One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,31

she sat next to Mr. MacLean at Sunday service, she’d be laying claim to him in front of the entire village—and more importantly, in front of her entire family. If Luther had been surprised and confused, the looks on her aunts’ and cousins’ faces…

Fortunately, any apparent “claim” would be as transient as Mr. MacLean himself.

He was still leaving. Her relatives needn’t know they had become kissing friends.

Though they might suspect as much.

“Horses!” Esther squealed, tugging on the rope in her father’s gloved hand. “You promised!”

“Horses! Horses!” Florence chanted.

Luther bounced a final, skeptical look between Angelica and Mr. MacLean, then adjusted his grip on the ropes. “Are you still coming to visit us tonight, once you finish... working?”

“Yes,” Florence said. “She’s plaiting my hair.”

“Plaiting mine first,” Esther corrected.

“Of course I am,” Angelica agreed. “I’ve an appointment to plait hair.”

Her brother touched his hat. “We’ll discuss things then.”

He pulled the sleds down the hill.

Angelica’s heart pounded. She felt more in over her head than ever.

Mr. MacLean’s expression was unreadable. “Shall I leave you to your work?”

That was like him, too. Asking, rather than assuming.

Even before Luther had stuck his nose into her business, if she’d told Mr. MacLean never to speak to her again, Angelica had no doubt he would have respected her wishes. She let him keep coming back because she wanted him to be there.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’ve a pie waiting for us.”

“I would never be disrespectful to a pie,” he replied solemnly.

Or her, she realized. He had neither agreed to nor declined the Sunday invitation. He would want to choose the path that would please her most, which would have been impossible to determine with all the silent accusations and recriminations flying between Angelica and her brother.

She owed Mr. MacLean an explanation.

But first, pie.

When the last crumbs were gone, she took the soiled dishes straight to the sink to collect her thoughts for a moment. Her house was as tidy as she could keep it, but her familial relations...

She pulled a stool over to Mr. MacLean’s side of the counter.

“When the sale and purchase of humans became illegal in Britain, all existing slaves weren’t magically set free. My grandfather was lucky. The man who’d owned him was last of his line, and freed my grandfather in his will. He didn’t just gain his freedom, but the contents of the shop he’d been working in all his life as well. Of course, it wasn’t easy. He moved everything to Spitalfields, and built up a new business, with new clientele. Our people.”

Mr. MacLean listened quietly.

“Our community supports each other however we can. I was expected to help with womanly duties, and marry a nice, church-going man from the neighborhood. Luther was expected to help my father and to eventually take over the shop.”

“Whether he had aptitude or not?” Mr. MacLean asked. He shook his head. “Or rather, whether your brother wished to or not.”

Angelica stared at him. She had been so bitter for so long that Luther had had the family shop handed to him, that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if he’d ever wanted it. Her father’s will had been unquestionably unfair to Angelica, and perhaps just as unfair to her brother.

Inheriting responsibility for the shop was an emotional life sentence to a craft that had never brought him joy.

“He’s good at it,” she said, though that didn’t make it better.

“The best, according to his daughters.” Mr. MacLean widened his eyes innocently. “He told them so himself.”

Her mouth twitched. “He can keep dreaming.”

But the fire had gone out from her. She and Luther had wasted so many years being jealous of each other when the truth was, they had far more similarities than differences.

Perhaps Luther wasn’t angry she’d “abandoned” him. Perhaps he was bitter she’d gone after what she wanted, when he’d never had the opportunity to do the same.

Without Angelica or their father, Luther would have had to fend for himself. Trial by fire. He brought her a trinket every Christmas, and every time the workmanship had markedly improved.

He was talented. He’d been forced to become so.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. MacLean said. “I informed them you were one of the best in England.”

She arched her brows. “Did Luther’s mind explode?”

He nodded. “Top hat popped right off.”

“I hope the girls weren’t upset.”

He shook his head. “Too busy eating biscuits.”

She slid her hands over his. “I’m sorry you had to meet my brother like that.”

He rubbed his thumbs over her palms. “We got on well enough until he