Erica Ridley's Blog, page 3

Meet the Hero: Elijah Weston

[image error] Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,
Ten Days with a Duke!

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Mr. Elijah Weston checked the urge to reach out to block the door, lest Olive Harper slam it in his face.

He valued his fingers too much to take that risk.

Eli didn’t blame her for mistrusting him. He deserved every bit of her anger and resentment. He’d hurt her. His presence was hurting her again. Of course she was wary. But soon, they would be on a new path to a better future.

She looked exactly like he remembered and nothing like he remembered.

Her hair was still a gorgeous light brown, the golden bronze of bupleurum longifolium. Her eyes, the deep brown of rich soil, earthy and resilient. She was tall; almost as tall as him, just as she’d been a decade ago, when he last saw her.

Unlike that day, Miss Harper was not wearing a worn riding habit, but rather a gorgeous moss-colored gown of silk and satin. Her cheekbones were sharper, her curves fuller, her spine straighter.

She absolutely looked like the goddess of the forest she was rumored to be: wild, ruthless, capable of bending any beast to her will.

Her power and barely restrained fury should have spooked him. Sent him galloping off before she had him by the reins. Instead, it was all Eli could do not to reach out and touch her. To prove to himself she was real.

Had he been afraid reality would fall well short of the image he’d built up in his mind? She was so much bigger, so much better, than dreams could conjure.

Visibly restraining herself from slamming the door into his nose, Miss Harper clenched her jaw and flung about to face her father.

Only a fool or an immortal would give an enemy her back.

Miss Harper was no fool.

Now that she was no longer looking at him, the unbearable cold seeped beneath all of Eli’s warm layers to burrow deep into his bones. Clouds of snow pillowed into the air as the bitter wind blustered down the lonely, empty street.

All Eli knew of this area was that the village was called Christmas, and today was its busiest day of the year.

If that was true, all of the tourists must already be indoors, making merry before a warm fire. No one else was standing on a frozen doorstep, gloved hands jammed into wool pockets, shifting from foot to foot in a fruitless, desperate attempt to keep the blood moving in his veins.

Eli had never been north of London. He’d seen paintings of this picturesque, mountain-top village. Majestic Marlowe Castle at the peak, the rows of bright red sleighs pulled by coal black horses. It looked positively enchanting.

It had enchanted the feeling right out of his toes.

Not that anything was colder than the reception he was getting from Miss Harper.

Clearly, her father had broken the news of their betrothal. Just as clear was her opinion on the matter.

That she hadn’t forgiven him was obvious. How could she have? His actions were unforgivable. For as long as he lived, Eli doubted he would forgive himself. The pain on her face, both then and now, would forever haunt him.

How he wished they hadn’t had to meet like this!

Eli had dreamt of a reunion a thousand times. Of apologizing for the past, of finding some way to make up for his crimes against her. To start again. Perhaps, even, to have a future.

On their own. Without either of their fathers looking on.

But it was not to be.

Theirs was not a love match. He did not blame her for feeling betrayed by her father. Eli felt the same. He would not be here, ruining Miss Harper’s Christmas, if this reunion weren’t at the marquess’s insistence.

Like all men, Eli was many things. Some he was proud of, some not. But doing the right thing came first, whatever the cost.

Even if it meant obeying his father.

Inside the warm house, Miss Harper’s father gave an exaggerated shiver, and jabbed an emphatic finger in Eli’s direction.

With eyes that could smelt iron, Miss Harper took an extravagant step to one side, unblocking the doorway with an unwelcoming sweep of her arm.

Eli crossed the threshold on limbs that had long since gone numb.

She closed the door behind him and leapt lightly away, as if preparing for him to pounce.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said. “I will do everything in my power to treat you like a man in love.”

“Pfft.” The snort of laughter did not reach her eyes. “You’d stab me in the heart just to see if I bleed.”

With that, she turned her back and resumed arguing with her father as though Eli weren’t standing there dripping globs of melted snow in her hallway.

He could not tell what they were saying. Miss Harper’s father was deaf and did not speak. Miss Harper responded to him with sign language in silence. Their hands moved so quickly, their fingers were a pale blur.

But one needn’t understand all their gestures to get the gist.

Mr. Harper said yes.

Miss Harper said no.

Eli’s heart clenched. He hated that he was hurting her all over again. At least the shock would be over soon enough, and then they could put the ugliness behind them.

Once again, her father’s forefinger jabbed in Eli’s direction. Twice, thrice, four times.

Miss Harper’s arms did not stop flying, but she began to speak the words aloud too.

“—unnecessary and unfair,” she apparently motioned. “He’s heir to an even bigger stud farm in the City. He deals with Tattersall’s on a regular basis and is the supplier of choice to London’s elite. He doesn’t need our farm.”

Her father signed his reply.

When Miss Harper glared back at him stonily, he began the gestures anew, larger and more forcefully.

“‘But then you’ll have two, which means both of you benefit,’” she interpreted, and shook her head. “No. Then he’ll have two. Neither will be mine.”

Eli shifted uncomfortably. He moved slightly to see both their faces and hands.

She replied first using sign language, followed by interpreting aloud for Eli.

Her father was using signs again. “Keeping grudges leads to an early grave. This will heal the rift. Milbotham and I will see our offspring married before we die.”

“Neither you nor the marquess are at death’s door,” she shot back, once she’d repeated his comment aloud to Eli. “You’ve decades of life left. Can we discuss this when I’m fifty-four instead of twenty-four?”

“It will happen this week.” Mr. Harper turned toward Eli. “Did you bring it?”

“Bring what?” Miss Harper signed. Her voice strained with trepidation when she repeated the words verbally.

Eli nodded in assent to her father. He pulled the wet leather glove free from his numb right hand, and reached beneath the lapel of his coat to the warm, dry pocket hidden within. Slowly, he pulled out the folded square of parchment.

“Yes.” His voice sounded calm. Nary a crack. “I brought the license.”

Miss Harper looked like a sail in high wind. Pale and tattered and struggling to hold on. “A marriage license?”

Eli knew how unfair this was. The saving grace was that it would be over by tomorrow. Her father would say, you must do this, and she would acquiesce, even though she didn’t wish to, because children were obedient to their parents. Especially daughters, who had neither choice nor recourse.

It was not what Eli would have wished for her or for anyone. But here they were.

“No,” she stammered, her finger movements disjointed. “Absolutely not.”

“Take him to Nottingvale’s for this evening’s dance,” Mr. Harper suggested. “The duke will toast your betrothal as cheerfully as his sister’s.”

Her signs were as sharp as her voice. “Hell will freeze over before I introduce this knave to my friends as though he numbered among them.”

Eli returned the license to the safety of his pocket. “I will do whatever it takes—”

“Oh?” Her tight-lipped smile turned calculating. “Then win me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“If both of you want this betrothal to happen, then Weston must earn my acceptance.” She turned a mulish look to her father as she signed. “You cannot consign me to less.”

Of course he could. Mr. Harper was her father.

To Eli’s shock and horror, Mr. Harper lifted a shoulder as though this last-minute complication didn’t matter in the least. “Very well. Nottingvale’s Twelfth Night party will do just as nicely for announcing your betrothal.”

“Or making our goodbyes,” Miss Harper said pointedly, after she’d finished interpreting her father’s words.

“Twelfth Night?” Eli sputtered.

“I expect an effort of good faith while pursuing your suit,” Mr. Harper countered calmly. “You must spend every waking hour together between now and then.”

Miss Harper watched and responded before interpreting aloud, her jaw visibly clenched.

“But Father! Ten days with a rogue will ruin my reputation and no other gentleman will have me.”

“Then I suppose you ought to marry me and have done,” Eli said.

She slashed him with a sharp gaze as she interpreted. “That was sarcasm, Mr. Weston. You’re no gentleman. I have no suitors because I don’t want any.” She turned those cutting eyes to her father. “I’ll consider his suit in ten days’ time, on one condition.”

“What do you want?” he signed.

“I’ve no reason to trust this churl. And there’s only one creature whose trust is even harder to earn than mine.” A smirk flirted with the edges of her lips. “I’ll consider Mr. Weston’s proposal if he manages to convince Duke to let him ride him.”

Eli’s lungs froze. His blood raced with panic. This was a preposterous stipulation. An impossible stipulation. A ten-day courtship was farce enough. Eli wasn’t going anywhere near her stables.

“No changing the agreement,” he said to Mr. Harper. Miss Harper’s hands moved with speed, interpreting after Eli spoke. “According to my father—”

Miss Harper spun to Eli, her eyes fierce. “I don’t give a fig what your father said, Mr. Weston. My father said Twelfth Night, and that’s the best offer you’re going to get. Take it or leave now.”

Eli tried to think fast. It was impossible with the blood rushing in his ears and all his carefully laid plans disintegrating like snowflakes before a fire. Delaying the betrothal was the last thing he wanted to do. It would only draw out the torture for both of them.

But if this was the only path forward, he had no choice but to take it.

“As you please,” he growled, then adjusted his tone. She was not the enemy. “If those are your wishes, it will be my pleasure to fulfill them.”

Miss Harper’s brown eyes glittered mockingly. “I’ll see you in the stables.”

She’d turned the tables on him.

He had ten days to win the affection of a duke.

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Meet the Heroine: Miss Olive Harper

[image error] Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,

Ten Days with a Duke!

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Miss Olive Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter, but the shaking of her shoulders gave her away.

“It’s true,” protested the Duke of Nottingvale. “She flew out of that tree without a single care for gravity.”

As was time-honored tradition, all of the other guests at the duke’s annual Yuletide party launched into equally fantastic tales of gossip they’d read about Olive and the famous Harper horses, or antics they’d witnessed with their own eyes.

She turned to her father, who stood between the pianoforte and a table full of treats. “His Grace claims he saw me drop from a tree branch onto a passing horse.”

Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Sidesaddle or low pummel?”

“Low pummel, of course.” Papa was the one who taught her how.

She and her father had been inseparable for as long as she could remember. Not only were they the best of friends, they’d worked side-by-side on their stud farm from the moment she was out of leading strings. Olive had learnt to ride before she’d learnt to read.

Local blacksmith Sébastien le Duc groaned. “And then there was the time she wagered Lucien her horse could leap further than his.”

Olive tamped down a smile. The Harpers and the le Ducs lived across the street from one another, at the edge of the only road leading into the village.

She repeated his comment to her father in sign language. Papa could read the lips of one speaker if the circumstances were right, but it was impossible to watch everyone at once in a crowd.

“I do not race with Mademoiselle Olive anymore,” Lucien le Duc admitted grudgingly. “I already know la démone intrépide will win.”

“Perhaps it’s not Olive who has preternatural talent,” teased another friend. “Perhaps it’s the horses who have preternatural powers.”

Olive interpreted as quickly as she could.

Papa gave a wicked grin in response. “Who do they think trained our horses?”

“Horses like Duke!” crowed another friend, turning the teasing to the party’s host. “The Harpers’ prized stud is more famous than you, Nottingvale!”

The Duke of Nottingvale affected faux outrage. “I don’t know whether to take umbrage at being compared to a horse, or to pout because I did not emerge the victor.”

“Neither did Prinny.” Sébastien turned to Olive. “Is it true you refused to sell Duke to the Prince Regent?”

Olive batted her eyelashes innocently, whilst interpreting for her father.

“I refused three times,” she assured the party, to the delight of all. “For the good of the country, of course. Duke won’t let anyone but me ride him. He would toss Prinny into a lake at the first opportunity.”

“When has common sense stopped Prinny?” laughed a friend. “I wager it was Olive who chased him away. The Regent is more terrified of you than Napoleon.”

“As he should be,” she agreed primly.

The Harpers were not only renowned horse breeders and trainers, they were also champion grudge-keepers. Had Prinny tried to take Duke from them by force, they would have done everything in their power to get Duke back… or make the Regent regret his actions. Their horses meant the world to Olive and her father.

Fortunately, no such dire circumstances had come to pass. She was having one of the best Yuletides—nay, one of the best years!—in recent memory.

As her father aged, he’d entrusted more and more of the farm’s operations to Olive. She was no longer “Mr. Harper’s daughter” but a respected horse trainer and business owner in her own right.

Oh, very well, she didn’t own anything yet. But she and Papa were each other’s only relatives, which made Olive the estate’s sole heiress. Their farm was her kingdom, and she its Queen. Her horses’ well-deserved fame had long proved her talent and success in an arena dominated by men.

What more could a lady want?

One of the new faces here tonight turned to Olive. “Would you sell Duke to me?”

“I wouldn’t sell him to anyone,” she replied.

She allowed certain customers to mate their mares with her stallion or purchase a foal, but she would not part with her favorite horse. Duke was part of the family.

“What if I offered…” The stranger named a figure five times higher than Prinny’s best offer and gave her a hopeful grin.

“Not even for ten times as much,” she informed him and quickly glanced away.

Her tight-lipped smile wasn’t because she found the question offensive—a stud farm was meant to breed and sell horses, after all—but because Olive didn’t want the cheerful stranger to see what she hid behind her smile.

When she was younger, Papa had assured her she’d grow into her too-wide mouth and over-large teeth.

Olive had not.

It was the only lie Papa had ever told her.

She knew it was because he loved her. To Papa, his daughter was beautiful. He probably thought she had grown into her features. But there was no reason for her to subject strangers to her oversized teeth. Or to open herself up to ridicule.

Instead, she smoothed her hands over her prettiest gown and did her best to smile with her eyes instead of her tightly closed mouth.

The sound of champagne popping filled the air.

“A toast.” Nottingvale held the foaming bottle aloft. “To my sister, on her betrothal.”

Glasses clinked and cheers filled the air.

Olive was thrilled for the duke’s sister, she really was. But Olive was even more glad that she need never worry about being in the same shoes.

Her fulfillment came from her work. Olive wasn’t missing anything. Papa was the best companion anyone could ask for. They had each other, which was more than enough.

She knew her purpose, and excelled at it. Even before the Prinny Incident, the Harper horses had been famous. Olive was no shrinking wallflower. She was a very busy spinster and she liked it that way.

Papa had been making noises about retiring, and Olive was more than ready to take the reins. She was in control of her own future, and soon would be in charge of the entire Harper farm.

“After this, we’re singing carols,” called out one of the guests. No doubt they would be at it for hours.

“I believe I’ll return home,” signed her father.

“I’ll go with you.” Olive was happy to interpret, but the struggle to switch back and forth between languages for long periods of time was exhausting. She looked forward to a peaceful evening with her father. She turned to the duke. “Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon.”

There was almost too much revelry for her to be heard over the noise, but the duke bowed and invited them back later in the evening for dancing.

Olive relayed the invitation to her father before addressing their host. “We’ll see.”

This meant no. There was no reason to dance with gentlemen she was uninterested in flirting with, and besides, keeping one’s mouth guarded for twenty-minute sets at a time was exhausting.

“Don’t forget my Twelfth Night ball,” Nottingvale reminded her. “If you can’t come tonight, I’ll save you a dance then!”

Absolutely not.

Olive retrieved hats and coats from the butler and followed her father out into the brisk winter day. The sun was still an hour from setting, but the air was cold enough that snow glistened everywhere without any sign of melting.

They could have flagged any one of the sleighs Cressmouth used as hackneys for a ride home, but it was easier to walk and talk, and Olive enjoyed quiet moments like these with her father. She and her father conversed using their usual signs.

“Can you believe the Duke of Nottingvale’s sister is marrying a tailor?” Olive made an expression of faux shock as she gestured with her hands. “His Grace is toasting now, but I can only imagine what his face looked like when he first found out.”

Papa screwed up his features and clutched his chest in an exaggerated parody of apoplexy.

She grinned at him, over-large teeth and all. Her father’s love was unconditional. “I’m glad for her. They seem to suit each other well.”

“About that.” Her father’s typically merry eyes grew serious. “I’ve decided on a husband for you.”

The words pelted Olive like icy snowballs.

“You what?” Her cold fingers shook in the wind. “I don’t need or want a husband.”

“I shall give him one hundred percent of my shares in the farm,” Papa continued relentlessly, “upon your marriage.”

“Our farm?” There was no reason to feign apoplexy. Olive was certain her heart was exploding right out of her chest. Her gestures were sharper. “Why would you do this?”

“You need a husband, daughter.”

That was the last thing she needed.

Olive wanted to be respected on her own. Considered as capable as any man. She’d thought she was, at least to her father.

“No.” She shook her head, negating with her fingers. “You’re hamming me.”

“You spend almost all of your time with me or on the farm. You do nothing for yourself, and little with your friends. You deserve an opportunity to relax.”

She gaped at him in disbelief. “You think marriage means less work for a woman?”

Long ago, Olive had decided to do whatever it took to be independent. Yes, she spent every possible moment raising the horses, training the horses, checking that the stable hands were properly attending to the horses… And she wouldn’t trade a single moment of it.

She loved her life.

Papa pushed open the front door to their home and gestured her through. “I’m getting old, Olive. I used to be helpful, and now I am not.”

“Our farm makes more than enough money to employ as many hired hands as we need.” She shoved her pelisse onto its hook. “Besides, I can—”

“You can do anything the stable hands can. I know that. But now you won’t have to.”

The back of Olive’s throat pricked with heat. She’d dedicated her entire life to proving herself as deserving an heiress for the farm as any male heir, and she still wasn’t good enough.

Even when she was the only one, her father would still rather find someone else.

Her hands trembled. “I cannot believe you would betroth me to some random—”

“Not random.” Papa’s eyes held hers. “You’ll marry Elijah Weston.”

The breath rushed out of her lungs with such force that Olive staggered backward until she regained her equilibrium. No.

Her lips parted, but she could not force herself to repeat that name. The mere thought of him turned her back into a sobbing, humiliated fourteen-year-old.

“It’s a means to an end.” Her father shifted his weight as if he knew just how much he was hurting her. “I’m old. It’s time to heal the rift between our families. Three decades of rivalry is long enough. We are stronger united.”

Papa didn’t think Olive had deficiencies after all.

He simply had ulterior motives.

“That’s not better.” Her muscles rebelled at the injustice. “Using me as an inducement is worse, no matter your reasons. The answer is no. I won’t marry any man, and especially not that man.”

“I shan’t debate you on the matter. You’re of age, so legally I cannot force you. But marriage to Mr. Weston is the only way you’ll have my shares in the farm.”

“How can I have them at all?” Her spine collapsed against the wall. “You’re giving control to him, not me.” She could not bring herself to form his name. “I’d rather stay enemies forever than to see that happen.”

Olive’s father and Elijah Weston’s father had grown up together. Inseparable, bosom friends, practically twins—despite their differences in class.

Mr. Weston’s father was Lord Milbotham. He’d been born with a silver spoon and a courtesy title. As a wealthy marquess, he needn’t ever lift a finger if he didn’t wish to.

On a lark, Papa and Milbotham began a stud farm together, just outside London. As the partnership grew, so did their business. Their horses were celebrated at Tattersall’s, the farm famous throughout England.

Olive did not know what had caused the falling-out, but it had been swift and destructive. The rift occurred about the time both men had married. One day, Papa and Milbotham were partners, and the next they were dividing their beloved farm between them.

Milbotham kept the land, and the prestige their farm had built. All Papa got were a few horses. Milbotham had no doubt cackled over that swindle.

Until it turned out Papa was brilliant. His stud horses quickly eclipsed those of Milbotham, which of course could not be allowed to stand. Thus began decades of war as breeding rivals, then racing rivals. The conflict and determination rose with each passing year.

Her father did not engage in vindictive competition with anyone else. Just the marquess. Papa was mortal enemies with Milbotham because he had once loved him like a brother. There was no other way he could have been hurt so deeply.

And now he expected her to marry Milbotham’s son? The one who had humiliated her so deeply, Olive still awoke gasping in the night? Her hands clenched.

Elijah Weston and his father were pustules of deceit and destruction.

They could not be forgiven.

“No.” She straightened her spine off the wall. Olive was stronger than that. She hadn’t seen Weston in ten long years. His specter could not harm her now. “I will not—”

Three loud raps sounded against the knocker.

A distraction. Thank God. “Someone’s at the door.”

Papa’s eyebrows rose. “It must be Weston.”

“What? How could he arrive from London so fast?” Understanding dawned. Hurt prickled beneath Olive’s skin; a thousand tiny blades. She tried not to show her pain. “You told him before you told me?”

Rather than reply, Papa motioned for her to attend to the door.

Her heart beat too fast for rational thought. Her legs yearned to run away. To cower; to hide.

She yanked open the brass handle in part to prove to herself that she could.

It was him. Elijah Bloody Weston.

Ten years older. Ten times more attractive. Ten times more dangerous.

Her vision seemed to shrink until all she could see was him.

Boots, black as coal. Supple buckskin breeches clinging to indecently muscled thighs. A well-made coat the color of old ash cut in a style completely unsuitable for northern climes—but happened to display to perfection the breadth of his shoulders and the musculature of his chest and arms. A snowy neckcloth at his throat was the only scrap of clothing not molded to his plethora of flat planes and defined muscles.

Weston’s appalling magnetism infuriated her.

His face… God save her, that face. Time had not at all ravaged him the way she had hoped. His jaw was squarer, his face fuller, a hint of laugh lines just beginning at the corners of his long-lashed brown eyes. What the devil did the handsome scoundrel have to laugh about?

Her, probably.

Just looking at him was enough to bring back the old shame. His soft, kissable lips make her want to burst into tears all over again.

Olive’s fingernails dug into her palms. To the devil with men like Weston!

This time, she would not let him win.

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New Release: TOO BRAZEN TO BITE

[image error]Gothic Love Stories #5: Too Brazen to Bite!

A hidden secrets, forbidden lovers romance from a New York Times bestselling author: In this gothic castle, even a woman of science isn’t immune to the charms of a wickedly handsome, dangerously sexy vampire…

The devilishly seductive, irresistibly rakish Mr. Macane is ravishing all the ladies of the ton—despite the fact that he is penniless, untitled—and believed to be a vampire.

Hired to disprove such an absurd claim, the skeptical Miss Elspeth Ramsay does not expect to tremble in his presence—until the graze of his teeth on her neck ignites an appetite of her own, and she finds herself biting him back! 

Surely this sudden bloodlust can only mean danger for her family and her heart—or a love for eternity…

The Gothic Love Stories is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

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Previously published as “Never Been Bitten” in “Born to Bite”.

Meet the Hero: Mártainn Macane

[image error] Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Gothic Love Stories romance,

Too Brazen to Bite!

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###

Without seeing Macane cross the dance floor, without any memory of peeling herself from the far wall, their shadows intertwined and those eerily beautiful green eyes were piercing her to her soul.

“I—” Ellie faltered, unsure what she’d meant to say, or whether there was anything to say.

He frowned, which only served to unnerve her even more. “You’re not—”

“I forgot to make introductions,” gasped Miss Breckenridge, at Ellie’s shoulder. “Of course. Mr. Macane, allow me the honor of presenting Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Miss Ramsay, this is Mr. Mártainn Macane.”

Yes. Obviously. But all Ellie could do was stare up at him, enthralled by the tiny crease between his brows, as if he were as puzzled as she was to find herself the object of his attention. 

Who had he thought she was? 

And would he leave, now that his hopes had been disappointed?

Mr. Macane’s brow smoothed, and his chiseled features relaxed into a mask of perfect ennui. He inclined his head and favored her with a close-lipped smile.

Miss Breckenridge would no doubt assume he did so to hide unsightly fangs. Ellie knew better. Close-lipped smiles were what one did when one was only pretending. Her mastery of the art enabled her to mask her own humiliation at not being worthy of a true smile. 

His unexpected interest had been nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. More than understandable, given the crowd and the distance they’d had between them. Now that the dancing shadows thrown by the glass chandeliers no longer masked her features, he could finally see her for who she really was: no one.

Never had she felt her lack of status so keenly.

He gazed at her a moment longer than was proper, undoubtedly determining the best way to extricate himself from an undesirable situation. 

To Ellie’s surprise, he extended his hand. “Shall we?”

She blinked at him until her addled brain deciphered his meaning, then she croaked, “Dance?”

“Certainly.” The edge of his mouth lifted as if he found her amusing.

Ellie was not amused. She was mortified. And determined not to let it show.

“Go,” her client hissed, sotto voce. “I shan’t blink.”

This dance would secure her place in infamy. After this, she’d no longer be able to cavort unnoticed amongst the ton. How was she to earn a living without her anonymity? 

Head held high, she allowed him to lead her onto the parquet. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she thrilled to be noticed by him. Ellie would be different. She would be… immune.

And if not, well, at least she would act like she was.

As he led her about the dance floor, keeping time with the music, she was delighted to discover her feet did in fact know the right steps, even if her head didn’t. Unfortunately, that meant she needed something else to concentrate on.

Macane.

The dark-haired Scotsman perfectly embodied London fashion—except for one detail. Ellie’s gaze settled upon his bare neck. Strong, pale, and all the more striking due to an inexplicably absent cravat. 

Miss Breckenridge had mentioned that was one of his affectations. Whilst the dandies peeked above clouds of starched linen, Mr. Macane was shockingly unique. He did as he wished. He danced with whomever he wished. 

And, if Miss Breckenridge was to be believed, he drank from whomever he wished.

Ellie’s eyes widened as she realized the thought of his lips at her throat quickened her pulse more from excitement than fear. What was wrong with her? Why did her blood thrum faster, as if calling out to him?

She focused on the curve of muscle between his neck and his shoulder, attempting to shame herself into behaving properly by proving his heartbeat was steadier than hers.

Except… she couldn’t find a pulse point.

Frowning, she tilted her head and listened for the sound of his breathing. She couldn’t hear that, either. Strange, for her senses tended toward the extraordinary. She could see the individual fibers in the fine linen stretched across the expanse of his chest, but could not detect the pulse at the base of his neck. She could discern the fine leather of his shoes and the worn satin of her own, but could not detect the merest breath exhaling from his nose.

She leaned into him a bit more than she ought. But even with her face close enough for her breath to send a stray curl brushing against his powerful chest, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, and all she could see was herself acting like a proper ninny.

Ellie pulled back and glanced up at him in embarrassment.

His eyes were not on hers. His gaze was locked on the base of her neck, where her own pulse point fluttered like a butterfly struggling to break free from its cocoon.

A slow smile curved his lips, gapping just long enough to flash a sliver of white teeth. Not fangs, Ellie told herself. Just teeth. As normal as hers. She took a deep breath and shivered as she inhaled the scent of cologne and clean linen.

Everything had an explanation. Macane was an accomplished rake, not a vampire. He happened to be brilliant at the art of illusion. With his absent cravat and his close-lipped smiles, he lent just the right touch of mystery and illicit adventure to woo the golden flock. Genius, actually. If she’d thought of it first, perhaps she’d be the celebrated Original of the ton, rather than the spinster who investigated frivolous claims for the rich.

She glanced up at him again. His mouth was no longer curved in a smile, but it was still wide and firm. The swooning ladies could keep their macabre fantasies. She’d much rather have that sensual mouth kissing her than biting her. If there weren’t such a crush of people…

As if they shared one mind, his next artful spin took them from the sparkling dance floor to a spot behind the hand-painted folding screens that hid the entrance to the gardens. 

Before she could object—presuming she would have objected—Ellie was out through the door and beneath the moonlit sky, still cradled in Macane’s arms.

A frisson of trepidation caused her to catch her breath. She stared up at him in panic. Might he actually kiss her? 

As far as she could remember, no one had ever tried. No gentleman had ever noticed her long enough to think of it. And now—what if she did it wrong? What if she did it right? What would be expected of her then?

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You dazzled me even as you tried to hide.”

Well, that was laying it on a bit thick. 

Ellie wasn’t ugly, but nor were artists dueling for the honor of painting her portrait. Wracking her brain for an appropriate set-down to such ridiculous flattery, she narrowed her eyes at him… and nearly swooned at his expression.

He was sincere. Or if not, he gave a bloody good impression of it.

His eyes were rapt on her face, as if he had been searching for her all his life. His gaze had softened, making his features less harsh and more open. His arms cradled her gently. His hands splayed at the curve between waist and hips. He was being far more familiar than anyone of her acquaintance—far more familiar than any right-minded young lady should allow—but Ellie was so enamored by the idea of having entranced him that she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

His lips parted. Hers did too, mostly because she was having trouble remembering to breathe. Her lips suddenly felt too dry. She edged out the tip of her tongue to lick them and gasped when his hold tightened painfully. She felt strangely powerful, as if she really was beautiful.

He lowered his face to hers. His eyes were no longer the crystal green of the sea, but rather a shimmering black. Rather than try to process the transformation, Ellie cleared her mind and let her own eyes flutter closed. 

She was going to be kissed for the first time. 

And she was going to enjoy it.

Her brow creased when the delicious pressure of his parted lips brushed the base of her throat rather than her waiting mouth. The sharp edge of bared teeth grazed the tender skin at the curve of her neck. 

He wasn’t going to kiss her—he was going to bite her!

Instinct forced her to react at lightning speed. But instead of shoving him away as she could’ve sworn she had instructed her limbs to do, Ellie returned the favor and sank her own teeth into his cravat-free neck.

Mutual shock held them immobile for an interminable moment. 

Realizing the ignominy of what she’d just done, Ellie pulled away in horror before he could thrust her from him bodily. To label him thunderstruck would be the understatement of the century.

He touched his neck. The pad of his finger came away pink with blood.

“Good Lord,” he growled, his expression fierce. “Did you just bite me?”

###

Amazon Kindle | Apple Books | Barnes & Noble Nook | Kobo | Google PlayPreviously published as “Never Been Bitten” in “Born to Bite”.

Meet the Heroine: Elspeth Ramsay

[image error] Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Gothic Love Stories romance,

Too Brazen to Bite!

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To some, the Wedgeworth soirée might appear a splendid crush of debutantes, dandies, and music, but to Miss Elspeth Ramsay—inveterate bluestocking, indifferent spinster, and, most damning of all, tradeswoman—the evening’s crush was simply her latest assignment. She’d been commissioned to enter the world of the ton.

If Ellie were a fidgeter, she might have been nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the nicest of her outdated gowns. She did not fidget. If she were a coquette, perhaps she would be twining one of her wayward curls about her finger whilst simpering at the eligible bachelors. Ellie did not simper. If she were socially ambitious, she might be near to a swoon at being invited to a High Society fête by the daughter of a viscount. 

She did not swoon. 

Instead, Ellie stood in the farthest corner from the orchestra, surreptitiously surveying the crowd and hoping none of them would notice her in the shadows. After mentally cataloguing and discarding each of the revelers as harmless, she turned to her benefactress with a raised brow.

“Well?” she said, impatient to calm her client’s irrational fears and escape the oppressive splendor of the ball. “Where is he?”

Rather than being affronted by this impertinence, Miss Lydia Breckenridge beamed with self-satisfaction. “He has not yet arrived.” Miss Breckenridge nearly bounced on her satin-slippered feet. “I knew you’d be able to discern human from inhuman upon sight, you being an authority on the paranormal—”

“I am no such thing!” Ellie was unable to bear this speech with continued calm. “I am a woman of science, Miss Breckenridge. If anything, I am a ‘professional skeptic.’ To date, every such claim I’ve investigated has been quickly proven false, and I don’t doubt this one shall unfold in the same way.” As much as she and her mother desperately needed the coin, Ellie couldn’t help but give a slight shake of her head. “Vampires, indeed.”

“But don’t you see?” Miss Breckenridge insisted, eyes shining. “That’s what makes your involvement perfect. When even you are forced to admit true evil walks amongst us, the rest will be obliged to take heed.”

“And do what?” Ellie asked sensibly. “Drive a stake through his waistcoat?”

“What a horrid image.” Miss Breckenridge’s brow creased. “To be honest, I had not thought so far in advance.”

Ellie forbore mentioning she doubted her client had thought over any portion of her preposterous belief. Rudeness was never warranted, and besides, she planned to earn the promised ten-pound note. “At what point did you first suspect the new earl in town to be a vampire?”

“No, no,” gasped Miss Breckenridge. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

Ellie blinked. “He’s not a vampire?”

“He’s not a lord.” Miss Breckenridge sniffed. “Despite his sobriquet. He’s a younger son of a family in the Scottish Highlands, distantly related to the head of some forgotten medieval clan. He’s no member of the peerage whatsoever. How could he be, if he’s an undead immortal?”

“How indeed,” Ellie said faintly. “How, then, did he cut such a swath?”

For a moment, Miss Breckenridge’s eyes turned dreamy. “Mártainn Macane may be penniless and a cursed bloodsucker, but he’s devilishly handsome.”

“Penniless!” Ellie exclaimed, forming a much sharper impression of her quarry. His motive might not be much different than hers, but his method stood in stark relief. She had never feigned bloodlust for gain. “I deduce he puts himself forward in order to take advantage of innocent debutantes.”

Miss Breckenridge gestured at the swirling crowd. “No need for such actions, when young and old alike throw themselves and their purses in his path at every opportunity.”

Ellie’s lip curled. “I presume a ‘gentleman’ cannot be expected to resist such temptations. Are the women aware of his… nature?”

“Aware? He’s nigh irresistible,” Miss Breckenridge confessed in a whisper. “Undoubtedly part of his dark magic. The competition to be the devil’s chosen has eclipsed the judgment of every otherwise sensible woman who finds herself caught in his gaze.”

Ellie’s client clearly thought herself the heroine of a gothic novel. Either the higher the social rank, the lower the intelligence, or this Mr. Macane was an extremely skillful magician indeed. She’d bet he was nothing more than a two-bit actor who had changed his venue from the streets to soirées. “How can he be such a successful villain?”

“How?” Miss Breckenridge blushed prettily. “Because he’s bad in a very, very good way. They’ve gone so far as to dub him Lord Lovenip. My brothers tell me the betting books overflow with wagers as to which female he shall claim next.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I do hope you yourself do not fall prey to his wicked charms!”

“Oh, for the love of—” Ellie coughed daintily into her fist. Money earned for a fool’s errand was still money earned. She’d be wise not to let her mouth get in the way of the Breckenridge coffers. “Have no fear on that front, Miss Breckenridge. I have yet to find the man capable of turning my head.”

Her benefactress cast a discerning eye at Ellie’s drooping curls and woefully out-of-fashion gown, managing to convey without a single word that Ellie’s spinsterhood was far more likely due to Ellie’s own inability to turn heads, rather than to any fault inherent in the eligible gentlemen.

Be that as it may, Ellie’s distinct lack of position in Society afforded her the perfect disguise: insignificant wallflower. Unlike third-daughter-of-a-viscount Miss Breckenridge, Ellie had the ability to stay both in sight and unnoticed at gatherings such as this. Granted, this was the first time she’d been commissioned to investigate a vampiric Scotsman, but she held complete confidence that she would definitively refute such nonsense in short order.

Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.

Although the orchestra kept playing, the music now had a tinny, street-corner quality, as if the melody were being strained through a battered ear horn. The dancers did not falter, but their steps became disjointed and mechanical, as if they were marionettes painted to resemble aristocracy, rather than the pleasure-seeking lords and ladies they’d been just moments ago.

Ellie’s senses became overwhelmingly acute. Miss Breckenridge’s breathing seemed to echo about the chamber, her perfume suddenly noxious. Ellie’s pulse thundered with such force, she fancied she felt the heat of her blood coursing recklessly through her veins. For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable desire to flee the premises whilst her heart still beat.

Then there he was.

A leather thong tied thick chestnut hair at the nape of his neck. Seventeen stone of solid muscle sculpted effortlessly into ebony breeches and bone-white muslin. His skin was just as pale, yet managed to convey the strength of marble rather than the fragility of fine china. Impossibly bright sea-green eyes gazed knowingly from beneath dark lashes. Blunt cheekbones accentuated a wide, firm mouth set in a smirk above a strong jaw.

He was too big, too pale, too predatory. 

He should not have been beautiful, but he was.

The music bobbled in his wake, losing its rhythm, then tumbled forth at twice the tempo. The sharp-edged lords and ladies loosened their joints until they too were fluid and swirling about the ballroom once again. Widows and debutantes alike spun in and out of his path, inventing steps where there should be none, dipping to expose both cleavage and bared necks, twirling ever closer even when the music ceased.

A giddy countess lost her equilibrium when she could not keep her eyes from him. Without  facing in her direction, the alleged vampire righted the countess with a mere touch of his palm against the small of her back. She fainted into her husband’s arms. 

The remaining ladies were too entranced by Mártainn Macane to take notice.

Ellie swallowed hard.

Lord Lovenip, indeed. For there could be no other man capable of stirring a stately crowd into such a frenzy with nothing more than a moment of his presence.

With what was surely superhuman strength, Ellie cut her gaze from the man sucking all the air out of the previously well-ventilated ballroom and forced her eyes to her benefactress. 

The act of severing the inexplicable connection to the rakish Highlander made Ellie think the unreality of the moment had been entirely in her mind. Once the arresting Scotsman no longer filled her vision, the rest of her senses shifted back to normal. Her pulse no longer clogged her ears, her blood no longer simmered beneath her flesh, and Miss Breckenridge was no longer breathing like—

All right, yes. Miss Breckenridge was still breathing like a broodmare in labor. If her bosoms heaved any more vehemently, they’d fling themselves right out of their fashionably low bodice. Ellie uncurled fingers she didn’t recall clenching and pressed a trembling hand to her own bosom to assure herself she was in no danger of exposing any womanly curves.

None of the other ladies seemed afflicted with such spinsterish sensibilities.

He could have his pick of anyone in the room, Ellie realized with a start. Could and, most likely, did. Young, old, married, widowed—they were all shamelessly, shockingly available if he but wished it. 

The well-favored Scot seemed indifferent to the tiny dramas of gentlemen clinging desperately to their negligent wives and turned instead to the buffet of virginal misses fairly leaping from their duennas’ custody and into his arms.

The steps of country-dances led him to one, then another, then yet another, leaving them all flushed and breathless and smitten, panting and clawing for the chance to tumble into his embrace once again, as if addicted to his scent.

It was horrifying and appalling and… more than a little exciting. 

Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie’s flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her bones. 

It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.

Although, as expected, Ellie had seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome Lord Lovenip’s being tempted by blood rather than by the ladies themselves, he was certainly dangerous in his own right, and a volatile addition to any throng. Not to mention provocative.

“Miss Breckenridge—” Ellie sucked in a breath, shocked to have heard a stammer in her voice. One would think this man had cast a spell over the ballroom. “Miss Breckenridge,” she began again, once she had regained her command over both voice and body. “Presumably, the man who has enraptured the entire party without uttering a single word is the infamous Lord Lovenip. I see him dancing with those he should and those he should not, but nothing more untoward than that. I thought you said he… bites?”

“Not all of them.” With obvious difficulty, Miss Breckenridge tore her eyes from the man in question. She turned toward Ellie, her movements sluggish, as if she yearned to tilt back toward Macane. “And not all the time. That’s what makes him harder to catch.” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “And it’s why nobody believes me.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice lowered. “He’s not playacting, Miss Ramsay. He’s a predator.”

Unconvinced of dark magic afoot, Ellie pursed her lips and considered. “What is he waiting for, then? A solicitation?”

“A temptation, rather.” Miss Breckenridge lifted one of her slender arms and gave a flick of the wrist at the teeming crush. “He’s bored. He’s danced with these women before, many times. Such is the burden of the Beau Monde—there are a limited set of us at any given party.”

“A trial, to be sure,” Ellie murmured.

“I have had a devil of a time catching him in the act,” Miss Breckenridge continued. “My own sister doesn’t acknowledge the truth, which is what prompted me to hire a professional. Nothing short of impartial corroboration will gain me her ear.” She gave a sharp nod. “I shall now step aside and allow you your head.”

“Very well.” Ellie returned her gaze to the riveting Highlander who somehow made six-plus feet of controlled muscle seem elegant and graceful. She strongly suspected the virginal misses swarming about were in danger of losing something far more irreplaceable than a ration of blood, but how on earth could Ellie prove it?

“Dance,” she suggested to her client. “Dance with him, and I promise to watch closely. I shan’t even blink.”

Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. “Are you mad? I’ve no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil’s spawn might be. Dance with him yourself if you’d like to tempt him into action.”

Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound—Ellie gave her head a violent shake. No, rather. What bug was in her brain today? She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by this charlatan or anyone else. Furthermore, whilst Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London’s finest. 

Should she risk a dance to prove it? Certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get her hands dirty in the name of science.

But how?

No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation. That’s why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting, Don’t look at me, Don’t remember me, at everyone who passed her by. 

It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip did happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a viscount, he’d suppose her Miss Breckenridge’s chaperone before he thought her a viable partner.

Besides, did she even know how to dance? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps—or not—was one of the many maddening holes in her memory. 

Her mother had cautioned against taking this assignment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and this was just a simple ball. 

Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.

But she couldn’t stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering, Look at me; notice me as she stared at Mr. Macane’s devastatingly handsome form.

Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His attention was on his simpering dance partner.

Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie shifted her gaze to the beautiful debutante in his arms, who had thrown herself into the arms of a man she believed deadly. The chit was wealthy and popular—everything Ellie was not.

I hope you fall.

The girl’s legs collapsed beneath her.

Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.

Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.

“You can’t see me. You can’t see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.

“He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected her, her voice faint. “I fear you’ve been marked.”

Ellie’s body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. Every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself… and him.

The melody ended, and a new one began. Without taking his eyes from Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined. 

Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.

“You.”

And then he pounced.

###

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Previously published as “Never Been Bitten” in “Born to Bite”.

One Night with a Duke: Sharable images!

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New Release: ONE NIGHT WITH A DUKE

12 Dukes of Christmas #10: One Night with a Duke!

From a New York Times bestselling author: Sparks fly in this definitely-not-falling-in-love workplace romance between a handsome drifter chasing adventure, and a small-town jeweler who would never leave her home behind…

Dashing Scot Jonathan MacLean never returns to the same town twice. The happy-go-lucky philanthropist seeks constant adventure… and is desperate to outrun his past. When a blizzard traps him in a tiny mountaintop village, he meets a woman who tempts him with dreams he'd long since abandoned: Home. Community. Love. But other people’s livelihoods depend on him leaving for good as soon as the snow melts.

Talented jeweler Angelica Parker has spent her life fighting for recognition. She's Black, she's a woman, and she will prove her creations are the equal to any artisan in England. With a contract anchoring her in place for seven years, she lands the project of a lifetime. There's no room for error—or distractions. Such as the charming drifter whose warm embrace and melting kisses have become more precious than jewels…

The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

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Meet the Heroine: Miss Angelica Parker

Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,

One Night with a Duke!

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Miss Angelica Parker’s quick, competent fingers secured the next amethyst in its delicate setting with deliberate, precise movements.

Everything Angelica did was deliberate and precise. The items on display in the front windows were at varying heights, depending on whether the intended wearer was a child or an adult. Because the fireplace was on the left side of her shop, comfortable chairs had been arranged on the right, with artfully placed hand mirrors atop each side table for admiring one’s reflection.

The two-foot counter that separated Angelica from the customers contained her primary work area on the left—the same side as the fireplace—and a curated display of higher priced items on the right—the same side as the customers. The most valuable jewelry was kept under lock and key, to be brought out from a private room by special request.

Every item in the shop was categorized and displayed just so. Every tool in her working area kept in perfect condition, waiting on its assigned hook or labeled drawer at exactly the right distance from where she’d be most likely to need it.

This winter, 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 a farmer, as winsome as Beau le Duc. His eyes glittered like sapphires of a thousand facets, above a bone-melting smile that had yet to falter despite her cool reception.

His dramatic entrance didn’t make him look ridiculous at all, but heart-stoppingly magnetic. He seemed made for the stage, the sort of larger-than-life charisma and razor-sharp beauty that would draw crowds the likes of which Drury Lane had never seen. Was he an actor? Was he practicing a role, here, with her?

If so, she did not have time for it or him, no matter how unsettlingly handsome he was. There was no space in her life for distractions. Especially tall, broad-shouldered distractions with eyes like jewels and a smile that melted knees.

“Ask me anything,” he said. “Give it your best. Try to surprise me.”

Angelica rolled back her shoulders. She had a question, all right. One he was refusing to answer.

“May I help you?” she said again, more pointedly this time, each syllable as sharp as his cheekbones.

He beamed at her as though she had passed a test.

“Very good.” His burr was as rich as melted chocolate. “I was expecting ‘Who are you?’ or ‘Why are you here?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ All of which, I might add, have easier answers.” 

“This is Cressmouth,” she found herself explaining. “Strangers are the least mysterious thing that blows into town. We wouldn’t be a Christmas village without tourists.”

Something flickered in his eyes. He turned from her, as if not wanting her to witness the smile slipping out of place.

He was just as attractive in profile. More so. Or perhaps the lack of dazzling smile allowed her to better see the rest of him. From this angle, he seemed less impossibly cheerful and more… Hmm. Brooding wasn’t it. Not quite sad, not quite wistful. Determined, and a little self-deprecating. As though the show hadn’t been for her benefit at all, but rather for his. An audience of one, and a script perhaps no one but him would understand.

Her cousins would laugh themselves into fits if they could see Angelica studying some dashing Scotsman as though he were an uncut diamond brought to her for appraisal.

We told you to find a man, they would say, but not that one. Auntie has picked out just the gentleman for you, though your brother thinks you’d be better matched with—

No. Shutting out their noisy, nosy opinions on how she should live her life was one of the principal reasons Angelica maintained a strict no-relatives-in-the-jewelry-shop policy. 

Once she received the recognition she craved, then and only then would she entertain the notion of marrying a husband of her own choosing, thank you very much. She welcomed her family’s home cooking, but not their ham-fisted attempts at matchmaking.

She did not need or want a man to make her life complete. Angelica was enough, all on her own. She would prove it.

She opened her mouth to politely enquire for the fourth time whether she could be of service—oh, how she wished she could be rude without causing risk to her livelihood!—when Mr. MacLean spun to face her.

“This is a jeweler’s shop!” Obvious delight lit his eyes. “I adore jewelry.”

She scowled at him before she remembered only to assume neutral expressions. Why the dickens had the man burst through the door if he did not know what kind of shop this was?

She crossed her arms over her chest in preparation for the next inevitable question.

“The owner—” he began.

Here it came. The assumption every single person without fail had made once they crossed the threshold and discovered her on the other side. No one saw beyond her bosom or the tiger’s-eye brown of her skin.

“—and designer of all this beauty is standing right before me.” He beamed at her. “It’s true, isn’t it? You created these pieces yourself?”

Her arms fell limply down to her sides. He hadn’t assumed she was an employee? Or a servant? Or property? In England, it was no longer legal to sell or purchase new slaves, but plenty of the wealthy kept the ones they had. She stared at him. “But… I’m…”

“Breathtakingly bonny? I did notice. Horrid manners for you to bring it up yourself, one might add. Aye, you outshine all these jewels, but they sparkle in their own way. Like this set…”

He wandered away to gaze closer at a collection of brooches at the far corner of the counter.

She stared after him speechlessly.

Breathtakingly bonny, he’d said. And then turned away. As though his words had not been empty flirtatious banter, pretty words designed to weaken a woman’s defenses, but a simple statement of fact.

He assumed this was her shop. A Black woman. He’d assumed the pieces were her handiwork. Complimented them. Thought her talented. Believed her intricate creations to be far more remarkable and noteworthy than the fact that Angelica owned and designed them. Her lungs filled with hope.

He made everything she’d worked for all these years seem possible.

Despite his claim to the contrary, Angelica was uncomfortably aware that she was the least eye-catching thing in the room. 

All her time and energy was devoted to her shop. Which meant everything else in her life was as plain and simple as possible, so she needn’t waste precious time dithering. The pale-pink day dress she wore was identical to six others in her wardrobe. She could grab any item without thinking and it would all match because she’d designed her living quarters to be as easy as possible. She saved her brain for things that mattered. Her shop was her world. Her looks should be irrelevant. 

A maxim she’d repeated to herself for seven long years, only for today—today!—for it to finally feel true.

Angelica looked like a business owner. She looked like a jeweler. Like a skilled artisan. She looked like she belonged here, in this space. In the shop she’d carved out of blood, sweat, tears, and pure unadulterated stubbornness.

All by herself.

Mostly by herself. In any case, she was on her own now. Independent and proud of it.

“Tell me about all the pieces,” commanded the distractingly handsome Scotsman. “Start at the beginning. Which was the first one you made? The first one you sold? Why that one? When did you open the shop? Are most of your clients tourists? Who was the first customer? Are you charging enough for your work? Which stones are your favorites to work with? Is gold better than silver? How do you come up with such compelling designs?”

Angelica stared at him. 

Usually she didn’t know what to say, but he’d given her too much to respond to. Asked better questions in one minute than all her other customers combined. 

She didn’t have time to explain how she became a jeweler, what her first piece was, why a bejeweled vinaigrette bottle had been the first item she’d sold. Much less give the hours-long—months-long?—explanation of which materials she preferred for which purposes and why, and the mechanics behind each design. He would have to apprentice her for a year.

“Och aye, I like this one,” he breathed, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of answers. “May I touch?”

She nodded jerkily. The piece was a deceptively simple pendant; an orb within an orb, the interior world turning independently of the delicate golden cage that bound it. 

Even though Mr. MacLean had asked permission to touch, received permission, wanted to touch, he brought his knuckle ever so close to the side of the tiny globe-within-a-globe and did not make contact.

Angelica was two yards away and could feel that light presence as though his knuckle was not next to her gold pendant, but rather beside her cheek. Close enough to feel his warmth, yet not quite touching. Close enough to lean into, were she to dip her head. Close enough to smell, to taste.

But it was not her he was looking at with such fascination. It was not even the gold pendant. Already he had moved to the next sparkling object, and the next, and the next. At this rate, he would lay eyes on every piece faster than she would have been able to rattle off their names.

When he reached the final piece, he stood just across the counter from Angelica. He could reach out and not-quite-touch her the way he’d not-quite-touched her gold pendant.

The thought made her want to wrench open the wooden door behind her, fling herself into her private adjoining cottage, and shut the door tight behind her.

She wouldn’t, of course. She couldn’t. Her shop didn’t close for hours, and she needed every scrap of success she could find.

“I’ll take them,” the Scot announced.

She blinked at him. “Take what?”

“Whichever ones you want to sell me,” he replied, as though it was obvious. As though people wandered in off the street every day willing to pay exorbitant prices for expensive jewelry they didn’t bother to pick out for themselves.

He hadn’t even asked about cost.

“What would you do with fifteen hair clips?” she managed.

“Is that what you’d sell me?” He appeared delighted by this absurdity. “I’d wear them, all at once, just to say 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 necklace 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 to—”

The door tinkled open and Noelle Ward, Duchess of Silkridge, dashed inside.

“Angelica! There you are.”

“Where else would I be?” Angelica muttered, acutely conscious that Mr. MacLean now knew her Christian name. “I’m always here.”

“And a good thing, too. We’re in dire need of your help.”

“‘We’ the Duke and Duchess of Silkridge? Or ‘we’ the castle counting-house?”

This question likely made no sense to Mr. MacLean. Before marrying a duke, Noelle had spent her days high in the castle’s tallest tower, overseeing the counting-house. 

From the look on Mr. MacLean’s face, he could sense a fascinating story and was dying to ask a hundred impertinent questions.

“‘We’ the entire village of Christmas,” Noelle said dramatically, which likely pleased Mr. MacLean just as much. “For the grand Yuletide ball, we’re erecting a large yew tree in the ballroom and we need you to help us decorate it.”

Angelica raised her brows. “Why?”

“You’re the most talented artist in Christmas. The adornments must be the most beautiful objects our guests have ever seen—”

“Not why would you ask me to design the adornments,” Angelica explained patiently. “Why would you put a tree indoors?”

“It’s tradition.”

Angelica shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“A new tradition,” Noelle admitted. “It’s the first annual Marlowe Castle Yuletide Indoor Evergreen—yes, I know that’s a mouthful; we’re working on a better name—and it absolutely has royal precedence. Queen Charlotte first decorated a large yew tree with fruits and baubles fourteen years ago, at Queen’s Lodge in Windsor. All the beau monde is thinking of doing it.”

“So… the plan is to copy High Society?” Angelica said doubtfully.

“Exactly. What does our village stand for, if not for making perquisites associated with aristocrats available to the general public? The castle is open at all hours with every manner of entertainment… And now a tree!”

“And now a tree,” Angelica repeated. Exactly what she needed. There was already not enough time to finish all her work and still see her family, not to mention she was expecting a visit from a friend… How was she supposed to do it all? It was impossible. “What do you need?”

“Mr. Thompson has authorized me to commission ten gold adornments.” Noelle lowered her voice. “And if he hadn’t, I would have paid for it myself. Charge whatever you like, Angelica. I want this to be worth it for you. This will change people’s lives.”

Mr. Thompson was the solicitor managing the castle trust. Charge whatever you like was a convincing argument.

“How will decorating an indoor tree change people’s lives?” she asked instead.

“Not everyone in Cressmouth is in a position to reap the rewards of tourism. Until now! We have endless hills of evergreens. What could be a better souvenir than a tree from the village of Christmas? Mr. Thompson has signed a document granting all year-round residents the right to sell a generous quantity of evergreens from five percent of the castle woods, to be replanted every spring. Not everyone will take advantage, but those who wish to… can.” 

It was a worthy cause. Angelica had no time to take on another project, but saying no would be admitting to weakness—and letting her neighbors down. The ball was held the Wednesday before Christmas, making it only five days hence. If she didn’t already have so much else to do…

“If we can pull this off,” Noelle continued, “which we will, with your help—everyone will know you were the one to design the golden mistletoe sprigs with red-jeweled berries.’” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “All the wealthy tourists will want to take home adornments of their own, designed by the same artist. You, Angelica! They’ll brag to all their friends and your name will be on everyone’s lips.”

Angelica’s name on everyone’s lips. 

This was what she wanted. What she had worked so hard for, and for so long. She wanted recognition. She wanted tourists to flock to her door not because she was the only jeweler for miles, but because she was the only jeweler they wished to do business with.

“Eve will put it on the front page of the Cressmouth Gazette,” Noelle was saying.

The rest of her words sounded as though they were muffled by water. Cressmouth’s population might be small, but the gazette reached thousands of homes outside the village. Everyone who visited subscribed, as did countless more who took their Yuletide holidays vicariously through the antics printed in the monthly broadsheet. It might be on a small scale, but Angelica’s name would be known nationwide.

All she’d have to do was give up her chance to be with her family. 

She straightened her spine. There would be more Christmases in the future. Angelica would have enough money to take the entire clan on holiday thrice in a year anywhere they wished.

“All right,” she said. “Golden mistletoe with jeweled berries. The most beautiful—and expensive—Yuletide adornments ever created.”

Noelle squealed and clapped her hands together. “I’ll pick them up for the grand ball on Tuesday. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This will be marvelous.”

She dashed from the shop before Angelica could say another word.

The interior filled with silence.

Mr. MacLean arched a golden brow. “If you didn’t have time to sell me a bucketful of hair combs…”

“I know,” Angelica said. “I know.”

How was she meant to explain it to him?

She took a deep breath. “This may sound conceited, but I work hard because I know how talented I am. Seven years ago, I vowed to create a name for myself at any cost. This is part of that cost, and my chance. Once my designs are respected all over the land, I’ll have earned the right to relax, to be proud of myself, to do as I please. But until that day… I have work to do.”

She expected him to launch into a thousand questions. Why the vow? What cost? Why seven years? 

Instead, he surprised her by giving her an unsettlingly serious stare, followed by a short, decisive nod.

“I have no use for Christmas,” he said slowly, “but I understand vows and ambition. I’ll leave you to it.”

He strode out of the exit just as abruptly as Noelle, pausing only to give Angelica a little bow before disappearing through the door and into the falling snow.

She stared after him for far too long before she remembered the half-finished necklace. Angelica tried to return to her task. There would be no eating or sleeping until the Cruz pieces were finished and delivered, and she was free to start on the adornments for the castle tree.

But the shop felt empty without Mr. MacLean in it. As though when he’d left, he’d taken all the air with him. It was just Angelica now, alone, with no sounds to accompany her but the pounding of her heart.

She wished he’d stayed.

She was glad he left.

How could she miss a total stranger? She couldn’t. It was impossible. She would shove him from her mind. No more thoughts of Mr. MacLean until after Christmas.

By then, he would be long gone.

###

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Meet the Hero: Jonathan MacLean

Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,

One Night with a Duke!

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###

Mr. Jonathan MacLean could have spent the two-hour journey from Eyemouth, Scotland to Cressmouth, England tucked safely into the relative warmth of the hackney coach he’d hired, but where was the pleasure in that?

Perched out here with his driver, Mr. Beattie, no foggy window pane stood between Jonathan and the rolling vista. All around them, snow-covered hills topped a sea of frost-speckled evergreens. He was en route to adventure—once again!—and he didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

After two hours together, the hackney driver had warmed to his unconventional client.

“Well…” Beattie squinted into the wind. “I wouldn’t gad about crying, ‘A pox on raisins!’ but there’s a limit to how many a man ought to find in his biscuit, isn’t there?”

“Pah!” Jonathan said. “I like biscuits with raisins, biscuits without raisins, bread with raisins, bread without raisins, cakes with raisins, cakes without raisins, a bowl full of nothing but raisins…”

The list of things Jonathan liked was infinite. The right attitude limited opportunities for disappointment. It was difficult for things not to go one’s way, when one was determined to like all the ways.

Beattie was the best driver a traveler could hope to be paired with. He hadn’t objected in the least when Jonathan promised to triple his earnings if he shared his rickety, wind-whipped perch with a stranger.

To fill the dead air, they’d shared their life stories—Jonathan’s began when he was sixteen, no sense dredging up memories from his childhood—and were now on to arbitrary preferences, which was exactly the sort of easy, superficial, boundless topic he liked best.

“Towns,” said Beattie with a sly look in his eye. “As a traveling peddler who’s been to every corner of Britain, there must be some place you refuse to return to.”

Jonathan wasn’t precisely a peddler, but he was unquestionably a traveler, and it was this topic he’d expected to be peppered with questions about upon declaring himself an open book and taking the controversial stance of not disliking anything. That they’d covered raisins and ragwort and kite-flying on windy days spoke highly of Beattie’s creativity. Too many people only concentrated on the obvious. 

“I refuse to return to all places,” Jonathan replied cheerfully. “Not because I’ve disliked them, but because there are so many more I haven’t seen. One week, that’s my rule. Less, if I can help it. Then it’s on to the next town, and the next adventure. I’m the luckiest man alive!”

Beattie stared at him, aghast. “You haven’t a home?”

Jonathan ignored the familiar ache he kept buried deep inside. He’d had a home once. A mother who rarely spoke to him. A father who never came round. Four walls that provided no comfort at all. Yuletides spent staring out of the window, dreaming of a place where he would be wanted. 

But dreams were for children.

Life had taught Jonathan it was safer never to get attached in the first place.

“How can I pick a place to stay still,” he pointed out reasonably, “until I’ve experienced everything, to know for certain which I’ll like best?”

Beattie’s wind-chapped lips gaped.

“You should try it,” Jonathan suggested. “You said you’d never been out of Scotland, and now here you are, on holiday in England!”

Beattie gazed doubtfully at the endless drifts of snow encroaching on the winding road.

“I’m not on holiday,” he reminded Jonathan. “You paid me handsomely to make this journey.”

“Was it not enough?” Jonathan pulled several more freezing guineas from his coin purse and dropped them into Beattie’s gaping pocket, heavy from all the other coins Jonathan had foisted upon him. “There, now you can be on holiday, as well. Although I should confess that I am always on holiday and not on holiday at the same time.”

Beattie’s frost-tipped lashes blinked. “Your confessions always leave me more confused than when I started.”

Jonathan beamed at him. “Part of the fun, isn’t it? A body might think—”

But the words froze in his throat like so many icicles. A festive crimson sign rose like a beacon just ahead:

Welcome to Christmas!

“Cressmouth,” Jonathan muttered. “The village is called Cressmouth.”

“Aye, well,” said Beattie. “It might be named Cressmouth, but even I know it’s called ‘Christmas’ by everyone between Shetland and Cornwall. Isn’t that why you’re here? Everyone adores Christmas!”

Jonathan would rather no Christmas at all.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing a leather-clad finger at a telltale waft of smoke rising from a gray blur of a brick house in the middle of a large field. 

Between the falling snow and the corkscrew path up the evergreen-furred mountain, the village had been completely hidden from view until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

This was interesting, indeed! H-A-R-P was just visible on a thick wooden sign blanketed in snow. A stud farm, by the looks of it. One of the most famous in England, to be specific. Everyone had heard of the Harpers.

One of their horses was of royal caliber, according to the broadsheets, and was the most in-demand of all the fine blood horses in Britain. No lesser personage than the Prince Regent had attempted to purchase it, but he hadn’t been able to, which only made the horse quintuple in value and the Harpers all the more infamous.

“Look!” A horse and rider cut across the Harpers’ snow-covered fields.

“I can’t look,” Beattie grumbled. “I can’t even see the road with you leaning past me like an overeager puppy. If you were inside the carriage, you could look out of the window and—”

“Nothing interesting happens whilst cloistered somewhere,” Jonathan scolded him. 

He twisted backward onto the perch, his frozen knees balancing on the tattered squab, just in time for the rider to come within shouting distance. 

“Ho, there!” he called out. “Lovely horse you’ve got! I’ll buy it from you!”

“What would you do with a horse,” Beattie asked, “when you haven’t even got a house?”

“Give it to you,” Jonathan replied sensibly. “What a wonderful story it will make! ‘How did you enjoy your time in Cressmouth?’ they’ll ask—”

“Christmas,” Beattie corrected. “It’s called Christmas.”

Jonathan wanted to like everything. He tried to like everything. But some things…

He continued on, ignoring Beattie’s interruption. “‘Och, you know, boring old seasonal nonsense,’ most people would reply. ‘Bought a watercolor of a pine tree, in case I forget what one looks like when I’ve gone back home.’ But not me, Beattie, and not you! ‘Bought a horse,’ I’ll say, ‘from the famous Harper stud farm. Gave it to my hack driver. Hope he likes it better than raisins.’ And you’ll say—”

“I won’t say a blessed thing,” Beattie said, “because that gentleman didn’t even look up when you called, so I daresay you won’t be buying any horses.”

“Perhaps not today,” Jonathan allowed, “but anything could happen tomorrow. The best adventures are unpredictable.”

“I predict I won’t be here to find out,” Beattie said. “Once you alight at your cottage, I shall turn around and go home. You might not believe in permanence, but I’ve got a wife who’ll be keeping supper warm for me. Something to consider.”

“Pah,” said Jonathan. “If I can’t decide on a home until I’ve seen them all, how am I supposed to take a wife? Do you know how many more women there are than cities and hamlets? Even if I limited myself to conversing five minutes with each one, I’d never meet them all in a hundred years.” 

“You don’t have to meet them all,” Beattie said in exasperation. “Find a good one and keep her.”

“I don’t want a good lass,” Jonathan explained. “I want a splendid lass. I want the best lass. Nothing else will do.”

“And ‘nothing’ is what you’ll end up with,” Beattie predicted. “I hope you like suppers alone.”

“Be alone?” Jonathan clutched his chest. “I’ve taken every meal with a different person for as long as I can remember.”

Well, for as long as he’d been on the road—which was the only bit he chose to remember. 

Not that Beattie was listening. He stared openmouthed at the majestic castle soaring up into the sky at the top of the mountain. It looked like something out of a fairy book. Or it would, if it weren’t surrounded by a living black moat of holiday-makers in smart carriages, and swarming pedestrians in bright-colored woolen caps.

“Turn here,” Jonathan commanded, shaking out the small hand-drawn map that had come with his invitation. “To the right, past the pond, curve about until… here!”

One might not think a village of a thousand souls would require much in the way of maps, but the Duke of Nottingvale was nothing if not thorough. It was a quality Jonathan very much admired, and it boded splendidly for their upcoming business partnership—if the presentation went as planned.

He leapt to the ground the moment Beattie halted the hack, and had to grab the edge of the footrest to keep his feet from flying out in front of him when his boots skated weightlessly across a hidden patch of ice.

Two matched footmen burst from the cottage with twin expressions of horror, but they were far too well-mannered to scold their guest for leaping down from a carriage like—what had Beattie said?—aye, like an overeager puppy.

Jonathan liked puppies. Everyone liked puppies. There were far worse things one could be compared to.

As the footmen carried Jonathan’s trunks into the cottage—and really, only a duke could refer to this sprawling detached brick country home as a cottage—he turned back to Beattie to make his goodbye.

“Safe travels back to your wife.” He tossed an extra sovereign up toward the perch. “I’ve left a small coin purse in the carriage for you to do with what you will. If it were me, I’d purchase a horse on my way out of town.”

Beattie nearly missed catching the sovereign. “How much coin is in the back of my carriage?”

Jonathan waved a hand. “I didn’t say you could purchase ‘the’ horse. Perhaps I want the famous one for myself. I know nothing about horseflesh, but the best studhorse in England can’t be a poor investment, can it?”

Beattie stared at him. “If they wouldn’t sell it to Prinny—”

“Then he didn’t offer the right price. I agree, I agree. You’re a crafty one.” Jonathan slapped the side of the carriage. “Go on now, before you beggar me dry.”

As the wheels crunched over the snow, it almost sounded like Beattie muttered, “No one will believe this story.”

Jonathan grinned to himself. All good stories were slightly unbelievable, and the best stories were the least believable of the lot. It was his sworn mission to live the unlikeliest tale he could devise. 

“Mr. MacLean,” said the duke’s butler. “Allow me to take your hat and your coat. I’m afraid His Grace isn’t expected until the day after tomorrow.”

The duke’s butler did not add, “Because you’ve arrived two days early.” 

Partly because a duke’s butler was far too refined to make such a pointed observation, and partly because someone as well-prepared as Nottingvale would keep his cottage ready for guests at all moments, despite only hosting once per year during his annual Yuletide party.

“No, thank you,” Jonathan said politely, keeping his hat and coat. But he tipped the butler twice as much as the footmen all the same. “I’ve only just got here. I want to explore a bit before I settle in.”

He would spend more than enough time in the duke’s house once the others arrived. His partner, first. Jonathan had arranged the meeting, and Calvin was bringing all the illustrations and samples necessary for convincing the duke to invest in their sartorial venture. Jonathan had agreed to meet Calvin a day early to practice their proposal. Which meant, from tomorrow on, Jonathan would be stuck inside. This afternoon was his opportunity to explore the outside.

For such a small village to feel like an adventure, the key was to walk everywhere. It would take longer and he would notice more. Jonathan loved noticing things. He had learned to draw in order to remember all the things he noticed. He usually ended up giving those drawings away, aye, but that was because a vagabond explorer must travel light. 

All Jonathan kept were memories.

He made exaggeratedly careful steps in the packed snow along the edge of the road. Sliding down a hill could be great fun when done on purpose, but twisting an ankle was no start for an adventure. 

Also, he was wearing the smart traveling attire that Calvin had designed, with extra coat pockets and a cashmere-lined waistcoat. An impeccable carriage outfit, one which Jonathan could foresee being worn on countless future exciting journeys, so long as he didn’t rip a hole in the knee flailing about on tricky hidden patches of ice between here and the castle.

Not that he was going straight to the castle. That was what ordinary people did when they visited Cressmouth on an ordinary holiday. The castle employed most of the town and housed most of its visitors. There could not be a more boring place to start.

Jonathan wanted to know who these people were that did not live or work in the castle. They couldn’t all be dukes, and dukes’ servants. Some must be ordinary villagers, that couldn’t be helped, but the same logic indicated some villagers must be extraordinary, and those were the people Jonathan wanted to meet. 

Cottage, cottage, cottage… He was friendly, aye, any gentleman ought to be, but not so pushy as to knock on the doors of complete strangers in the hopes of becoming momentary friends. The trick was to run across them casually, whilst they were walking down the street or riding an overpriced studhorse about their farm. Cottage, cottage…

What’s this?

He jerked stock still, a posture that could have been mistaken for military precision were it not for the extremely flattering, extremely comfortable, only slightly wrinkled carriage outfit he wore as his uniform.

This was a shop of some kind, with the living quarters upstairs, and a charming stone chimney with a faint plume of smoke. 

From this angle, Jonathan couldn’t make out the wooden sign swinging from squeaking hinges beside the door, but enough candles were lit inside to give the impression sunlight flowed out, rather than in through the many windows. 

Open for business, then, and a perfect place to find something extraordinary.

Everything anyone could ever want was in the castle, Jonathan had been told. The rooms to let were a little dear, but the entertainment was free—musicians, dancing—as was the bountiful food. Three hot meals served daily in the grand dining chamber to anyone who wandered in, as well as refreshments just inside the castle doors for passers-by to enjoy. Mulled wine, hot chocolate, biscuits with and without raisins, no doubt. A lake, a hill, walking tours, an open-air market in the back garden, weather permitting. The list of delights went on and on.

But the castle couldn’t have everything, no matter what they claimed. It wasn’t a smithy, for one, nor was it a stud farm. Whatever this unassuming little shop contained, it was already better than the castle, because it had something the castle didn’t.

Something Jonathan was about to discover.

He inched closer, careful not to slip on the ice and slide through the open door in an ungainly yet fashionable heap.

He almost fell anyway.

The shop contained the most stunning woman Jonathan had beheld in his life. Who cared what she was selling? He would be content to gaze upon her bonny face until the sun set and the candles sputtered out.

He could only see her from the elbows up due to some ill-thought-out wooden counter standing vexingly in the way, but her round, delicate shoulders were outshone only by the gentle brown curve of her neck, the stubborn angle of her chin, the lush softness of her lips—at least, Jonathan imagined them to be soft, but in this weather he would not hold a wee bit of chapped roughness against anyone. In any case, her nose was as lovely as her mouth. A little wide and a little snub; the perfect amount of roundness. 

From this distance it was impossible to tell whether her eyes were the same dark brown as her skin or as black as the high chignon pinned so efficiently that not a single hair escaped. Could that be true? Or was he too far away to see past her perfection? He liked ruthless efficiency; it was a very fine quality, one he did not share at all. He also liked wild bits that escaped and did incorrigible things.

He supposed this meant that no matter how perfect or imperfect this woman was, she was destined to please him either way. Really, what sort of fool would pass up this opportunity to introduce himself? Jonathan was only here for a few days. Once Calvin arrived on the morrow, his time would be spoken for. If there was any hope of making this woman’s acquaintance, the time was now. His blood raced enthusiastically at the prospect, filling his veins with energy and causing a delightful little flutter in his stomach.

Jonathan was on the cusp of another adventure. He could feel it.

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New Release: DAWN WITH A DUKE

12 Dukes of Christmas #9: Dawn with a Duke!

From a New York Times bestselling author: Secrets and scandal abound when two strong-willed opposites are snowbound together in this laugh-out-loud, heartwarming romance!

As the daughter of a duke, Lady Isabelle’s pristine reputation is paramount. Her high status is how she’ll attract the titled suitor her mother insists she wed. When Belle’s chaperone falls ill en route to a party, she must pose as an independent widow to avoid gossip. Why not have a wee innocent flirtation with a handsome tailor staying at the same inn? She’ll be gone in the morning…

A sudden blizzard upends Calvin MacAlistair’s plans when he’s snowbound at a posting-house. He has no time to play lady’s maid to the helpless beauty next door, no matter how much he enjoys unbuttoning the straitlaced widow. His future depends on impressing an important investor… who will ruin them both once they realize Calvin has spent a scandalous fortnight with Lady Isabelle!

The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

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