One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,10

next village assembly? Page 23 has just the thing to win her heart and her hand!

In 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.”

“Mr. MacLean,” Horace said, then hesitated.

“Your visitor...” Morris added, then stopped.

Jonathan leaned forward eagerly. This was the most they’d spoken all morning. He would triple today’s vails for this alone. “Aye?”

“Your friend won’t be arriving,” Horace said in a rush. “Snow has fallen nonstop since nightfall, and the roads are impassable.”

“Won’t be arriving?”

“It’s a snowstorm,” Morris explained helpfully. “Ankle-high now, and knee-high by tomorrow. Every village for miles will be snowbound for at least a week, if not two.”

“A week?” Jonathan squeaked. “Maybe two?”

Stuck here? Without his business partner? Without the duke? Without a purpose?

“What about the party?” he said inanely.

Calvin had been horror-struck when the duke extended coveted invitations to them, but Jonathan had been conflicted. It combined three of his favorite things all at once: a new location, something to do, and new people to meet.

It also celebrated his least favorite thing: Christmas. He had planned to continue traveling instead.

“The party will start when the guests arrive,” Horace said apologetically.

“Which won’t be for a week, maybe two,” Morris repeated, in case Jonathan had somehow forgotten this element of the nightmare that was Cressmouth.

Small towns were perfectly fine when one could leave them in the morning. But being stuck in a tiny, snowbound Christmas village, of all disasters...

Jonathan needed a distraction.

Having something to concentrate on, an objective that required all his focus, was the one thing that kept him from thinking about all the things he tried so hard to forget. The last person he wanted to be alone with was himself.

“I’m going out,” he announced. “I need my hat and coat.”

“But the snow...” said Horace.

“Pah,” said Jonathan. “Since we’ve been standing here talking, two sleighs and five people in caps and muffs have gone past the window.”

“They’re locals,” Morris explained. “We’re used to the snow. You’re...”

Jonathan glared down at his fashionable limbs. “Dressed like a paper doll.”

Aye, he could see the problem. See it and discard it and carry on despite it.

All three of his traveling trunks overflowed with attire perfect for lounging about a ducal “cottage” or dancing attendance on pink-cheeked misses at assemblies, none of which he intended to do. Just because his boots were made