by Erica Ridley
Unsurprising. Silkridge hadn’t spent any significant amount of time here since he was a child. During his most recent visit—five years ago—he had spent a fortnight almost exclusively in Noelle’s company. At first, they had thought their friendship was deepening. During a long moonlit stroll, they’d discovered the connection between them was so much more. That perfect, magical night had culminated with their mouths meeting in a kiss. Of course, he would remember such a moment.
It was unforgettable.
“I suppose this party is in Grandfather’s honor?” Silkridge gestured at the long buffet piled with refreshments.
“Not at all,” she said, infusing her voice with even higher spirits than normal. “You’re looking at the spirit of Christmas. The castle offers libations to weary travelers year-round.”
He stared at her. “Biscuits are not the spirit of Christmas.”
“How would you know, when you don’t have any?” she asked.
His blue eyes narrowed. “Biscuits or Christmas spirit?”
“You appear to be sadly in want of both.” She took a sip of the spiced wine. Its warmth was just what she needed. It tasted like home. “The castle’s kitchen boasts the finest cooks in the region. These biscuits have no equal, and the rest of the meals are every bit as sumptuous. You will not easily find more accommodating footmen or a more thoughtful and efficient maid staff. This is the spirit of Christmas.”
His skepticism was obvious. “Cressmouth barely holds a thousand souls. Where would Grandfather even find such a quantity to employ?”
“You said it yourself. Right here in town. Most of us worked either for your grandfather or for the castle in some capacity.”
He looked at her sharply. “You work?”
Noelle raised her cup to her mouth. She had not meant to give him any personal details about herself at all.
Especially not information that highlighted the unbridgeable distance between them. To those of his class, “work” was a filthy word fit only for commoners. But here in Cressmouth, work was something everyone did together, making each day even better than the last.
“Noelle,” came a breathless voice from just behind her. “Have you seen the duke?”
Silkridge stiffened in affront, no doubt because he was standing within arm’s reach of both Noelle and the speaker.
“Not you,” she murmured under her breath, then turned to her bosom friend Virginia. “Have you checked the amphitheater? They are setting up for The Winter’s Tale, and you know how he loves those props.”
“You are brilliant,” Virginia gushed. “Of course that is where he must be.”
She dashed off before Noelle could introduce her to Silkridge. Not that Noelle had any particular wish to ingratiate the duke with her friends. Besides, he would be gone on the morrow. He wasn’t here to make friends.
Nonetheless, she performed the niceties. “That was Miss Virginia Underwood. It is a wonder robins and bluebirds don’t follow her about, singing on her shoulders. She is one of the kindest and sweetest people in all of Christmas.”
He frowned. “She mentioned a duke?”
“You are not the only one,” Noelle said. Her attention was caught by another familiar face.
“Noelle, you’ve outdone yourself.” Angelica Parker lifted a china tea plate towering with biscuits. “I could subsist on the cinnamon ones for the rest of my life.”
Silkridge choked in disbelief. “Miss Pratchett is the castle cook?”
Angelica laughed. “Even better. She is the grand architect that made these biscuits possible. Without her, one might as well be greeted with gruel.”
“Grand architect?” The duke blinked in confusion. “What is that supposed to mean?”
But Angelica was already gone, and Noelle didn’t feel like explaining. The less he knew about her life, the better. The lives of her friends were a much safer topic.
“Miss Parker has the steadiest hand and keenest eye in all of Christmas. I once saw her create an intricate, jewel-encrusted tiara fit for royalty. You should see it.”
He lifted his brows. “I find that jewel-encrusted tiaras tend to unseat one’s top hat.”
No. She would not find him amusing. That path only led to heartbreak.
“There you are,” came another familiar voice. This one belonged to Olive Harper. “Azureford won’t stop pestering me about my stallions.”
“Azureford the duke?” Silkridge said in obvious incredulity. “The Duke of Azureford?”
“I told you,” Noelle reminded him. “You’re not the only duke in Christmas.”
She turned to her friend. “You need an auction, of course. Don’t allow him to be the only bidder.”
Olive pulled a face. “I haven’t time to plan an auction. The stable roof needs to be patched and one of my broodmares is looking breach—”
“I’ll organize it,” Noelle said immediately. “You take care of your horses and I will take care of the auction.”
“Noelle, would you? I shall owe you any favor you wish.” Olive squeezed her hand and then dashed toward the door.
A frown marred Silkridge’s ducal brow. Either Christmas familial informality or talk of a breach broodmare had met with his disapproval.
He cocked an eyebrow in Noelle’s direction. “Do you allow everyone in town to address you by your Christian name?”
“Not everyone,” she said sweetly. “You may call me Miss Pratchett.”
A muscle worked in his temple.
“That was a dear friend of mine,” she continued as if his question had never been spoken. “Miss Harper has a quick mind, an enormous heart, and one of the most sought-after stud farms in all of England. She is a fascinating woman and a wonderful person.”
Silkridge seemed amused by this explanation. “You make it sound like everyone in Cressmouth is a fine soul and perfect neighbor.”
“Possibly because everyone in Cressmouth is a fine soul and perfect neighbor,” Noelle agreed. She arched her eyebrows right back at him. “That is, almost everyone.”
She knew she was being prickly. But sometimes the only way to protect oneself was to keep a safe distance from those who could inflict hurt.
Unfortunately, she was no longer certain such a distance existed between her and Silkridge. His presence on the same mountaintop was more than enough to send her heart racing.
“Will you be attending the reading of Grandfather’s last will and testament?” he inquired.
“Most of the town will be attending,” she said noncommittally. “Your grandfather meant everything to Christmas.”
“He’s gone.” The duke’s expression shuttered. “You can stop calling it ‘Christmas.’”
“Mr. Marlowe was the town’s savior, not its dictator,” she snapped. “He didn’t just rename us. He gave us Christmas every day.”
Noelle could swear the duke muttered humbug under his breath.
“Then I suppose I will see you tomorrow?” he asked aloud.
Not if she saw him first seemed a churlish reply.
“I expect the castle to be packed with people,” she said instead. “There will be refreshments after, of course.”
He shook his head. “Not for me. By then I’ll be on my way back to London.”
Of course he would. Their hours were already numbered.
Her lips tightened. She should not even be speaking to him. Having him at arm’s reach, knowing his presence was only temporary, dredged up all the old feelings, the hackles, the shields. This was not a reunion. It was a brief, chance encounter between former acquaintances who had once shared an equally brief kiss.
If he would not stay for her before, the promise of a refreshment table clearly would not be enough to tempt him.
She doubted anything could.
“Enjoy being home,” she said. “Christmas hasn’t been the same without you.”
It had been better. Safer.
She straightened her spine. From now until his departure from town, she would endeavor
to avoid him completely. Seeing him ripped open a scar she had believed long healed.
“Cressmouth is not home,” the duke growled. “And don’t call it—”
“Happy Christmas!” she chirped as sunnily as possible, then turned her back and walked away with her head held high.
Chapter 3
The warm fire crackling in the hearth of Noelle’s bedchamber kept the chill of winter safely on the other side of her frosted window panes.
But not even a merry fire could keep her constant thoughts of Silkridge at bay.
Until he had stepped foot inside the castle last night, Noelle had been perfectly content. Zero arrogant London gentlemen in her life appeared to be the ideal number. The sooner he was gone, the better.
This morning, she dressed with extra care. Not because she had any wish to cast a favorable impression upon Silkridge, but because she wished to achieve the opposite effect. They were not compatible in any way. She couldn’t trace her parentage back one generation, let alone ten. He believed her a country hick living in some forgotten town? She would prove she didn’t need him or pretentious London finery to be happy.
She left her gowns and her riding habits and her dashing walking dresses in the back of her armoire and cloaked herself in an old day dress four years out of fashion. The last time he had been in town, she had worn all her best garments. They had gone riding, taken long walks… she had even hoped for a dance at the upcoming assembly.
It hadn’t come. He had left. She wanted no reminders of the foolish girl she had once been.
She adjusted her dowdy gown before the looking-glass. Her neighbors would not judge her for it. Cressmouth’s townsfolk cared more about a person’s interior than her exterior.
Noelle’s shoulders curved. When it came to her, it was quite possible Silkridge wouldn’t notice either aspect. She had spent more time trying not to appear as though she’d been obsessing about him, than he had thought of her in five long years.
Disgusted with herself for allowing his presence to affect her thoughts and actions even for a moment, she spun away from her looking-glass and crossed her bedchamber toward the corridor.
She paused with her fingers above the handle, gripped in sudden terror. The duke’s guest chamber might be near hers. He could be right outside in the corridor.
The topmost floor on the north wing of the castle was reserved for family. Noelle had earned such a prestigious spot in exchange for her work in the counting house. Silkridge was guaranteed a place due to being born in the right lineage.
If he was standing on the other side of the door, she might be forced to continue on in his company. After all, they were heading to the same place.
Well, wasn’t that what her costume was for? She was nothing like his London ladies and had no wish to be. So much the better if he found her forgettable. She was doing her damnedest to scrape him from her mind as well. No—she was succeeding. Starting right now.
The only gentlemen who interested her were locals who loved Cressmouth just as much as she did. The Duke of Silkridge simply did not signify.
She wrenched open the door and strode out into the hall.
The only movement was far ahead where a familiar face in a pale indigo gown headed toward the marble stair.
Noelle hurried to catch up.
“Good morning,” she said with genuine warmth as she reached Virginia’s side. “Did you find your duke?”
“Indeed I did, the incorrigible scamp,” Virginia replied with a smile. “Do you ever wish you had been born a bird so that you could soar over Cressmouth and gaze down upon its beauty from high above the rooftops?”
“I must confess the idea had not occurred to me.” Noelle fell into step beside her dear friend. Virginia often spoke as if she were in the midst of a half-remembered dream. She was as likely to look for answers in the palm of one’s hands than in the pages of a book.
“Can you believe he’s gone?” Virginia asked.
Noelle shook her head. Mr. Marlowe had been the heart and soul of Cressmouth. “The town won’t be the same without our leader.”
Virginia’s voice grew distant. “We are all leaders. Each sparrow takes its turn against the winds in order to guide and protect the others.”
That… was an extremely Virginia thing to say. Her frequent aphorisms were one of the many reasons Mr. Marlowe had employed her as his personal advisor. Virginia’s methods might be odd, but she was indisputably clever.
Noelle plucked a black cat hair from her friends puffed sleeve. “Did you see the other duke?”
Virginia’s quick eyes locked on hers. “Your duke?”
“Not my duke,” Noelle said quickly. “He belongs to London.”
“He belongs to England, and England is part of us all,” Virginia amended, her tone pensive.
Usually, Virginia’s unusual perspective brought nothing but good cheer. Today, however, her words made Noelle’s heart hurt. She was uncertain what was more upsetting, the idea that Silkridge still belonged to her a little, or that he belonged to everyone else just as much.
“Do you know where they put him?” she asked quietly. “Is he here in this wing?”
Virginia shook her head. “He was placed on the wrong floor. The maid who arranged a guest chamber for him did not realize he already had a dedicated room somewhere on this wing.”
The last door on the left, to be precise.
Noelle wished she did not remember how she had thrown herself into his path time and time again all those years ago. Her cheeks heated in mortification. She would never again allow herself to behave so rashly.
“Was he upset?” she asked.
“Is a possum upset when it rains?” Virginia answered, trailing her fingers lightly on the balustrade as they descended the stairs.
Noelle blinked. “I have no idea.”
“Neither do I,” Virginia mused. “I should pay more attention.”
“Watch your step,” Noelle cautioned her. “Pay attention to the stairs.”
“It doesn’t matter if the maid’s mistake upset Silkridge,” Virginia decided.
That was an unusual sentiment. Noelle raised her brows. “Because he turned his back on the town and never returned?”
“Because it’s already morning, and too late to undo. We may be deeply embarrassed for the castle staff to have treated Mr. Marlowe’s grandson like an ordinary guest, but he will be gone in a few hours and no doubt has already put the incident out of his mind.”
The only thing Noelle was deeply embarrassed about was the probability that Virginia was right.
Silkridge had put Noelle and the entire town out of his mind easily enough once before. It would take him no time at all to do so again. Her stomach twisted. She tried to shake off her disillusionment.
There was no reason for her heart to feel clutched in ice at the idea of being forgotten again within the week. She knew his inevitable dismissal was coming. That was why she needed to avoid him at all costs. It would not feel as though he were abandoning her a second time if she was the one who kept him at bay.
He wanted to be gone. She wanted him gone. For once, they were in agreement.
“Silkridge looked quite dashing yesterday,” Virginia said. “Didn’t you think he cut a fine figure?”
“I didn’t notice,” Noelle said quickly. She could recall every stitch, every smirk, every anti-Christmas comment from memory. And she had done so all night long.
“It was the top hat,” Virginia decided. “The way it was so perfect, sooty black with a dusting of snow upon the rim, set at just the right rakish angle. Or perhaps it was his cravat. Have you ever seen a knot so intricate? Both elements drew the eye to his face, which I must say is no hardship to gaze upon. Eyes as blue as a great crown crane, cheekbones as—”
“Enough!” Noelle blurted. “I saw him. Fancy ascot. Attractive birdlike eyes. Please don’t keep describing him to me.”
Virginia narrowed her eyes in consideration. “The two of you would make
a striking pair, don’t you think?”
“We wouldn’t even make it through an afternoon,” Noelle said flatly. “He is the last man I’d choose. When I marry, it will be someone who respects me, my town, and everything I love.”
“Interesting,” Virginia said as if Noelle had helped her to solve a great mystery.
“Interesting that I want a husband who loves and respects me?” she asked dryly.
Virginia’s brows arched. “Interesting that when I mention Silkridge, your first thought is marriage.”
“He is the embodiment of everything I do not want,” Noelle enunciated firmly.
She was in no danger of falling in love with him. Silkridge had not only left her, he had abandoned his own grandfather. That behavior spoke volumes. Noelle rather hoped the duke had been written out of the will completely.
“He hates Christmas,” she said. “He’s impossible.”
“Does he hate Christmas or Cressmouth?” Virginia asked.
“Same thing,” Noelle answered.
Rejecting Christmas meant rejecting Cressmouth. Rejecting Noelle. She was as much a part of this town and everything it stood for as the mountain breeze that blew through it.
Virginia lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps he has changed.”
“He has not,” Noelle said. Last night had proven as much. His position on Cressmouth had been clear. “Nor has he given any sign of wishing to bend on the matter.”
“Sometimes rigid is good.” Virginia’s lips curved wickedly.
Noelle slanted her a warning look. “Do not even suggest—”
Virginia blinked innocently. “That nature always finds a way? The woodpecker relies on a beak as hard as stone in order to seek sustenance. Dukes are not so different.”
Whatever Virginia meant, Noelle disagreed. Silkridge wasn’t seeking anything here, sustenance or otherwise. That was the problem.
She pushed him out of her mind as they reached the bottom of the stair. A queue had formed downstairs in the main corridor. They were early. The doors had not yet been opened to allow in those called for the reading of the will.
