by Erica Ridley
“Och aye, I like this one,” he breathed, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of answers. “May I touch?”
She nodded jerkily. The piece was a deceptively simple pendant; an orb within an orb, the interior world turning independently of the delicate golden cage that bound it.
Even though Mr. MacLean had asked permission to touch, received permission, wanted to touch, he brought his knuckle ever so close to the side of the tiny globe-within-a-globe and did not make contact.
Angelica was two yards away and could feel that light presence as though his knuckle was not next to her gold pendant, but rather beside her cheek. Close enough to feel his warmth, yet not quite touching. Close enough to lean into, were she to dip her head. Close enough to smell, to taste.
But it was not her he was looking at with such fascination. It was not even the gold pendant. Already he had moved to the next sparkling object, and the next, and the next. At this rate, he would lay eyes on every piece faster than she would have been able to rattle off their names.
When he reached the final piece, he stood just across the counter from Angelica. He could reach out and not-quite-touch her the way he’d not-quite-touched her gold pendant.
The thought made her want to wrench open the wooden door behind her, fling herself into her private adjoining cottage, and shut the door tight behind her.
She wouldn’t, of course. She couldn’t. Her shop didn’t close for hours, and she needed every scrap of success she could find.
“I’ll take them,” the Scot announced.
She blinked at him. “Take what?”
“Whichever ones you want to sell me,” he replied, as though it was obvious. As though people wandered in off the street every day willing to pay exorbitant prices for expensive jewelry they didn’t bother to pick out for themselves.
He hadn’t even asked about cost.
“What would you do with fifteen hair combs?” she managed.
“Is that what you’d sell me?” He appeared delighted by this absurdity. “I’d wear them, all at once, just to say that I did, and then I’d give them away to fifteen ladies who could better appreciate their value.”
She stared at his neatly trimmed golden brown hair, the color of well-polished amber. It didn’t even graze his ears. “You couldn’t fit fifteen clips in your hair.”
He grinned at her. “But I would try, which is what would make it such a comical tale. Shall I purchase them, then? You can be my witness. I’ll tell everyone I meet, ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s a lovely jeweler up in Cressmouth who saw the whole thing. Her name is...’” He leaned forward expectantly.
Now he was definitely close enough to touch. If she lifted herself on her toes, she could brush noses with him. Their proximity was appallingly improper.
Yet she didn’t pull away.
“Miss Parker,” she said instead.
She could have said “Miss Angelica Parker.” Her Christian name was no secret. Despite living in the shadow of a castle, the village of Cressmouth didn’t stand much on pomp and propriety. Many of those who lived here year-round first-named each other as though they were cousins who had grown up together since birth.
It felt like that sometimes. At once cloying and protective. An entire village of big brothers and big sisters, full of unsolicited opinions and unconditional love. Their livelihoods might depend on tourists, but their loyalties were to one another.
Mr. MacLean was an outsider.
He would leave just as suddenly—and likely as dramatically—as he’d arrived. He did not need to know her given name.
“Miss Parker,” he said, as though tasting the syllables and finding them unexpectedly delicious. “It suits you.”
It did? What was that supposed to mean? That she looked like a Miss rather than a Mrs., or that she seemed like a Parker, whatever that was?
“‘MacLean’ suits you,” she shot back.
His sapphire eyes widened. “Does it? What does that mean?”
She swallowed. This was why she didn’t like to talk to people she didn’t know or speak on subjects she didn’t command. She was bound to say the wrong thing.
“Your burr,” she mumbled, waving a hand without meeting his eyes. “You sound Scottish.”
“I am Scottish,” he agreed. “For better or for worse. Your accent, on the other hand, is poor indeed. You sound...”
She tensed.
“...English,” he whispered, and gave an exaggerated shudder.
“I am English,” she managed.
“Pity,” he sighed. “All jewels have their flaws, don’t they? That is, not yours, obviously; your pieces are exquisite, even the hair combs. I would not be at all ashamed to wear them, all at once or otherwise. But English, now, there’s a challenge. A man must set limits. Although I admit I find you a delight.”
He did?
Strangers tended to find Angelica prickly and taciturn, not a delight. Even not-so-strangers. Two aunts and a distant cousin had independently informed Angelica she’d be married by now if she hadn’t the general demeanor of a startled hedgehog. Adorable, but untouchable.
Armor was smart. Armor kept her protected. Armor let her do her job... which had been woefully neglected ever since Lord Rakish McChatterbox swept into her shop like a knight prancing before his maiden.
She had no time for men or idle chatter. Even if his nonsense had managed to settle her nerves in much the same way the noise of her family reunions did. If she didn’t have a rule of not working in front of a client, she rather suspected she’d finish the Cruz necklaces faster with Mr. MacLean prattling in the background than she would left alone to her own thoughts.
Nonetheless, there was no room in her life for anything but work until she’d reached her goals. No exceptions, not even for handsome Scots.
“No offense meant,” she began, then cleared her throat and started anew.
He was less than an arm’s width from her, which should make it easy to be heard, yet her words had been little more than a squeak.
“No offense meant, sir, but if you aren’t going to make a purchase, I must get back to work.” Was that offensive? It was probably offensive. He looked baffled. “It’s not you,” she added quickly, although it was definitely him. “It’s that I’m untenably busy. My relatives are here, and I can’t see them until I’ve finished these pieces, which at this rate—”
What was wrong with her? Now she was babbling just like Mr. MacLean.
“Who said I wasn’t going to buy the hair combs?” he asked. “I’ll take the bracelets as well, if that helps. And the earrings. You can charge me double for taking so much of your time. I only meant to—”
The door tinkled open and Noelle Ward, Duchess of Silkridge, dashed inside.
“Angelica! There you are.”
“Where else would I be?” Angelica muttered, acutely conscious that Mr. MacLean now knew her Christian name. “I’m always here.”
“And a good thing, too. We’re in dire need of your help.”
“‘We’ the Duke and Duchess of Silkridge? Or ‘we’ the castle counting-house?”
This question likely made no sense to Mr. MacLean. Before marrying a duke, Noelle had spent her days high in the castle’s tallest tower, overseeing the counting-house.
From the look on Mr. MacLean’s face, he could sense a fascinating story and was dying to ask a hundred impertinent questions.
“‘We’ the entire village of Christmas,” Noelle said dramatically, which likely pleased Mr. MacLean just as much. “For the grand Yuletide ball, we’re erecting a large yew tree in the ballroom, and we need you to help us decorate it.”
Angelica raised her brows. “Why?”
“You’re the most talented artist in Christmas. The adornments must be the most beautiful objects our guests have ever seen—”
“No, not why would you ask me to design the adornments,” Angelica explained patiently. “Why would you put a tree indoors?”
“It’s tradition.”
Angelica shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“A new tradition,” Noelle admitted. “It’s the first annual Marlowe Castle Yuletide Indoor Evergreen—yes, I know that’s a mouthful; we’re working on a better name—and it absolutely has royal precedence. Queen Charlotte first decorated a large yew tree with fruits and baubles fourteen years ago, at Queen’s Lodge in Windsor. All the beau monde is thinking of doing it.”
“So... the plan is to copy High Society?” Angelica said doubtfully.
“Exactly. What does our village stand for, if not for making perquisites associated with aristocrats available to the general public? The castle is open at all hours with every manner of entertainment... And now a tree!”
“And now a tree,” Angelica repeated. Exactly what she needed. There was already not enough time to finish all her work and still see her family, not to mention she was expecting a visit from a friend… How was she supposed to do it all? It was impossible. “What do you need?”
“Mr. Thompson has authorized me to commission ten gold adornments.” Noelle lowered her voice. “And if he hadn’t, I would have paid for it myself. Charge whatever you like, Angelica. I want this to be worth it for you. This will change people’s lives.”
Mr. Thompson was the solicitor managing the castle trust. Charge whatever you like was a convincing argument.
“How will decorating an indoor tree change people’s lives?” she asked instead.
“Not everyone in Cressmouth is in a position to reap the rewards of tourism. Until now! We have endless hills of evergreens. What could be a better souvenir than a tree from the village of Christmas? Mr. Thompson has signed a document granting all year-round residents the right to sell a generous quantity of evergreens from five percent of the castle woods, to be replanted every spring. Not everyone will take advantage, but those who wish to... can.”
It was a worthy cause. Angelica had no time to take on another project, but saying no would be admitting to weakness—and letting her neighbors down. The ball was held the Wednesday before Christmas, making it only five days hence. If she didn’t already have so much else to do…
“If we can pull this off,” Noelle continued, “which we will, with your help—everyone will know you were the one to design the golden holly sprigs with red-jeweled berries.’” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “All the wealthy tourists will want to take home adornments of their own, designed by the same artist. You, Angelica! They’ll brag to all their friends and your name will be on everyone’s lips.”
Angelica’s name on everyone’s lips.
This was what she wanted. What she had worked so hard for, and for so long. She wanted recognition. She wanted tourists to flock to her door not because she was the only jeweler for miles, but because she was the only jeweler they wished to do business with.
“Eve will put it on the front page of the Cressmouth Gazette,” Noelle was saying.
The rest of her words sounded as though they were muffled by water. Cressmouth’s population might be small, but the gazette reached thousands of homes outside the village. Everyone who visited subscribed, as did countless more who took their Yuletide holidays vicariously through the antics printed in the monthly broadsheet. It might be on a small scale, but Angelica’s name would be known nationwide.
All she’d have to do was give up her chance to be with her family.
She straightened her spine. There would be more Christmases in the future. Angelica would have enough money to take the entire clan on holiday thrice in a year anywhere they wished.
“All right,” she said. “Golden holly with jeweled berries. The most beautiful—and expensive—Yuletide adornments ever created.”
Noelle squealed and clapped her hands together. “I’ll pick them up for the grand ball on Tuesday. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This will be marvelous.”
She dashed from the shop before Angelica could say another word.
The interior filled with silence.
Mr. MacLean arched a golden brow. “If you didn’t have time to sell me a bucketful of hair combs...”
“I know,” Angelica said. “I know.”
How was she meant to explain it to him?
She took a deep breath. “This may sound conceited, but I work hard because I know how talented I am. Seven years ago, I vowed to create a name for myself at any cost. This is part of that cost, and my chance. Once my designs are respected all over the land, I’ll have earned the right to relax, to be proud of myself, to do as I please. But until that day... I have work to do.”
She expected him to launch into a thousand questions. Why the vow? What cost? Why seven years?
Instead, he surprised her by giving her an unsettlingly serious stare, followed by a short, decisive nod.
“I have no use for Christmas,” he said slowly, “but I understand vows and ambition. I’ll leave you to it.”
He strode out of the exit just as abruptly as Noelle, pausing only to give Angelica a little bow before disappearing through the door and into the falling snow.
She stared after him for far too long before she remembered the half-finished necklace. Angelica tried to return to her task. There would be no eating or sleeping until the Cruz pieces were finished and delivered, and she was free to start on the adornments for the castle tree.
But the shop felt empty without Mr. MacLean in it. As though when he’d left, he’d taken all the air with him. It was just Angelica now, alone, with no sounds to accompany her but the pounding of her heart.
She wished he’d stayed.
She was glad he left.
How could she miss a total stranger? She couldn’t. It was impossible. She would shove him from her mind. No more thoughts of Mr. MacLean until after Christmas.
By then, he would be long gone.
Chapter 3
Jonathan opened all three of his trunks and bent over their contents.
It was strange to possess so many items. When he entered his room and saw three large trunks sitting there, it felt like he’d walked into the wrong guest chamber.
Over time, he would become used to it. He had to. If all went according to plan, he’d spend the next year or more traversing Britain with trunks full of Calvin’s creations, convincing haberdashers and other shopkeepers to become distributors for the fashionable new Fit for a Duke ready-made collection of men’s apparel.
If Jonathan performed his role well, Fit for a Duke’s affordable order-by-catalogue fashions would be ubiquitous in no time. Jonathan’s name would be right there on the cover. He would no longer need to prove himself. His success would speak for itself.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Its alarm had awoken him at half past eight, as it did every morning. There was no sense wasting daylight. He glanced outside just long enough to see the sun rising through the falling snow, and quickly allowed the curtain to close. There would be no further exploring until business matters were resolved.
Calvin would be here at any moment, likely with several new trunks of affordably priced high fashion, every bit as impressive as the last. Today, they were to polish their presentation for the Duke of Nottingvale, whose public endorsement—and private patronage—would ensure Fit for a Duke’s resounding success.
Impatient to be on his way, Jonathan grabbed the topmost “elegant but casual” ensemble rather than ring for a maid or footman. Today he chose pantaloons with ankle stirrups, a deep red waistcoat and dark blue frock coat, which could be paired with several thick winter capes. All the items in these trunks had whimsical, pretentious titles, because they were Fit for a Duke prototypes.
Until the illustrated catalogue was in every household in England, Jonathan was meant to be a walking advertisement:
High quality, affordable price, no valet required! Look like Brummell without breaking the bank. Wedding? Special occasion? Hoping to stand up with a sweetheart at the next village assembly? Page 23 has just the thing to win her heart and her hand!
I
n record time, he was buttoned and coiffed and darting out of his too-quiet guest chamber in search of distraction. Calvin’s coach would arrive at any moment, but until then, he couldn’t be expected to sit about alone.
Jonathan greeted the duke’s matched footmen effusively.
“Horace! Morris! How did you sleep? I must compliment Nottingvale on his guest quarters. I have never slept on a softer mattress. I hope this morning finds you just as well as it does me. Have you broken your fast?”
Although there was little to employ them until His Grace’s arrival, they could not be coaxed into lively conversation.
He had learnt that Morris and Horace were nephews of a local cattle farmer. This no doubt aided in the coveted “matching” aspect of their employment, although they were shorter than the towering footmen most aristocrats preferred to boast. The use of local lads spoke highly of His Grace. Jonathan would expect no less. Nottingvale had charmed him from their first meeting in London, many years ago.
Calvin had also impressed Jonathan from the first. The clothier was talented enough to take England by storm, but too reclusive to bother.
That was where Jonathan came in! He wasn’t the least bit reclusive or reticent. The two of them on their own could make a proper go of things, with the Duke of Nottingvale as patron and namesake.
Beau Brummell would tumble from people’s brains at once, the moment they realized they could replicate such peacockery at a fraction of the cost—and without boring themselves to tears with a three-hour toilette.
Jonathan couldn’t wait to begin.
“A friend of mine will arrive at any moment,” he informed the footmen.
Morris and Horace exchanged a doubtful glance.
“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “You needn’t do anything special, other than bring in his trunks. We’re setting up for a meeting with Nottingvale. I think the yellow parlor has the best light, don’t you? It’s perfect lighting for painting, which is advantageous, since I’ll have an armful of illustrations to color once Calvin arrives. Can you tell the maids not to disturb the artworks if they see them drying on every surface? Never mind, I’ll tell them myself. Enid’s tooth was bothering her yesterday, and I want to see if she’s getting on better after that poultice.”
