A Christmas Letter: Snowbound in the Earl's Castle

Not only did she look stunning, and the dress fitted like a second skin, but she had that kind of glow in her eyes a woman only got when she was halfway to falling in love.

Disaster.

She’d hoped that when she saw herself in the mirror everything would look wrong—that she’d look as if she was playing dress-up. It would be so much easier to remember that she didn’t belong, that she shouldn’t want to. Instead she looked like a princess. It was disgusting.

You can’t want him, she told herself. He’s not for you. If you didn’t fit in in plain old Beckett’s Run, how on earth do you think you’re going to fit in here?

But she’d promised Bertie she would attend the ball, even dance with him, so she couldn’t back out.

She took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Stop sparkling, she told her eyes. You have no business to be doing that. And then she took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and headed for the door.

The ball was already well underway when Faith made her way down the main staircase. She deliberately left it until late, hoping minimum exposure to all the glitz and glamour might help her stay strong.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

She should have come down earlier. Because she needed this. Needed the slap in the face it gave her when she walked down the stairs.

Even though she’d only been here a week or two, somehow she’d got comfortable with Hadsborough—with its little yellow drawing room and her quirky turret bedroom. Here, from her spot on the first landing, before the marble steps disappeared into a throng of people, she was once again confronted with the reality of this place.

It wasn’t an ordinary home. It was a castle. And it had never looked more like one than it did tonight. Candles were everywhere, their flickering light taking the evening back into a bygone age. Glasses clinked, champagne fizzed, while guests in tuxedos and ballgowns milled and danced. The Beckett’s Run definition of a ‘relaxed’ dress code was obviously very different from the Hadsborough one. Every single guest was dressed up to the nines and loving it.

Faith might as well have come down the staircase and stepped on the surface of Mars. It would have been just as familiar. She was used to home cooking and takeout, town festivals and barn dances. Parties where people drank to forget their daily life, not because they were partaking in some kind of fantasy.

And in the middle of it all was Marcus, looking elegant in bow tie and crisp white shirt, his dark suit screaming Savile Row tailoring. Her knees literally started to wobble. He looked so handsome, with his dark hair flopping slightly over his forehead, a small frown creasing his brow as he listened intently to an older woman in a tiara.

A tiara. This was the kind of shebang where people wore tiaras. Real ones.

Her fingers traced the necklace and she wished fervently there was a safe she could put it in somewhere. The last time Faith had worn a tiara she’d been seven years old, and it had been made of silver-coated plastic, with garish pink gems stuck on the front.

She shouldn’t have agreed to come. She’d known this was a bad idea.

But there was Bertie at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her and holding out his arm. She swallowed her nerves and started to walk down the stairs.

Fake it, she reminded herself. You know you look the part, even if it’s just window dressing. It’s like yawning or laughing. You start off forcing it and after a while it comes naturally.

She glanced over in Marcus’s direction as she reached the bottom step. He was still deep in conversation with Tiara Woman and, on the pretence of needing a drink, she took Bertie’s arm and neatly steered him the other direction. The only way she was going to survive this evening was if she kept out of Marcus’s way.

There was a flash of red at the corner of Marcus’s eye. He didn’t know why he turned towards it. When his eyes had focused on it properly, however, he fully understood why his jaw had dropped and his throat had tightened.

Wow.

Faith was on the other side of the room, in a red velvet dress that clung to every inch of her slender frame. He’d known her slim lines and understated curves appealed to him in jeans and a sweater, but tonight …

And then she turned round, revealing a low-cut back to the demure-fronted dress that made him realise he might be an earl but he was also part caveman.

She was talking to someone, smiling broadly and using hand gestures. He knew when she realised he was looking at her because she suddenly went still. A second later she twisted round to meet his gaze. Above her crimson lips was a pair of large, questioning eyes. The problem was his brain was so fried by the sight of her in that dress that he had no idea what the question was, let alone the answer.

He’d always thought her beautiful, right from that first day in the chapel, when he’d seen her studying the window, her face aglow with its colour. But here, tonight, in that dress, looking as if she was made for it, he couldn’t help wondering if he should stop fighting that feeling that she was made for him.

He didn’t know what to do about that.

Especially as he’d promised her he’d keep his distance.

Especially as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t forget his own sensible plans for the next woman in his life.

But part of him ached to make the jump anyway, to give whatever was simmering between them a chance. However, the part that had been burned by Amanda’s departure was backing off fast, shaking its head. Hadn’t he’d thought Amanda the perfect fit too? On paper, much more so than Faith. He had to give Amanda her dues—she’d stuck with him a full six months after his father’s death before she’d finally jumped ship.

That had stung. In his own charge-the-world-head-on way he’d still been grieving. He’d needed her understanding, not his spare keys in his palm and a kiss on the cheek. He’d thought she was the one person in the world he could rely on. And he’d been wrong. It didn’t help to know that Faith McKinnon was a hundred times more skittish.

Even so, he excused himself from the conversation he’d been having and walked towards her, not taking his eyes from her face. He saw her heave in a breath, saw her eyes grow wide, knew the exact moment she’d decided to run but found her feet glued to the floor. It gave him a flash of male pride to know she reacted to him that way, that he wasn’t the only one in its grip.

He could make her change her mind if he wanted to. He knew that. And, oh, how he wanted to. But he’d given his word.

Nothing to say they couldn’t have a platonic dance, though. Especially at a big Christmas party like this. It was practically expected.

He reached her and opened his arms. She placed one gloved hand in his and the other slid to his shoulder, leaving his left hand to rest on her shoulderblade, touching delicious bare skin. Wordlessly they started to dance, moving through the chatting guests until they joined more couples on the dance floor.

Marcus hardly noticed who else was there, waltzing with them. He wasn’t really aware of doing anything—not moving his arms or legs, not dodging the other couples, just looking down at Faith, with some silent conversation going on between them.

He wished that duty and decency hadn’t been drummed into him since he was in nappies. Wished he could say what the hell and sweep her into his arms, drag her under the large bunch of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier over the dance floor and kiss her senseless in front of all these people. Suddenly he was slightly irritated with her for making him promise, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to steamroll over her feelings and take what he wanted as easily as he’d like to. That damn protective instinct of his kept him at bay.

That was why, when the music ended, he let her nod her thanks and slip from his arms, find another partner. Why he turned his back and did the same, refusing to watch her go.

But as he moved his feet to the rhythm of the music a thought started to pulse inside his head. Just for one night he wanted to ditch his blasted code of honour. He wished he could be wild and reckless and not care a bean about what the morning would bring. He’d hardly chosen a thing for himself in the last two years, always doing the right thing, always doing his duty, what was good for the family.

Tonight, for once, he wanted to choose something for himself. And he really wanted to choose Faith.

Faith had deliberately sought out the villagers of Hadsborough to talk to. She understood them, knew what they were about. And they were keen to chat about the restoration of the chapel and the stained glass window, keeping her busy, keeping her mind off where Marcus was and who he was with.

But after a couple of hours of being ‘on’, of having to smile and chat to one new person after another, Faith began to tire. In the back of her head she was still mulling over the puzzling Bible reference in the window, trying to work out if it meant something.

And when she wasn’t trying to figure that out, and make small talk with the next person who asked her about the window, there was Marcus. Every time she caught sight of him she experienced a sudden stab of breathlessness.

‘May I have another dance, my dear?’

She turned round to find Bertie beside her, smiling. He was in fine spirits this evening, and more energetic than she’d ever seen him.

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she said, and offered him her hand.

Bertie shook his head as he took it and led her onto the dance floor. ‘Time was when I’d have put on a good show for a pretty thing like you,’ he said. ‘I was quite the Fred Astaire in my day, I’ll have you know.’ He sighed. ‘No more dips and turns for this old back any more, though. You’ll have to put up with my shuffling instead.’

Faith laughed as Bertie took her in a classic ballroom hold. ‘And very elegant shuffling it is, too.’

He smiled back at her. ‘You’ll have to get Marcus to give you another spin round the dance floor.’

She kept her expression neutral. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to matchmake, would you, Bertie?’

He shrugged. ‘The boy needs to have more fun.’