One Night with a Duke: 12 Dukes of Christmas #10

by Erica Ridley

  For now, she settled on a simple, “Yes.”

  “I’m your brother,” Luther sputtered. “We lived together, learnt the trade together, worked side-by-side our whole lives... until you decided to abandon the family and move to the north of England to please some eccentric rich man rather than your own mama. But I never believed you’d prefer some... aristocratic nob over your own blood.”

  “Want a biscuit, Aunt Angelica?” Florence asked.

  “Not now, darling,” she murmured.

  Angelica had known her relatives did not understand her. They’d come to accept her decision, even to enjoy its peripheral fruits, but there was no hyperbole in her brother’s words when he said the family believed she had abandoned them.

  Luther, specifically, felt hurt and slighted. They had not just grown up together. After their father died, Luther became the man of the house. Their aunts were respected elders, but Luther was the one who owned their home, their shop.

  He was the important sibling.

  Angelica was the little sister. The one her father had taught his craft to, not because he had intended to, but because she never left her elder brother’s shadow.

  She’d learned despite them, not because of them.

  The first falling-out between her and her brother was the day their father had said, “No, Luther! Look how Angelica’s accomplished it.”

  The worst falling-out she’d had with her brother was the day their father pronounced Angelica the better jeweler... and said it didn’t matter. She was destined to be a wife, not an artisan. She inherited the talent, but Luther inherited the shop.

  None of which was likely to ever be properly resolved. She and Luther had loved each other and been jealous of each other for far too long to change now.

  Mr. MacLean’s omnipresent grin was absent from his usually cheerful face. Perhaps his perpetually sunny disposition wasn’t his true self, but rather his shield. Just like refusing to let people in was hers.

  “I liked your biscuits,” said Florence.

  Esther nodded, her mouth full. “Thank you for sharing them.”

  “My pleasure,” Mr. MacLean murmured without meeting Angelica’s eyes.

  Of course the biscuits were his. That was exactly how he was. He would have tried to make a good impression on her brother and her nieces without even knowing they were her family.

  If anyone was making a bad impression, it was Angelica. That the two men had squared off like cockerels in a cockfight was their problem, but her refusal to blend the different parts of her life wasn’t making the situation any better.

  She blinked. Did she now consider him part of her life? No. He was temporary. But something had to be done.

  “It’s good you ran into each other,” she said. “I meant to introduce you.”

  Miraculously, no lightning bolt struck her where she stood.

  “This is Mr. MacLean, my... friend. He’s only passing through.”

  “Jonathan MacLean, at your service.” He made an extravagant leg, fit for a king.

  Florence and Esther exchanged impressed glances.

  “And this is my brother Mr. Luther Parker, and his daughters Florence and Esther.”

  Luther folded his arms over his chest. “Your friend, is he? I’m sure the rest of the family would just love to meet him. Why don’t you take him to church on Sunday? Uncle is giving a service at the castle.”

  “Sunday?” she squeaked.

  “Uncle’s Christmas service,” Florence piped up helpfully.

  Esther pumped her hands in the air. “Everyone will be there!”

  The gauntlet had been thrown.

  “All right.” Angelica met her brother’s eyes. “If Mr. MacLean wishes to come to church, he’s welcome to join us.”

  Luther looked as though a gentle snowflake could have knocked him down.

  Angelica didn’t blame him.

  If she sat next to Mr. MacLean at Sunday service, she’d be laying claim to him in front of the entire village—and more importantly, in front of her entire family. If Luther had been surprised and confused, the looks on her aunts’ and cousins’ faces…

  Fortunately, any apparent “claim” would be as transient as Mr. MacLean himself.

  He was still leaving. Her relatives needn’t know they had become kissing friends.

  Though they might suspect as much.

  “Horses!” Esther squealed, tugging on the rope in her father’s gloved hand. “You promised!”

  “Horses! Horses!” Florence chanted.

  Luther bounced a final, skeptical look between Angelica and Mr. MacLean, then adjusted his grip on the ropes. “Are you still coming to visit us tonight, once you finish... working?”

  “Yes,” Florence said. “She’s plaiting my hair.”

  “Plaiting mine first,” Esther corrected.

  “Of course I am,” Angelica agreed. “I’ve an appointment to plait hair.”

  Her brother touched his hat. “We’ll discuss things then.”

  He pulled the sleds down the hill.

  Angelica’s heart pounded. She felt more in over her head than ever.

  Mr. MacLean’s expression was unreadable. “Shall I leave you to your work?”

  That was like him, too. Asking, rather than assuming.

  Even before Luther had stuck his nose into her business, if she’d told Mr. MacLean never to speak to her again, Angelica had no doubt he would have respected her wishes. She let him keep coming back because she wanted him to be there.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’ve a pie waiting for us.”

  “I would never be disrespectful to a pie,” he replied solemnly.

  Or her, she realized. He had neither agreed to nor declined the Sunday invitation. He would want to choose the path that would please her most, which would have been impossible to determine with all the silent accusations and recriminations flying between Angelica and her brother.

  She owed Mr. MacLean an explanation.

  But first, pie.

  When the last crumbs were gone, she took the soiled dishes straight to the sink to collect her thoughts for a moment. Her house was as tidy as she could keep it, but her familial relations...

  She pulled a stool over to Mr. MacLean’s side of the counter.

  “When the sale and purchase of humans became illegal in Britain, all existing slaves weren’t magically set free. My grandfather was lucky. The man who’d owned him was last of his line, and freed my grandfather in his will. He didn’t just gain his freedom, but the contents of the shop he’d been working in all his life as well. Of course, it wasn’t easy. He moved everything to Spitalfields, and built up a new business, with new clientele. Our people.”

  Mr. MacLean listened quietly.

  “Our community supports each other however we can. I was expected to help with womanly duties, and marry a nice, church-going man from the neighborhood. Luther was expected to help my father and to eventually take over the shop.”

  “Whether he had aptitude or not?” Mr. MacLean asked. He shook his head. “Or rather, whether your brother wished to or not.”

  Angelica stared at him. She had been so bitter for so long that Luther had had the family shop handed to him, that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if he’d ever wanted it. Her father’s will had been unquestionably unfair to Angelica, and perhaps just as unfair to her brother.

  Inheriting responsibility for the shop was an emotional life sentence to a craft that had never brought him joy.

  “He’s good at it,” she said, though that didn’t make it better.

  “The best, according to his daughters.” Mr. MacLean widened his eyes innocently. “He told them so himself.”

  Her mouth twitched. “He can keep dreaming.”

  But the fire had gone out from her. She and Luther had wasted so many years being jealous of each other when the truth was, they had far more similarities than differences.

  Perhaps Luther wasn’t angry she’d “abandoned” him. Perha
ps he was bitter she’d gone after what she wanted, when he’d never had the opportunity to do the same.

  Without Angelica or their father, Luther would have had to fend for himself. Trial by fire. He brought her a trinket every Christmas, and every time the workmanship had markedly improved.

  He was talented. He’d been forced to become so.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. MacLean said. “I informed them you were one of the best in England.”

  She arched her brows. “Did Luther’s mind explode?”

  He nodded. “Top hat popped right off.”

  “I hope the girls weren’t upset.”

  He shook his head. “Too busy eating biscuits.”

  She slid her hands over his. “I’m sorry you had to meet my brother like that.”

  He rubbed his thumbs over her palms. “We got on well enough until he realized I get on with you. He was probably afraid I was taking liberties.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I like how you take liberties.”

  “Is that so? Then perhaps I needn’t take them,” he said. “If you want me to have any more liberties, you’ll have to give them to me yourself.”

  “Watch me.” She pressed her lips to his.

  This kiss was different than the one before. Mr. MacLean was hesitant, unsure of his welcome. Angelica was determined to clear up any misunderstanding.

  Just because he wouldn’t stay was no reason not to enjoy a kiss or two whilst he was here. If anything, it made things easier. She had avoided men’s company because she wasn’t ready to be someone’s wife.

  But Mr. MacLean wasn’t looking for marriage. He was not disappointed in her for indulging ambition. He understood. He would do the same. More importantly, he was the sort of person that would support her decision no matter what it was, just because it was her decision to make.

  What could be more attractive than that?

  She broke the kiss, but only moved far enough to look into his eyes.

  “Miss Parker—”

  “Angelica,” she corrected.

  He grinned. “Jonathan.”

  The next kiss was even sweeter.

  She loved the way he cupped her face with the same gentle tenderness as when he first touched her hand. As though she were precious. She didn’t think he expected more from her than kisses, but...

  She broke the kiss again. “I’m not looking for a husband.”

  “I understand.”

  Did he? “I won’t make love unless I’m married.”

  She had told him so before, but the terms bore repeating.

  He nodded. “The chain of events is clear.”

  “And you still want to kiss me?”

  “I’ll never stop wanting to.”

  “It’s only until the snow melts,” she said. First-naming each other changed nothing. “When your business partner arrives...”

  “I’ll be too busy to think of anything but Fit for a Duke,” he finished firmly. “And then I’ll be gone. You’re not the only one with big plans.”

  No. But Angelica was the one who suddenly wished their big plans didn’t conflict. That he could stay. That she would have time for him if he did. That they could find an excuse for this to last longer than a fortnight.

  That goodbye didn’t have to be final.

  He kissed her cheek rather than her lips. “Off to work, then. No more throwing your heaving bosom into my embrace until dinnertime.”

  “My heaving bosom is now a respectable distance from your waistcoat,” she pointed out primly.

  His eyes twinkled. “Aye, so you admit your bosom was heaving.”

  She smacked his shoulder before slipping around to the other side of the counter. Her lips couldn’t stop smiling. He was incorrigible.

  “Are you going to read or sketch today whilst I work?”

  “I thought I’d share a wee bit o’ Scotland.” He held up a book and made a show of clearing his throat. “Robert Burns, Address to a Haggis.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “You’re lucky I don’t actually listen to you.”

  But the truth was, she’d listen to him read anything. She loved the low, smooth timbre of his voice, the soft burr on his tongue.

  “I almost forgot,” she said as she set a string of paste rubies into the holly. “I thought of jewelry you could offer with Fit for a Duke.”

  The ode to haggis ceased abruptly. “Something better than a cravat pin?”

  “A lover’s locket.” They were often beautiful gold capsules with a secret frame inside, bearing a tiny portrait of a loved one’s eye. The locket could be worn as a brooch, or hung from a necklace next to one’s heart.

  She glanced up in time to see his jaw fall open with enthusiasm.

  “That’s brilliant,” he breathed, abandoning Robert Burns to come and sit across from her. “Lover’s lockets are all the rage, and can be fashioned in so many styles. Wheat, plumage, Greek...”

  “Mosaic, cameo, intaglio...” At his blank look, she explained, “Designed with recessed engravings.” She held up the adornment she was working on. “Like the texture of these leaves.”

  Jonathan pulled his notebook from his inner pocket and began madly scribbling notes. “They won’t come with their lover’s portrait inside, of course.”

  “Or the wisp of their lover’s hair,” she added with a grin. “But it could be designed in such a way that all your client need do is slip the lock of hair and partial portrait in place, and voilà. He can keep his lover hidden next to his heart.”

  “That’s what we’ll call it! ‘The Duke’s Secret.’ Everyone will be clamoring for a locket of their own.” His eyes shone with excitement. He could barely sit still. “When can you start?”

  “When... what?” she stammered.

  “Just a prototype,” he said quickly. “Not thousands of them for all of England. I just need one to show Calvin and Nottingvale. If you’re the one who designs it, they’ll see the genius at once. No one else will do.”

  His confidence in her was simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. He clearly believed in her, thought no one else would do it justice. She wasn’t interchangeable with any other jeweler. Genius, he’d called it.

  It was the most flattering thing anyone had ever said about her talent.

  But she had no time to add anything new to her already overworked days. She’d be lucky to plait her nieces’ hair and manage a few hours’ sleep before dawn came and she was in front of her worktable anew.

  “I have to finish the last adornment tonight,” she reminded him.

  “After the indoor tree ceremony,” he said. “I doubt the roads will be clear by then, even if it stops snowing tonight, which means we’ve plenty of time before Calvin and Nottingvale arrive.”

  “There’s no time.” She pointed at the unfinished piece on black velvet. “I’ve these pieces to finish as well, and...”

  And if she believed in Jonathan even a fraction of as much as he believed in her, his catalogue was about to be far more widely read than Noelle’s article in the Cressmouth Gazette.

  She did believe in him, Angelica realized. He had his own brand of genius. And his excitement was infectious.

  “I won’t do it for free,” she said. “If you want my work, you’ll have to pay for it.”

  “Obviously.” He didn’t even glance up from his notebook. “Name your price.”

  She had the odd sensation that there was no number she could name that he wouldn’t agree to out of hand. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She was more ambitious than a lump sum payment and a handshake goodbye.

  Instead of fighting their attraction, what if they worked together? Not temporarily, but for good?

  “Ten percent,” she said.

  His head shot up from the notebook. “What?”

  “Ten percent of the profit for every lover’s locket sold from my designs.”

  She held her breath. What if he said no?

  What if he said yes?

  If her family had no
t understood any of her past decisions, they definitely would not understand if she suddenly canceled Christmas while they were right down the road, so that she could shutter herself in her workroom, designing lockets for a company that did not yet exist. She would lose the minimal time she had with them now.

  But with ten percent of all future profits made from her designs, she would have more time to spend with her relatives, not less. She’d be able to visit them in London. Take them all on holiday wherever they wished. She could have the distinguished presence she’d been working toward as well as time to enjoy it.

  If Jonathan said yes.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Twelve.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “All right, fifteen,” he said. “But only on the lockets you design, and of course only if my partners agree to it.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “That means yes?”

  “They’ll be surprised,” he said slowly, “but I don’t see how they can deny the logic. Calvin shall receive a large percentage of the entire company’s earnings based on his fashion designs, so why shouldn’t you earn a portion of the profit we make off of yours? If they like your prototype, of course.”

  “They’ll adore my prototype. They’ll walk about with ten gold lockets strapped to their chests because they won’t be able to decide which design they like best,” she informed him.

  “In that case,” he said, “I suppose we’re a team.”

  A team. Her heart skipped.

  She hadn’t worked with someone else since she moved to Cressmouth seven years ago. By Jonathan’s own admission, this company was the first true partnership of his life.

  Their futures were now tied together.

  Chapter 9

  The Marlowe Castle annual Yuletide ball started in less than an hour. Angelica hadn’t moved for fifteen minutes.

  She stood in front of her wardrobe, willing it to contain something other than six identical day dresses, two identical church dresses, and one tired evening gown.

  Because she had spent most of the last seven years at her worktable, there had not been many appearances in ballrooms. Only during Yuletide, in fact, when her relatives came up from London.

  They teased Angelica relentlessly for her uninspired wardrobe. Even though Luther knew his sister preferred to use her brain only for important decisions, he still loved to intimate that perhaps Angelica really did only own two dresses, and always offered to buy her one more just to “liven” her up.