A Christmas Letter: Snowbound in the Earl's Castle. Shirley Jump

he’d heard the news, and had insisted escorting her personally to a bedroom with a wardrobe stuffed with evening gowns. Another sign that hoarding went hand in hand with the Huntington genes, she guessed.

      She’d chosen a red velvet dress from the early sixties, with a scooped neck and tight bodice that skimmed her hips and then flared into a full fishtail at the bottom. It was gorgeous. Maybe a little snug, but gorgeous. Bertie had also insisted she borrow a necklace that he’d retrieved from a walnut jewellery box on the dressing table. She touched the simple V of glittering stones with her fingertips. My, she hoped they were paste.

      Before she lost the matching earrings, she returned to the dresser and pushed the missing back on. The only thing to do before taking her first good look at herself in the mirror was to put on the pair of long red gloves that had been stored with the dress. She put them on slowly, avoiding the moment she had to meet her own eyes in the full-length glass.

      When she had the courage to look it was as bad as she’d feared.

      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,