One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,45

laird, boo-hoo. Jonathan’s father forced a very large amount of money upon him, boo-hoo.

Nobody could guess the circumstances of his birth by looking at him. Being the bastard of a laird made Jonathan rich, not poor. He was accepted into more places, not fewer. He was actively choosing not to utilize his many advantages.

How had she managed not to box his ears?

If he hated the money so much, he could give it all to charity. Or to abolitionists. Or to orphanages. Was it really such a cross to bear?

As female and Black, Angelica had dealt with far worse disadvantages, and she wasn’t spending her Christmas sobbing into a mug of hot chocolate. She was a clever, talented, joyful success, with a delightful, loving, joyful family. She had not one home, but two.

And he had asked her to give both up in favor of peddling waistcoats and fancy breeches.

All because of his father.

Jonathan had let his entire world be upset by one person discounting him. He glowered at his chocolate. Although he gave the trust money away, his actions bought the appreciation and approval his father had never given him.

The time had come to move on. The only person who should hold the reins of his life was himself.

“I’ve never found a place I felt I belonged to,” he admitted.

Calvin looked at him in disbelief. “Nowhere you’ve traveled through might possibly do? Have you considered that it might be up to you to make a place your home, rather than expect the place to do it for you?”

Jonathan did not dignify this excellent rejoinder with a reply.

The truth was, he’d been searching for belonging. From the moment of his conception, all the places he’d seen and all the people he’d met had let him leave without complaint. He wanted someone to stop him.

It had never happened.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Calvin said. “Turn it around.”

Jonathan scowled at him. What an absolutely insufferable prig.

Who might be right.

Maybe Angelica didn’t want to have to ask Jonathan to stay. Maybe she wanted him to want to.

To choose her.

Instead, Jonathan’s grand plan had been... to leave her behind. To expect coin to be enough, just like his father had done to Jonathan and his mother.

“Ah,” said Calvin. “You’re wearing an I’ve-been-an-idiot expression. A common affliction among those who are the root of their own problems.”

“I’ve walked away from the only place that felt like home,” Jonathan admitted. “The only person that felt like home.”

“‘Idiot’ may not be strong enough of a word.” Calvin’s expression was sympathetic. “I know what that feels like.”

Jonathan took a shaky breath. “The idea of needing one particular, irreplaceable person is terrifying.”

“And when people are frightened,” Calvin said, “they run away.”

Scots don’t run, Jonathan had told Angelica. And then did the opposite.

“I love her,” he said. “I love her so much I can’t tell if I’m coming or going.”

“You should decide,” Calvin suggested. “I feel that’s the crux of the matter.”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “What if I don’t spend every moment of the next year hawking our catalogues from door to door?”

“I hope you realize,” said Calvin, “I will not be spending every moment of even the next month sewing on buttons or devising new ways to fold neckcloths. We’re all allowed time to ourselves. You just have to decide what you want to do with yours.”

There was naught to figure out. Jonathan already knew the answer.

He wanted Angelica.

She had heard every thought he’d ever had on why he was a rolling stone whom no one place could tempt to stay. He’d been wrong. The question was how to convince her he wanted to put things right.

“How can I slow down, when I must place a catalogue into every future customer’s hand?”

“What if you didn’t?” Calvin suggested.

“Then how would we—” But an idea was already forming. He sat up straight. “Haberdashers.”

“Haberdashers?” Calvin repeated politely.

“Instead of printing and delivering catalogues to individual customers, we could provide them to each town’s local shops instead. Our customers would visit the shops to place their orders, which would increase the shopkeepers’ business, too. We could even offer them a commission.”

“Don’t you dare name the number,” Calvin warned. “I will discuss an appropriate commission with Nottingvale.”

Jonathan was happy to hand over the finer details. He had suddenly freed entire future months of his life. There were far fewer haberdashers than individual customers. Making the rounds would take time, but far less than he had feared.

“I suppose Fit for a Duke must have a headquarters.” If it was here