A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic: Christmas Cinderella

‘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.

Out in the hallway, Catherine pressed her head to the cool panelling. What had she done? She’d thrown away her chance. She couldn’t stay here in the corridor. If Channing saw her regretting, he would push his offer. She needed to get back to the ballroom and lose herself in the crowd. Lord Richard would be looking for her. A country dance might be just what she needed to lift her spirits.

So she danced, and she danced some more until she felt the beginnings of a little hole in her pretty slippers and still she danced. Catherine laughed and flirted politely with the young men on her dance card. She was her dazzling best in the hopes no one guessed there was a hole in her heart as well as her shoe. If she couldn’t have Finn, then she’d have no one. She very much feared that wasn’t simply hyperbole.

No one but Finn. ‘What’s the matter, Catherine? Your smile has been pasted on so long it might never come off.’ The inevitable had arrived: the last dance of the evening, the third waltz. Finn steered them to an empty spot on the crowded floor, everyone wanting to be part of the beautiful dance. The candles in the chandelier had been dimmed and the ballroom had taken on the glow of a starry night.

‘It’s nothing,’ she lied with yet another smile. None of the protocols she’d learned in Paris had prepared her for this. How did one tell another, ‘I’ve refused your brother in hopes of something better and that something better is you?’ Even if she’d been bold enough for such words, what was the etiquette? Did the one who’d done the refusing politely wait for the one who’d been refused to make the situation public? Should Finn hear about Channing’s proposal from her or from his brother?

Finn fitted his hand to her waist as the music started. ‘I’ll wait and hope for better.’ He smiled down at her. ‘You always were a bad liar, Catherine.’

‘Not now. Waltz with me, Finn.’ She placed her hand at his shoulder and gave him a private smile as he adjusted his grip at her waist, pulling her closer. She didn’t want to talk about Channing’s proposal. She simply wanted to dance with Finn Deverill, for what might be the one and only time.

She gave herself over to the moment. Finn’s dark eyes were hot, burning with unexpressed emotion, his hand strong at her back as he propelled them through the crowd. She was aware only of the unspoken message of Finn’s body as it manoeuvred them through the turns and figures of the dance. For the first time, she understood the whispered rumours about the suggestive nature of the dance, the nuances nicely bred girls giggled over behind their fans when they thought no one was listening. She and Vivienne had done the same, but those nuances had no real meaning, no substance until now: the man in pursuit, the closed position of the bodies, the twining of legs and arms, the draw of his arm pulling her closer, the pressure of his hand, all determining her position, the brush of his thighs against the silk of her skirts.

Finn was a master of it all and she revelled in that mastery, matching him step for step, boldness for boldness until the crowd fell away leaving them space in the centre of the floor. They turned, they spun, her eyes riveted on the intensity of Finn’s gaze, not the usual traditional spot of nothingness over a gentleman’s shoulder. But Catherine was aware of none of it until the dance was over and it was too late. Applause erupted from the sidelines. She glanced away from Finn’s face, realising for the first time that they’d danced alone, their private waltz suddenly public. Everyone had seen them.