“Not all of the time,” he said, as though she weren’t quite catching on. “I assumed you’d want to be here sometimes, which is why I brought Duke to accompany you when I cannot. Och, I forgot the most important bit. I’m not asking you to live in sin with an itinerant salesman. I’m asking you to be my wife.”
She stared at him. “You’re asking me to accept a model replica of my neighbor instead of a flesh-and-blood husband?”
“I said—” The words came out with exaggerated patience. “—that you could come with me. It cannot be my fault if you choose to stay here.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re not proposing marriage. You’re proposing I give up everything I worked for and everyone I love, or live without my husband.”
“I’d come for Christmases,” he reminded her.
“That sounds reasonable to you?” she blurted out. “I don’t want a husband for only twelve days of the year. That’s not a wife; it’s a holiday. I’m worth more.”
“I’m trying to give you what you’re worth. The only way I can provide for you is to—”
“I didn’t ask you to provide for me. I provide for me. When I marry, it will be to a man, not to a coin purse.” She crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands. “Your excuse is hogwash anyway. If the only thing missing from our union was money, don’t you have a bank account that could solve your troubles?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not spending the laird’s blood money on me. I’ll earn my way on my own or not at all. I have my own account, with coin I’ve earned. My life shall be a success in spite of my father, not because of him.”
“Then you’ve given it all away? Every farthing from the trust?”
He sighed. “Barely a dent, no matter how hard I try. It keeps earning interest.”
“So, you could have a home, and choose not to. You could pay someone else to travel about England delivering catalogues. You could probably employ a team to deliver in every shire.”
“I told you,” he said. “My success shall come from my efforts to stand out, not the money my father spent to hide me away. I’d sooner live under a bridge than accept gold as a substitute for a father.”
“But you expect me to accept a wicker manikin instead of a husband?” Her laugh felt like broken glass. “Goodbye, Jonathan. Marriage means making a home, not providing a posting house. If you’re just passing through... Do us both a favor, and stay gone.”
Chapter 13
Jonathan had never looked forward to Christmas Day, and this one was already miserable. The house was positively brimming with revelers.
They’d started the night before—carols and puddings and charades and spiced wine. After being up all night making merry, they somehow managed to be merry all over again. He’d lost count of the number of people who’d knocked on his door offering well-wishes or invitations to join them for roast goose or rousing parlor games.
Jonathan was not going in that parlor.
There was mistletoe in there.
Last night, the only woman he had any desire to kiss had brushed him off as efficiently as a maid sweeping unwanted debris from the front step.
Stay gone, she’d said. Would that he could!
But it was the wretched day known as Christmas, in a tiny village also known as Christmas, which meant there wasn’t a single hack to be had. He could get a sleigh ride to the castle if he wanted to nauseate himself with even more music and dancing, but not a single soul could be convinced to drag him far away at any price.
His head ached. So did his heart.
He should be grateful Angelica was clever enough to end things now, rather than wait until resentment ate them alive and the only ties binding them were for business. He should be glad. He should be relieved.
Besides, what ties would bind them? Angelica hadn’t seemed particularly tempted by any part of his offer. It was a douse of cold water. Jonathan had got used to being the hero. To coming along and saving the day.
But Angelica didn’t need saving.
Nor did she need him.
Jonathan glared out his window at the drifting snow. He would show her. As soon as he had the catalogues, he would hire a hack and journey to every corner of England until Fit for a Duke was more popular than fresh bread. She would earn fistfuls of money from his efforts. He wouldn’t stop until her name was on everyone’s lips. Until he finally proved himself worthy of her.
Once she was as rich as Croesus, well, then they could decide what to do, couldn’t they? His father’s bribe money wouldn’t matter anymore. Once Jonathan and Angelica both were independently wealthy on their own merits...
How long would that take? How much was enough? Even if he managed to earn it, would she still want him by then? Was staying out of her life the best plan?
A knock came on Jonathan’s door.
He ignored it.
The door swung open anyway.
Calvin strode inside and handed Jonathan a mug of steaming chocolate. “Happy Christmas.”
“Not you, too,” Jonathan muttered.
“The others are about to play a game of—”
“No.”
“Should I have brought Scotch whisky instead of chocolate?”
Jonathan sniffed the warm contents of the mug. It smelled delicious, damn it. Hot and sweet. The steam banished the chill from the air.
“I’ll suffer through,” he muttered.
Calvin eased onto the dressing-stool uninvited. “I thought you hated being stuck inside a room.”
“I do. There’s no hack to be had or I’d be gone.” Jonathan glared at him. “I don’t know how you can prefer to lock yourself in your house for months on end, sewing clothes.”
“I don’t know how you can prefer not to have a house,” Calvin countered, unruffled.
“What’s the point?” Jonathan crossed one boot over the
