One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,29

biscuits.”

“Share them,” their father intoned with faux sternness. “With your cousins.”

“Nooo,” they cried, jumping up and down. “Just one more! Just two more!”

“Thank you,” said their father to Jonathan. “Happy Christmas to you.”

That was enough to make Jonathan’s smile fall. Despite the snow, he’d forgotten for a moment where they were, and what time of the year it was.

“A happy Christmas to you, too.” He turned toward Miss Parker’s shop.

“Off to buy some jewelry, are you?” said the man.

“No,” Jonathan said without thinking. “Off to share a pie with... a friend.”

The girls stopped fighting over the biscuits. They and their father stared at Jonathan as though he’d turned into a hobgoblin.

“You’re going to share a pie with my sister?” the man asked, his tone dangerous.

Oh, dear. Jonathan froze in place. Now that he said so, the family resemblance was clear. So was Mr. Parker’s obvious anger. Was it too late for Jonathan to pretend he was the baker’s delivery man?

“Aunt doesn’t allow friends and family in her shop,” said the first girl.

“Only customers,” agreed the second.

The man swept his cold gaze over him. “If she lets you loiter, she should let me in. At least I’m an expert.”

Jonathan matched his frosty tone. “She should do whatever she likes. It’s her shop. Her rules.”

The man snorted, as if Jonathan had made a jest. “You sound just like her. She acts as though this little shop—”

“Whatever she’s said about the shop, she’s underselling it,” Jonathan cut in. “Your sister is extraordinarily talented, and more than deserving of both respect and proper accolades. She may be one of the most skilled jewelers in England.”

“Papa is the most skilled,” said the first little girl.

“Papa told us so,” agreed the second.

Brilliant. No wonder Miss Parker didn’t allow her brother inside.

Chapter 8

Angelica faced away from the counter and touched her fingers to her mouth. Mr. MacLean had kissed each of her ten fingers, one by one, before attending to her mouth just as thoroughly.

She shouldn’t have let him do it.

She shouldn’t have let him stop.

He’d come to his senses faster than she had, and run off in a manner that would be comical... if she didn’t feel his absence all the way to her bones. The air was colder without him.

What would it be like when he left for good?

Her fingers curled into a fist and she sank her teeth into a knuckle. She did not wish to think about him leaving. She didn’t wish to think about him at all. She was busy. There was no time for romantical entanglements.

Yes, they got along uncomfortably well, and yes, he had started to feel like part of her town, but the latter, at least, was an illusion. He was part of every town for a few days, and then he moved on. He would move on from here as well. He had been forthright about his intentions. Though she appreciated his frankness, the warning was unnecessary.

Angelica was long used to locking away inconsequential desires in order to concentrate on what mattered most: her work. The Christmastide adornments she’d been commissioned to create, the sundry jewelry pieces that were next on the list.

She turned back to face her counter just as the bell tinkled over the door.

It wasn’t a customer. It was Mr. MacLean. He had rushed out into the cold without a hat or coat like a damn fool, yet his ruffled hair and wind-reddened face didn’t make him any less attractive.

She pretended it was the meal in his hands and not the man himself that awakened a hunger in her belly.

To hide her own strangely flushed cheeks, she busied herself arranging plates and silverware on their usual dining corner of the counter.

“No wine for me,” she said firmly. “I’m finishing the last of the adornments today. The ball is tomorrow.”

He set the pie on the counter next to the plates. Rather than take his seat on the wooden stool, he glanced over her shoulder at the clock behind her and winced.

She arched a brow. “Have you got somewhere to be?”

“I hoped not,” he said. “But I think your brother is waiting for me to reappear, to settle our argument.”

The fork in Angelica’s hand clattered to the oak counter. “My who? Your what?”

Mr. MacLean shrugged into his coat. “I told him not to worry; I’m not trying to steal his sister. Let me see what he wants.”

No way was she leaving the two of them alone.

Angelica hurried to swing open the counter’s hinged access panel, but by