Fairytale Christmas. Liz Fielding

could think about what he was going to do, he caught her hand and raced up the stairs with her.

      The emptiness hit him as he opened the door, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Lucy was right. This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a mausoleum. And that hideous rose…

      ‘Nathaniel…’ Her voice was soft behind him, filling the room with life, banishing the shadows. Her warm fingers tightened on his as if she understood. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leave it.’

      ‘No. Seize the day,’ he said, flinging open the door to the dressing room with its huge walk-in wardrobe filled with plastic-covered ghosts. The colours muted. No scent. Nothing.

      He pulled off covers, seeking out warm clothes. Trousers. He pulled half a dozen pairs from hangers. A thick padded jacket. Opened drawers, hunting out shirts, socks. Sweaters. Something thick, warm…

      As his hand came down on thistledown wool, it seemed to release a scent that had once been as familiar as the air he breathed and, for a moment, he froze.

       Carpe diem.

      The words mocked him.

      When had he ever seized the day? Just gone for it without a thought for the consequences; been irresponsible? Selfish? Maybe when he’d been eighteen and told his father that he wasn’t interested in running a department store, that he was going to be an architect?

      Had it taken all the courage, all the strength he possessed to defy, disappoint the man he loved, that he had never been able to summon up the courage to do it again?

      ‘Nathaniel, this is madness,’ Lucy called from the bedroom. ‘I can’t go outside. I don’t have any shoes.’

      He picked up the sweater, gathered everything else she was likely to need, including a pair of snow boots that he dropped at her feet, doing his best to ignore her wiggling toes with their candy nails.

      ‘They’ll be too big,’ she protested.

      ‘Wear a couple of pairs of socks.’ Then, ‘What are you waiting for? It’ll all have disappeared by morning.’

      ‘Madness,’ she said, but she leapt to her feet and gave him an impulsive hug that took his breath away. She didn’t notice, was already grinning as she began to tug the tunic over her head, offering him another glimpse of those full, creamy breasts, this time encased in gossamer-fine black lace.

      Breathless? He’d thought he was breathless?

      ‘Downstairs in two minutes,’ he said, beating a hasty retreat.