by Erica Ridley
She rolled out of bed to attend to her morning ablutions, then applied skin creams and arranged her hair without any of the usual haste. Her spirits were high. Today, the sweetmeats adorning the castle tree weren’t just for decoration—children would be allowed to retrieve the little bags and consume the treats inside.
Perhaps she could talk Jonathan into an entire day of pleasure-taking. Twelfth Night was to be performed in the amphitheatre this afternoon, then a tour of the castle grounds, followed by another assembly with music and dancing.
Her skin warmed at the memory of being in his arms. Waltzing together in the castle ballroom. Holding hands as they skated across the frozen pond. Her smile faltered. That conversation had been far less merry.
No wonder he hadn’t pressed her when she’d reiterated she would not lie with a man she wasn’t married to. Because of his mother, Jonathan likely felt the same way. He would not treat such an act casually.
Despite his attempts to appear flippant and carefree, she doubted there was much he did take lightly. Her heart ached at the thought that Christmas meant sorrow to him, instead of happiness. She wished she could bring him joy.
No—she wished he could find his own joy.
Cressmouth had welcomed Jonathan from the start. She doubted there was a single soul he hadn’t bowed to and won over with charm and the shameless allure of free biscuits.
Her relatives weren’t as easy to win, but spending the day with Jonathan had illustrated to them the sort of man he was. She was lucky to have a large, loving family. Her nieces and nephews would have no problem considering him an honorary uncle. He was the opposite of what Luther had imagined for his sister, but even he had grudgingly admitted Jonathan seemed all right.
It would all be perfect, except for two tiny details:
She loved him.
He was going to leave.
Angelica put the kettle on to give herself something to do with her hands. Jonathan had been frank about his temporariness from the moment they’d first met. She could not claim abandonment or betrayal.
At the time, it had been what she liked best about their arrangement: that it would end. She’d be through with him, she’d have finished her contract, and life would be a bright open road.
But it was Jonathan who would be moving on, not her. Out of sight, out of mind. How long would it take him to forget her? There was no sense admitting her heart had got tangled up. It wouldn’t make a difference. She had her future planned out, and so did he.
A knock sounded on the front door. Angelica set down her tea and all but ran to answer it.
Jonathan.
Her heart beat triple-time, despite all her best intentions. Just the sight of him brought a smile to her face and a lightness to her limbs.
Even if he was carrying a... What on earth was he carrying?
She shut the door behind him. “What—”
Jonathan swept into her parlor with a life-size wicker manikin in his arms. Before she could get out the whole question, he stood the manikin to one side and claimed her mouth with a kiss.
She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back, imbuing their embrace with the love she dare not admit to. Their first Christmas together would be their last.
When he finally broke their kiss, Jonathan made a dramatic gesture toward the wicker man.
“This,” he announced, “is Duke. I bought him from Calvin for ten quid.”
“You did?” she said faintly. “Why?”
He waved his fingers. “Calvin has others back home in his workshop. This one was created to the Duke of Nottingvale’s measurements so that all the prototypes would be ready to wear.”
“Fit for a Duke,” she said slowly. “A real duke.”
“The spit and image.” Jonathan patted the manikin’s wicker shoulder. “We won’t hold it against him.”
“But... why is it here?”
“Nottingvale agreed to everything! He’ll start printing the catalogues as soon as reasonable. He and Calvin will work out where to source materials for the apparel and who to employ for expedient production, and I will be off spreading the good word. I have news about your percentage, by the way.”
“They wouldn’t agree to fifteen percent?”
“You’ll have to make do with twenty. It was the best I could do.” He grinned at her.
Her heart skipped, then stuttered even faster.
“Duke is here to keep you company when I cannot,” he continued. “If you don’t like him, I’m told he can be excellent kindling for one’s fire. Very practical, this beast.”
“When you... cannot?” she stammered. “Does that mean you’ll be back sometime?”
“What if I said many times?” His gaze held hers. “Would that be all right?”
Her breath caught. “I... You...”
“I’ll primarily be traveling,” he warned. “Perhaps fifty weeks out of the year. But Nottingvale has made the very good point that people are otherwise engaged over the Yuletide, and should not be harassed by nagging salesmen decked in extremely fashionable ensembles. Which would give me a fortnight to spend with you.”
Her exhilaration faded.
“You want to spend every Christmas with me,” she said warily, “and only Christmas?”
“I’m willing to spend Christmas here,” he corrected. “And only Christmas. But the rest of the time, you can travel with me! The factory will produce all the lockets based on your designs. You won’t need to lift a finger. Now that you’re not anchored to this village anymore, there’s no reason to be in it at all!”
She gaped at him. He surely couldn’t mean…
“No reason,” she repeated carefully, “except the fact that I’ve dedicated seven years of my life to becoming part of a community, establishing my reputation, and making my store a stop worth seeing on every tourist’s visit to Cressmouth. I sacrificed precious years with my family because I want this. I am a jeweler. I like my work. My shop is finally mine, and you want me to give it up for... grueling hackney rides around England?”
“Not all of the time,” he said, as though she weren’t quite catching on. “I assumed you’d want to be here sometimes, which is why I brought Duke to accompany you when I cannot. Och, I forgot the most important bit. I’m not asking you to live in sin with an itinerant salesman. I’m asking you to be my wife.”
She stared at him. “You’re asking me to accept a model replica of my neighbor instead of a flesh-and-blood husband?”
“I said—” The words came out with exaggerated patience. “—that you could come with me. It cannot be my fault if you choose to stay here.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re not proposing marriage. You’re proposing I give up everything I worked for and everyone I love, or live without my husband.”
“I’d come for Christmases,” he reminded her.
“That sounds reasonable to you?” she blurted out. “I don’t want a husband for only twelve days of the year. That’s not a wife; it’s a holiday. I’m worth more.”
“I’m trying to give you what you’re worth. The only way I can provide for you is to—”
“I didn’t ask you to provide for me. I provide for me. When I marry, it will be to a man, not to a coin purse.” She crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands. “Your excuse is hogwash anyway. If the only thing missing from our union was money, don’t you have a bank account that could solve your troubles?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not spending the laird’s blood money on me. I’ll earn my way on my own or not at all. I have my own account, with coin I’ve earned. My life shall be a success in spite of my father, not because of him.”
“Then you’ve given it all away? Every farthing from the trust?”
He sighed. “Barely a dent, no matter how hard I try. It keeps earning interest.”
“So, you could have a home, and choose not to. You could pay someone else to travel about England delivering catalogues. You could probably
employ a team to deliver in every shire.”
“I told you,” he said. “My success shall come from my efforts to stand out, not the money my father spent to hide me away. I’d sooner live under a bridge than accept gold as a substitute for a father.”
“But you expect me to accept a wicker manikin instead of a husband?” Her laugh felt like broken glass. “Goodbye, Jonathan. Marriage means making a home, not providing a posting house. If you’re just passing through... Do us both a favor, and stay gone.”
Chapter 13
Jonathan had never looked forward to Christmas Day, and this one was already miserable. The house was positively brimming with revelers.
They’d started the night before—carols and puddings and charades and spiced wine. After being up all night making merry, they somehow managed to be merry all over again. He’d lost count of the number of people who’d knocked on his door offering well-wishes or invitations to join them for roast goose or rousing parlor games.
Jonathan was not going in that parlor.
There was mistletoe in there.
Last night, the only woman he had any desire to kiss had brushed him off as efficiently as a maid sweeping unwanted debris from the front step.
Stay gone, she’d said. Would that he could!
But it was the wretched day known as Christmas, in a tiny village also known as Christmas, which meant there wasn’t a single hack to be had. He could get a sleigh ride to the castle if he wanted to nauseate himself with even more music and dancing, but not a single soul could be convinced to drag him far away at any price.
His head ached. So did his heart.
He should be grateful Angelica was clever enough to end things now, rather than wait until resentment ate them alive and the only ties binding them were for business. He should be glad. He should be relieved.
Besides, what ties would bind them? Angelica hadn’t seemed particularly tempted by any part of his offer. It was a douse of cold water. Jonathan had got used to being the hero. To coming along and saving the day.
But Angelica didn’t need saving.
Nor did she need him.
Jonathan glared out his window at the drifting snow. He would show her. As soon as he had the catalogues, he would hire a hack and journey to every corner of England until Fit for a Duke was more popular than fresh bread. She would earn fistfuls of money from his efforts. He wouldn’t stop until her name was on everyone’s lips. Until he finally proved himself worthy of her.
Once she was as rich as Croesus, well, then they could decide what to do, couldn’t they? His father’s bribe money wouldn’t matter anymore. Once Jonathan and Angelica both were independently wealthy on their own merits...
How long would that take? How much was enough? Even if he managed to earn it, would she still want him by then? Was staying out of her life the best plan?
A knock came on Jonathan’s door.
He ignored it.
The door swung open anyway.
Calvin strode inside and handed Jonathan a mug of steaming chocolate. “Happy Christmas.”
“Not you, too,” Jonathan muttered.
“The others are about to play a game of—”
“No.”
“Should I have brought Scotch whisky instead of chocolate?”
Jonathan sniffed the warm contents of the mug. It smelled delicious, damn it. Hot and sweet. The steam banished the chill from the air.
“I’ll suffer through,” he muttered.
Calvin eased onto the dressing-stool uninvited. “I thought you hated being stuck inside a room.”
“I do. There’s no hack to be had or I’d be gone.” Jonathan glared at him. “I don’t know how you can prefer to lock yourself in your house for months on end, sewing clothes.”
“I don’t know how you can prefer not to have a house,” Calvin countered, unruffled.
“What’s the point?” Jonathan crossed one boot over the other. “A house doesn’t make a home.”
“Are you an expert on the subject?” Calvin’s brows rose. “Tell me, what makes a home?”
Jonathan feigned deep interest in his chocolate rather than respond.
Very well, he wasn’t feigning. This was excellent chocolate.
“Home isn’t necessarily a building,” Calvin said, as though Jonathan were at all interested in conversing with him. “It can be a person. Home isn’t what holds you back. It’s the thing you hate to leave.”
“I like to travel.” Perhaps like wasn’t the right word. He was compelled to travel. It was a race, from the past to the future. “The world is big. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Maybe all you’re missing,” Calvin said, “is slowing down.”
Jonathan did his best to incinerate him with the force of his glare.
It might have worked better if he wasn’t peeking out over a mug of hot chocolate.
Calvin was unperturbed. He narrowed his eyes in consideration. “I would think being constantly on the move means you can never get close to anyone.”
“I wish you were far away,” Jonathan muttered.
“You can never enjoy your achievements because you’re always on the hunt for the next one,” Calvin continued. “You never rest, or take a moment for introspection.”
“I hate being alone with my thoughts,” Jonathan said. “That’s why I tell people to ask me anything. I’d rather think about their thoughts than mine.”
“I love being alone,” Calvin said.
Jonathan tilted his head. That was a strange argument.
“But I’ll like having a wife even better,” Calvin finished. He was recently betrothed.
“Humph.” Jonathan snorted. He wasn’t jealous.
He was very jealous.
If only the things he wanted weren’t mutually exclusive! He adored exploring new places and having adventures. But he did yearn for somewhere to call his home. Someone to miss him when he was gone. Someone to come home to.
No... not “someone” in general.
Angelica in specific.
He longed for her more than he’d ever longed for anything. With her, everything was better. He hadn’t minded being cooped up in a tiny jeweler’s shop. He’d looked forward to it. Rushed over at first light. Schemed how best to stay all day.
Just to have one more moment with her.
“I’ve seen how you spend money,” Calvin said hesitantly. “If you’re now in a tight spot, just let me know and I’ll—”
“Good God, no,” Jonathan interrupted.
When he had told Angelica his history, he hadn’t thought of it in the context of other people’s experiences, including her own. Jonathan was the son of a laird, boo-hoo. Jonathan’s father forced a very large amount of money upon him, boo-hoo.
Nobody could guess the circumstances of his birth by looking at him. Being the bastard of a laird made Jonathan rich, not poor. He was accepted into more places, not fewer. He was actively choosing not to utilize his many advantages.
How had she managed not to box his ears?
If he hated the money so much, he could give it all to charity. Or to abolitionists. Or to orphanages. Was it really such a cross to bear?
As female and Black, Angelica had dealt with far worse disadvantages, and she wasn’t spending her Christmas sobbing into a mug of hot chocolate. She was a clever, talented, joyful success, with a delightful, loving, joyful family. She had not one home, but two.
And he had asked her to give both up in favor of peddling waistcoats and fancy breeches.
All because of his father.
Jonathan had let his entire world be upset by one person discounting him. He glowered at his chocolate. Although he gave the trust money away, his actions bought the appreciation and approval his father had never given him.
The time had come to move on. The only person who should hold the reins of his life was himself.
“I’ve never found a place I felt I belonged to,” he admitted.
Calvin looked at him in disbel
ief. “Nowhere you’ve traveled through might possibly do? Have you considered that it might be up to you to make a place your home, rather than expect the place to do it for you?”
Jonathan did not dignify this excellent rejoinder with a reply.
The truth was, he’d been searching for belonging. From the moment of his conception, all the places he’d seen and all the people he’d met had let him leave without complaint. He wanted someone to stop him.
It had never happened.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Calvin said. “Turn it around.”
Jonathan scowled at him. What an absolutely insufferable prig.
Who might be right.
Maybe Angelica didn’t want to have to ask Jonathan to stay. Maybe she wanted him to want to.
To choose her.
Instead, Jonathan’s grand plan had been... to leave her behind. To expect coin to be enough, just like his father had done to Jonathan and his mother.
“Ah,” said Calvin. “You’re wearing an I’ve-been-an-idiot expression. A common affliction among those who are the root of their own problems.”
“I’ve walked away from the only place that felt like home,” Jonathan admitted. “The only person that felt like home.”
“‘Idiot’ may not be strong enough of a word.” Calvin’s expression was sympathetic. “I know what that feels like.”
Jonathan took a shaky breath. “The idea of needing one particular, irreplaceable person is terrifying.”
“And when people are frightened,” Calvin said, “they run away.”
Scots don’t run, Jonathan had told Angelica. And then did the opposite.
“I love her,” he said. “I love her so much I can’t tell if I’m coming or going.”
“You should decide,” Calvin suggested. “I feel that’s the crux of the matter.”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “What if I don’t spend every moment of the next year hawking our catalogues from door to door?”
“I hope you realize,” said Calvin, “I will not be spending every moment of even the next month sewing on buttons or devising new ways to fold neckcloths. We’re all allowed time to ourselves. You just have to decide what you want to do with yours.”
