One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,7

that I did, and then I’d give them away to fifteen ladies who could better appreciate their value.”

She stared at his neatly trimmed golden brown hair, the color of well-polished amber. It didn’t even graze his ears. “You couldn’t fit fifteen clips in your hair.”

He grinned at her. “But I would try, which is what would make it such a comical tale. Shall I purchase them, then? You can be my witness. I’ll tell everyone I meet, ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s a lovely jeweler up in Cressmouth who saw the whole thing. Her name is...’” He leaned forward expectantly.

Now he was definitely close enough to touch. If she lifted herself on her toes, she could brush noses with him. Their proximity was appallingly improper.

Yet she didn’t pull away.

“Miss Parker,” she said instead.

She could have said “Miss Angelica Parker.” Her Christian name was no secret. Despite living in the shadow of a castle, the village of Cressmouth didn’t stand much on pomp and propriety. Many of those who lived here year-round first-named each other as though they were cousins who had grown up together since birth.

It felt like that sometimes. At once cloying and protective. An entire village of big brothers and big sisters, full of unsolicited opinions and unconditional love. Their livelihoods might depend on tourists, but their loyalties were to one another.

Mr. MacLean was an outsider.

He would leave just as suddenly—and likely as dramatically—as he’d arrived. He did not need to know her given name.

“Miss Parker,” he said, as though tasting the syllables and finding them unexpectedly delicious. “It suits you.”

It did? What was that supposed to mean? That she looked like a Miss rather than a Mrs., or that she seemed like a Parker, whatever that was?

“‘MacLean’ suits you,” she shot back.

His sapphire eyes widened. “Does it? What does that mean?”

She swallowed. This was why she didn’t like to talk to people she didn’t know or speak on subjects she didn’t command. She was bound to say the wrong thing.

“Your burr,” she mumbled, waving a hand without meeting his eyes. “You sound Scottish.”

“I am Scottish,” he agreed. “For better or for worse. Your accent, on the other hand, is poor indeed. You sound...”

She tensed.

“...English,” he whispered, and gave an exaggerated shudder.

“I am English,” she managed.

“Pity,” he sighed. “All jewels have their flaws, don’t they? That is, not yours, obviously; your pieces are exquisite, even the hair combs. I would not be at all ashamed to wear them, all at once or otherwise. But English, now, there’s a challenge. A man must set limits. Although I admit I find you a delight.”

He did?

Strangers tended to find Angelica prickly and taciturn, not a delight. Even not-so-strangers. Two aunts and a distant cousin had independently informed Angelica she’d be married by now if she hadn’t the general demeanor of a startled hedgehog. Adorable, but untouchable.

Armor was smart. Armor kept her protected. Armor let her do her job... which had been woefully neglected ever since Lord Rakish McChatterbox swept into her shop like a knight prancing before his maiden.

She had no time for men or idle chatter. Even if his nonsense had managed to settle her nerves in much the same way the noise of her family reunions did. If she didn’t have a rule of not working in front of a client, she rather suspected she’d finish the Cruz necklaces faster with Mr. MacLean prattling in the background than she would left alone to her own thoughts.

Nonetheless, there was no room in her life for anything but work until she’d reached her goals. No exceptions, not even for handsome Scots.

“No offense meant,” she began, then cleared her throat and started anew.

He was less than an arm’s width from her, which should make it easy to be heard, yet her words had been little more than a squeak.

“No offense meant, sir, but if you aren’t going to make a purchase, I must get back to work.” Was that offensive? It was probably offensive. He looked baffled. “It’s not you,” she added quickly, although it was definitely him. “It’s that I’m untenably busy. My relatives are here, and I can’t see them until I’ve finished these pieces, which at this rate—”

What was wrong with her? Now she was babbling just like Mr. MacLean.

“Who said I wasn’t going to buy the hair combs?” he asked. “I’ll take the bracelets as well, if that helps. And the earrings. You can charge me double for taking so much of your time. I only meant