by Erica Ridley
This was why he did not let go of the book, although he’d completely forgotten whatever line he’d last read aloud. He was here to help her work, not to daydream about kissing her.
And yet he leaned closer. Just a little bit. He kept a tight enough grip on the book to turn his fingers white—it shielded them both—but he did tilt ever so slightly further across the scarred oak, like a sapling rising to meet the sun.
Now she seemed closer than she should be. Closer than he’d expected. When he’d leaned toward her, she must have done the same. Their lips were still at an unkissable distance, but that was nothing a moment of madness couldn’t cure.
If he set down the book, perhaps she’d set down her tools. And if she set down the tools, perhaps he’d take her hands in his. And if he took her hands in his, he’d bring them to his lips, one finger at a time. And then once he’d kissed them all, he’d press those soft hands to his galloping heart and cover her mouth with his.
It was a terrible idea.
A wonderful idea.
She set down her tool.
His heart banged against his ribcage. He should not do any of the things he was currently desperate to do. Not only could a customer walk in at any moment... Jonathan was leaving, and they both knew it. A kiss of any kind, no matter how chaste, was a promise he could not fulfill.
He cleared his throat.
She became inordinately interested in a tiny hammer.
His chest ached. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t ruined the moment. Whether they would have regretted the transgression.
Whether it would have been worth it anyway.
He shook his head. Whatever this was between them would have to remain platonic. Friendship, nothing more. Even if the snow forced him to stay in Cressmouth for months, he knew better than to allow the ice about his heart to melt.
Jonathan still remembered the pain when those who were supposed to love him decided they were better off without him. There was never time for Jonathan. Those he loved, left. He wouldn’t set himself up to be hurt like that again. He wouldn’t let himself be hurt at all.
Polite acquaintances. That was the best thing. Then leaving wouldn’t hurt.
“Mayhap we need jewelry,” he blurted out.
She gestured about her shop without looking up. “We’re surrounded by jewelry.”
“Not you and I,” he said. “I mean Fit for a Duke. Calvin is the most talented tailor I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet, but what of the men not in the market for an entire ensemble? Mightn’t they still desire a small, fashionable touch?”
He was babbling. Why was he babbling? Because he was making this up as he went along. Because he wasn’t thinking about “some men.” He wasn’t thinking about customers at all. He was thinking of himself, and how much he wished he could keep a piece of her with him when he left.
“Signet rings,” he said. No—too fancy, and inherently personal. “Cravat pins. Small, but elegant. Affordable.”
What was he talking about? No one in their right mind would pore over a catalogue for the privilege of purchasing a cravat pin.
It was Jonathan who longed for a secret memento. Something to keep hidden from view, close to his heart. Something he could easily explain away, if confronted by his own sentimentality.
“Not a cravat pin,” she said slowly, as though his self-conscious rush of prattle held actual worth. “A ring is too ostentatious, and a pin isn’t special enough. But there must be something that would do. It’s a good idea. I’ll think about what you might do.”
“Don’t worry about my project,” he said quickly. “You have enough to do without me adding to it.”
She sent him a droll look. “Would it surprise you to learn I can think and hammer a repoussé relief at the same time?”
His neck heated. “Sometimes I do a poor job of thinking, even when it’s the only thing I’m trying to do.”
The edges of her lips quirked. “I doubt that very much. You may be a peculiar sort, I’ll grant you that, but if even half your stories are true, you’re clever and compassionate.”
“And selfish,” he reminded her. “I do it for money.”
“Do you?” Her brown eyes looked as though she could see through to his soul.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Silence? From the man who claimed to be an open book? No one had ever asked him anything serious before. Perhaps his thoughts on figs or rain or boot-polish. No one probed to get past the glib answer, the light repartee. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He didn’t know how to react.
Miss Parker returned her gaze to her chisel.
“You were right,” she said. “When you guessed I wanted to prove myself all by myself. My brother is a jeweler, too. He’s not allowed in my shop until it is my shop, and I can say, ‘Everything you see here is mine. I made it. I earned it. I’m successful.’” She glanced up, but her smile didn’t meet her eyes. “All that work has led to some very lonely moments.” She arched a brow. “I can admit it. Can you?”
He’d challenged himself to risk making a true connection.
“Life can be lonely,” he admitted. “Even when surrounded by new people to meet.” Perhaps especially then. “Calvin is the first partner I’ve ever had. It’s terrifying, and we’ve not even signed an agreement with the duke yet. It won’t change my life in any measurable way. It shouldn’t be frightening. I’ll still travel as much as I want, go wherever I wish. And yet, tying myself to him makes my success seem less mine. As though I haven’t earned it. As though it doesn’t count.”
“And the loneliness?” she prodded.
Ah. He’d skipped past that, hadn’t he.
“It’s the way it must be,” he said simply. “I’m never anywhere long enough to see the actual impact of the thing I’m selling, to hear what anyone actually thinks, to make friends or even meaningful connections. And yet, if I don’t keep moving, the project I’m trying to advertise will reach fewer people, will have less momentum, a lower chance of success. Calvin is the brains behind Fit for a Duke’s fashions. I’m the feet that brings them to the people.”
He felt like he was balancing on a precipice.
Or rather, not balancing. Windmilling his arms wildly, in a desperate attempt to stay upright long after gravity had begun to win the fight.
She nodded. “That’s how I felt when I told my family about the agreement I’d made. The terms felt like more than anyone had a right to ask of me, and at the same time, my only chance to use my potential. And once I set out on that path, I had to continue.”
He tilted his head. “You’re exceptional. Mr. Marlowe was clever enough to recognize a hidden gem when he saw it. Cressmouth is his crown, and you its diamond. Even if all he could have were seven years, I’d wager he’s been gloating over his good fortune every minute of it.”
“But am I self-made if someone else made it all possible?” Her eyes were haunted. “Or should I have stayed home with my family? Been the sort of daughter they had hoped for?”
“You’re the sort of woman anyone would hope for,” he said and meant it. “The question you’re asking happens to be my particular expertise. Someone investing in you doesn’t mean you have less worth, but more. It means faith. You should believe in yourself, too.”
Her hands were in his. Had she placed them there? Or had he reached for her, during his impassioned speech?
It didn’t matter. He pressed each soft knuckle to his lips just as he’d dreamt of doing, then placed her palms one atop the other over his heart. He had never kissed anyone with an oak counter standing between them, but this seemed a perfect moment to start.
His blood thrummed. He caressed her cheek, lightly, softly. Drawing her in, but only if she wanted to come.
She leaned forward, tilting her face into his hand, toward him.
He brushed his mouth over hers, once, twice, then kissed her fully. Completely. He, too, could spot a diamond. But he didn’t want to ta
ke anything from her. He wanted to give. All the kisses she could desire, all the massages, all the shared moments, from the silly to the serious and everything in between. He couldn’t stop kissing her. Not when she returned his kisses so sweetly.
But he had no right to such liberties. They had no agreement, no understanding, no future once the snow ceased to fall. A single kiss was one too many. A risk neither of them should have been foolish enough to take.
He pulled his mouth from hers whilst he still had the wherewithal to do so. He turned away before she noticed his discomfort. This was a lovely time to go and stand outside in the freezing weather. A perfect time. It was exactly what he was going to do.
“Biscuits,” he mumbled, because there was no possibility he was going to discuss the kisses they’d shared. “I’ll just pop across the street for some... biscuits.”
He was out through the door and out into the lightly falling snow before he realized he’d left behind his hat and scarf and coat. But if he couldn’t be trusted to keep his hands off Miss Parker, he deserved to freeze his fingers and everything else.
Thanks to his efforts along with the volunteer crew, now the pavements were tidy and the road clear from shovels and sleighs. One needn’t trudge through knee-high snow to cross the street... until morning, when the shoveling would begin anew.
“There he is!” Mr. Bauer chortled when Jonathan walked through the door. “We wondered what mischief you had got up to.”
“Look!” Stephen leaned against the windowsill and stuck out his leg, brandishing his foot this way and that. “I’m ready to go sledding again!”
“So you are,” Jonathan said. “Aim away from the trees.”
Mr. Bauer handed him two parcels. “There you are, then. The first one has extras of the biscuits you like best. The other has Miss Parker’s favorite pie.”
The parcel was in Jonathan’s hands before he realized he hadn’t even ordered yet. The baker remembered him, noted his absence. Wondered what he’d got up to.
It was a heady sensation. He’d never been a regular customer anywhere before. It was rather nice. Rather more than nice. A sinking sensation filled his stomach.
Jonathan was going to miss Cressmouth.
His muscles tightened. He left a pile of coins on the counter for the baker, and tossed a sovereign to Stephen on his way through the door. It must be just as cold out as it was a few minutes ago, but it didn’t feel like it. Not after the warmth of the bakery, in more ways than one.
He was thinking about Angelica. And his secret dream that, one day, he would find someone who would ask him to stay.
The sound of laughter caused him to jerk his gaze toward the castle. A man about Jonathan’s age with black hair and brown skin was pulling two little girls down the hill on wooden sleds. The fresh snow was too high to slide properly, but their obvious merriment indicated it was no less enjoyable.
Jonathan wondered if the family were part of the local Black community Miss Parker had mentioned, or if they were tourists, like him. He called out a greeting as they sledded by.
“Ho, there! The baker’s son has an itch to race sleds, if you’re up for it.”
“Can’t,” one of the girls called back. “We’re on our way to see the horses!”
The man stopped in his tracks, making a big show of stretching out his presumably tired arms from dragging the girls up and down the hill.
Jonathan handed him one of the parcels. “If your arms aren’t too tired, you can share biscuits and shortbread amongst yourselves.”
The man peeked under the brown paper and grinned back at him.
“Share?” he said in a voice clearly meant to carry to his daughters. “I’m the one who’s been treated like a horse. I think all these delicious, fresh biscuits should be for me.”
Both girls squealed and leapt up from their sleds, holding out wool mittens in hopes of a sugared treat.
Their father placed a single biscuit in each pair of outstretched mittens and handed the rest back to Jonathan.
“It’s yours. I’ve got mine.” Jonathan held up the parcel with the pie. “I suspect those two know what to do with a dozen biscuits.”
“Share them,” their father intoned with faux sternness. “With your cousins.”
“Nooo,” they cried, jumping up and down. “Just one more! Just two more!”
“Thank you,” said their father to Jonathan. “Happy Christmas to you.”
That was enough to make Jonathan’s smile fall. Despite the snow, he’d forgotten for a moment where they were, and what time of the year it was.
“A happy Christmas to you, too.” He turned toward Miss Parker’s shop.
“Off to buy some jewelry, are you?” said the man.
“No,” Jonathan said without thinking. “Off to share a pie with... a friend.”
The girls stopped fighting over the biscuits. They and their father stared at Jonathan as though he’d turned into a hobgoblin.
“You’re going to share a pie with my sister?” the man asked, his tone dangerous.
Oh, dear. Jonathan froze in place. Now that he said so, the family resemblance was clear. So was Mr. Parker’s obvious anger. Was it too late for Jonathan to pretend he was the baker’s delivery man?
“Aunt doesn’t allow friends and family in her shop,” said the first girl.
“Only customers,” agreed the second.
The man swept his cold gaze over him. “If she lets you loiter, she should let me in. At least I’m an expert.”
Jonathan matched his frosty tone. “She should do whatever she likes. It’s her shop. Her rules.”
The man snorted, as if Jonathan had made a jest. “You sound just like her. She acts as though this little shop—”
“Whatever she’s said about the shop, she’s underselling it,” Jonathan cut in. “Your sister is extraordinarily talented, and more than deserving of both respect and proper accolades. She may be one of the most skilled jewelers in England.”
“Papa is the most skilled,” said the first little girl.
“Papa told us so,” agreed the second.
Brilliant. No wonder Miss Parker didn’t allow her brother inside.
Chapter 8
Angelica faced away from the counter and touched her fingers to her mouth. Mr. MacLean had kissed each of her ten fingers, one by one, before attending to her mouth just as thoroughly.
She shouldn’t have let him do it.
She shouldn’t have let him stop.
He’d come to his senses faster than she had, and run off in a manner that would be comical... if she didn’t feel his absence all the way to her bones. The air was colder without him.
What would it be like when he left for good?
Her fingers curled into a fist and she sank her teeth into a knuckle. She did not wish to think about him leaving. She didn’t wish to think about him at all. She was busy. There was no time for romantical entanglements.
Yes, they got along uncomfortably well, and yes, he had started to feel like part of her town, but the latter, at least, was an illusion. He was part of every town for a few days, and then he moved on. He would move on from here as well. He had been forthright about his intentions. Though she appreciated his frankness, the warning was unnecessary.
Angelica was long used to locking away inconsequential desires in order to concentrate on what mattered most: her work. The Christmastide adornments she’d been commissioned to create, the sundry jewelry pieces that were next on the list.
She turned back to face her counter just as the bell tinkled over the door.
It wasn’t a customer. It was Mr. MacLean. He had rushed out into the cold without a hat or coat like a damn fool, yet his ruffled hair and wind-reddened face didn’t make him any less attractive.
She pretended it was the meal in his hands and not the man himself that awakened a hunger in her belly.
To hide her own strangely flushed cheeks, she busied herself arranging plates and silverware on their usual dining
corner of the counter.
“No wine for me,” she said firmly. “I’m finishing the last of the adornments today. The ball is tomorrow.”
He set the pie on the counter next to the plates. Rather than take his seat on the wooden stool, he glanced over her shoulder at the clock behind her and winced.
She arched a brow. “Have you got somewhere to be?”
“I hoped not,” he said. “But I think your brother is waiting for me to reappear, to settle our argument.”
The fork in Angelica’s hand clattered to the oak counter. “My who? Your what?”
Mr. MacLean shrugged into his coat. “I told him not to worry; I’m not trying to steal his sister. Let me see what he wants.”
No way was she leaving the two of them alone.
Angelica hurried to swing open the counter’s hinged access panel, but by the time she was on the other side, Mr. MacLean was already out through the door.
She hesitated with her hand on the cold brass handle.
Luther was there, square jaw tilted stubbornly, the edges of two frayed ropes poking up from his gloved fists.
The ropes led to two wooden sleds, upon which her nieces Florence and Esther were happily consuming an exorbitant quantity of biscuits.
Had she thought to avoid potential trouble by not introducing Mr. MacLean to her relatives? Ha. She’d forgotten just how small this village was. Cressmouth had a single street leading in or out. All of the businesses were on it. And Mr. MacLean introduced himself to everyone.
Angelica had wondered what he and her family would make of each other? Well, she was about to find out.
She pulled on her coat and rushed outside into wisps of snow.
“You allow this… Scot to loiter in your shop?” Luther demanded.
Angelica understood her brother’s suspicion and confusion. She wouldn’t have believed it herself just a couple weeks earlier.
