One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,4

she was busier than was comfortable, but that was a good thing, a wonderful thing. She was blessed to have so much business. That her shop’s seasonal success kept her from the large, loud, loving Parker family reunion taking place two hundred yards up the road was a disappointment she’d simply have to weather.

There would be time for family, after. Time for Christmas, after. Time for Angelica, after.

Matching necklaces for the Cruz sisters were to be completed today, followed by several other commissioned pieces that needed to be hung in stockings before Christmas came a fortnight from now.

Angelica longed for the comforting chaos of the Parker clan. A few took turns staying home to mind the family jewelry shop, but the rest came every year. Knowing so many family members were here in Cressmouth, having a marvelous time in a guest suite with a gorgeous view on the fourth floor of the castle, a stone’s throw from her workshop, was both a comfort and torture.

Nothing rejuvenated her like her brother’s booming laugh, the smiles and chatter of her nieces and nephews, her aunts’ and cousins’ diverting commentary about the food served in the dining area and the dances in the castle ballroom.

They were making merry, at least. That was the important part. If it was difficult to think so in this small, silent, empty shop without her family’s laughter and noisy chatter surrounding her like a warm blanket, well, Angelica would simply have to keep going, like she always did.

As soon as she finished her work, she would join them. It might only be for an hour or two a night, but at least she would have them for a little while.

Perhaps this time when they returned home to London, they would be convinced of Angelica’s talent and potential. They would understand why she had come here to Cressmouth, why it was worth it, what she’d accomplished. Perhaps this time, they would be proud of her.

The tinkle of the bell broke her concentration. She glanced up from the necklace to find a well-dressed gentleman in her doorway, his tall form and broad shoulders blocking the late-afternoon light.

Swiftly, she folded the black velvet over the necklace and its accoutrements, and pasted a welcoming smile onto her face.

“May I help you?”

“Mayhap,” came a low, rich voice, with a droll undercurrent. “Probably not, to be honest, which is no reflection on you, but rather my own peculiarities.”

Scottish? The burr was not as strong as some she’d heard, but undeniably present. It felt like a tickle beneath her skin.

“But one never knows, does one?” he continued. “Walking through this door could spark the biggest adventure of my life. Which would say quite a lot, given the ones I’ve had so far. Or perhaps we’ve begun the greatest adventure of yours! Why hadn’t I thought of that? Perhaps I’m to be your spark, rather than you mine. Shall we see?”

And with that, he stepped fully into the shop, flinging his arms wide into a dramatic pose as the door tinkled closed behind him.

Angelica did not say anything.

This was not an unusual occurrence. Her quiet reserve, that was, not this oddly compelling stranger. Angelica only felt comfortable when speaking about jewelry or when surrounded by family.

The stranger, however, seemed impossibly comfortable, maintaining both his expansive voilà! pose and an encouraging smile, as if he fully expected her to strike some complementary stance like two dancers at the start of a tragic opera.

“May I help you?” she said again, hoping the familiar words would turn this situation into something she knew how to deal with.

“I am Jonathan MacLean.” He whipped his hat from his head and made an impressive leg. “At your service.”

“I don’t... require your services?”

Oh, why had the statement come out like a question? She did not rely on anyone but herself, and she’d never heard of Jonathan MacLean. He was not a person one was likely to forget.

He stepped further into her shop, which took him out of silhouette and cast his face into light.

Angelica’s breath caught.

Could he tell that her silence was because he’d stolen her words?

She should not find a gregarious, presumptuous Scot this attractive. His eyes were a crystalline blue, his lips thin, his jaw strong, his cheekbones stolen from a statue, his skin the same moonstone pinkish-white as the lords and ladies who attended parties like the Duke of Nottingvale’s.

And yet the sum of these features was greater than any one part. He was tall as a footman, broad-shouldered as