“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
