One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,26

her ribs. The long, billowing pink skirts that merely hinted at the ample curves beneath. He could scarcely look at her without his heart thumping wildly.

Jonathan must have stopped reading aloud. Miss Parker wasn’t looking at the beautiful piece she was crafting in her hands, but rather across the counter at him.

He should have moved the stool much farther than an arm’s length away. If he put down the book and moved his hand a little to the right, and if she moved hers a little to his left, their fingers would touch.

It shouldn’t feel salacious. He touched her fingers twice a day now, to massage the tension from her hands. He longed to continue his exploratory path up her palms, past her wrists, to the tender skin on the inside of her forearms. He wanted to feel her cheek in his hand, her bodice pressed against him, her curves beneath his palms.

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