The girls drew her into the formal receiving room, their arms twined through hers. The room was full of neighbours and friends and holiday cheer, the mantel hung with an impressive pine swag, a huge fire sending out a welcome warmth from the hearth. ‘Look who we found in the foyer!’ Meredith called out.
All eyes swivelled Catherine’s way, many of which she recognised, but only one pair held her interest. Catherine searched the room until she found Channing’s blue eyes. His face split into a wide grin at the sight of her. Her breath caught as he advanced through the crowd, gently shouldering a path past groups of visitors and guests gathered in conversation about the room. Her memories of him had not done him justice. He was all lean, golden grace. His body moved with a loose-limbed confidence and he was far more handsome than she recalled. Five years had allowed his features to mature; the planes of his face bore a sharp elegance that erased the last traces of boyishness just as she hoped the last five years had erased the last of her gawky adolescence.
She’d imagined this moment for ages: Channing seeing her, truly seeing her for the first time as a woman. It was the stuff of fairy tales, the one thing that made her five years away worthwhile, knowing when he looked upon her next she’d be as poised, as well dressed as the women he associated with when he was up in London. She wasn’t supposed to know, but he had quite a reputation in town for being a lady’s man. Seeing him like this, she had no trouble believing it. Who wouldn’t want to dance with such a fine man or be seen on his arm at the opera?
Catherine favoured him with a warm smile and held out her hands as he neared. She would show him she could be a credit to him. She’d seen the great operas in Paris. She could carry on intelligent conversation in French and English about their storylines and composers.
‘Good Lord, Cat, is that you?’ Channing took both her hands and kissed her cheek, appreciation evident in his eyes. He was indeed impressed by the transformation. But she would not be too easy to catch. Men liked a challenge up to a point. Her friend, Vivienne, in Paris, had taught her that. Catherine did not hesitate to offer a gentle reprimand.
‘Catherine. You know I prefer Catherine,’ she corrected. Growing up, she hadn’t cared for any of the derivatives that went with her name. But Channing had never divined that.
‘You look beautiful.’ His eyes twinkled at her, making her feel like she was the only woman in the room. ‘Welcome home. Come and meet everyone. I’ll introduce you.’ He gave her his arm and just like that he was forgiven. The fairy tale was beginning. She was on his arm, touring the room, meeting old friends. Catherine’s hopes rose. Maybe there would be a third engagement to announce before the holidays were over.
* * *
Finn Deverill returned to gazing out of the long window overlooking the snow covered garden. The excitement of Catherine Emerson’s entrance was ebbing as people fell back into their conversations. She hadn’t noticed him. He was used to it. Most people didn’t when Channing was nearby. While he was the serious, older brother, Channing was the younger, extroverted brother, full of charm and wit. ‘Never mind,’ one of his great-aunts had told him when he was growing up. ‘He’s not the heir. He needs all the charm he can get. You have the earldom to speak for you.’ Then she’d patted him on the knee in consolation.
The problem was he’d like to speak for himself. There’d been several young ladies over the years who’d been vastly interested in his title, but none who’d been interested in him. Finn rubbed his cheek absently. If his mistress had understood that, things might have ended differently, better. They still would have ended, though.
It galled a bit that Catherine hadn’t noticed him. She’d been part of his boyhood. He would have thought she at least would have noticed him. He’d certainly noticed her and in ways he’d not anticipated.
She’d swept into the room between his sisters like a Christmas flame. The years had tamed her carroty riot of hair into a smooth cascade of deep auburn, twisted elegantly into a knot at her neck beneath that jaunty hat on her head. Time had brought feminine curves to the stick-straight slimness of her once-boyish form. A man’s hand would fit comfortably, perfectly, at the notch at her waist, to say nothing of how a man’s mouth might fit over those kissable, pink lips or how his other hand might cup the swell of a breast presented so enticingly in that form-fitted jacket of forest-green merino.
Christmas flame, indeed! Catherine Emerson had become a temptress. The idea shamed him as soon as he thought it. These were not thoughts worthy of one whom he’d viewed as a sister most of his life.