One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,30

the time she was on the other side, Mr. MacLean was already out through the door.

She hesitated with her hand on the cold brass handle.

Luther was there, square jaw tilted stubbornly, the edges of two frayed ropes poking up from his gloved fists.

The ropes led to two wooden sleds, upon which her nieces Florence and Esther were happily consuming an exorbitant quantity of biscuits.

Had she thought to avoid potential trouble by not introducing Mr. MacLean to her relatives? Ha. She’d forgotten just how small this village was. Cressmouth had a single street leading in or out. All of the businesses were on it. And Mr. MacLean introduced himself to everyone.

Angelica had wondered what he and her family would make of each other? Well, she was about to find out.

She pulled on her coat and rushed outside into wisps of snow.

“You allow this… Scot to loiter in your shop?” Luther demanded.

Angelica understood her brother’s suspicion and confusion. She wouldn’t have believed it herself just a couple weeks earlier.

For now, she settled on a simple, “Yes.”

“I’m your brother,” Luther sputtered. “We lived together, learnt the trade together, worked side-by-side our whole lives... until you decided to abandon the family and move to the north of England to please some eccentric rich man rather than your own mama. But I never believed you’d prefer some... aristocratic nob over your own blood.”

“Want a biscuit, Aunt Angelica?” Florence asked.

“Not now, darling,” she murmured.

Angelica had known her relatives did not understand her. They’d come to accept her decision, even to enjoy its peripheral fruits, but there was no hyperbole in her brother’s words when he said the family believed she had abandoned them.

Luther, specifically, felt hurt and slighted. They had not just grown up together. After their father died, Luther became the man of the house. Their aunts were respected elders, but Luther was the one who owned their home, their shop.

He was the important sibling.

Angelica was the little sister. The one her father had taught his craft to, not because he had intended to, but because she never left her elder brother’s shadow.

She’d learned despite them, not because of them.

The first falling-out between her and her brother was the day their father had said, “No, Luther! Look how Angelica’s accomplished it.”

The worst falling-out she’d had with her brother was the day their father pronounced Angelica the better jeweler... and said it didn’t matter. She was destined to be a wife, not an artisan. She inherited the talent, but Luther inherited the shop.

None of which was likely to ever be properly resolved. She and Luther had loved each other and been jealous of each other for far too long to change now.

Mr. MacLean’s omnipresent grin was absent from his usually cheerful face. Perhaps his perpetually sunny disposition wasn’t his true self, but rather his shield. Just like refusing to let people in was hers.

“I liked your biscuits,” said Florence.

Esther nodded, her mouth full. “Thank you for sharing them.”

“My pleasure,” Mr. MacLean murmured without meeting Angelica’s eyes.

Of course the biscuits were his. That was exactly how he was. He would have tried to make a good impression on her brother and her nieces without even knowing they were her family.

If anyone was making a bad impression, it was Angelica. That the two men had squared off like cockerels in a cockfight was their problem, but her refusal to blend the different parts of her life wasn’t making the situation any better.

She blinked. Did she now consider him part of her life? No. He was temporary. But something had to be done.

“It’s good you ran into each other,” she said. “I meant to introduce you.”

Miraculously, no lightning bolt struck her where she stood.

“This is Mr. MacLean, my... friend. He’s only passing through.”

“Jonathan MacLean, at your service.” He made an extravagant leg, fit for a king.

Florence and Esther exchanged impressed glances.

“And this is my brother Mr. Luther Parker, and his daughters Florence and Esther.”

Luther folded his arms over his chest. “Your friend, is he? I’m sure the rest of the family would just love to meet him. Why don’t you take him to church on Sunday? Uncle is giving a service at the castle.”

“Sunday?” she squeaked.

“Uncle’s Christmas service,” Florence piped up helpfully.

Esther pumped her hands in the air. “Everyone will be there!”

The gauntlet had been thrown.

“All right.” Angelica met her brother’s eyes. “If Mr. MacLean wishes to come to church, he’s welcome to join us.”

Luther looked as though a gentle snowflake could have knocked him down.

Angelica didn’t blame him.

If