to be part of the Deverill family. She would have it all and it would have been relatively easy to achieve.

  Too easy. She’d been taught easy answers were to be suspect. When something was too good to be true, it usually was. Life would be merry until...until parties were no longer enough, until she wanted to do something meaningful with her life, until Finn came to town, a reminder of what she could have aspired to.

  ‘I thought you liked me.’ Channing seemed genuinely wounded.

  ‘I do like you, as a friend.’ She reached for his hand. ‘We’ll always be friends, Channing. Some day you’ll find the right girl and you’ll thank me for turning you down.’ It seemed surreal, standing in the sitting room where she and the girls had played with their dolls on rainy afternoons and turning down Channing Deverill, turning down her chance to be part of the family for good.

  ‘I could make you happy, Cat.’

  ‘For a while.’ Catherine gave a wan smile. She didn’t want to see him beg. Channing Deverill was the sort of man who should never beg.

  ‘A while? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She was getting a bit impatient now. Wasn’t there a figurative bone in his body? Did everything have to be so literal? ‘It means I am honoured, Channing. I just want something that lasts a little longer.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘I need to be getting back.’ It was a vague excuse for a departure, but they both needed this scene to end. She didn’t want to second-guess her decision, didn’t want to start thinking of dangerous practicalities; maybe marriage to Channing would be worth it if it meant she could be a Deverill.