“Miss Parker,” she said instead.
She could have said “Miss Angelica Parker.” Her Christian name was no secret. Despite living in the shadow of a castle, the village of Cressmouth didn’t stand much on pomp and propriety. Many of those who lived here year-round first-named each other as though they were cousins who had grown up together since birth.
It felt like that sometimes. At once cloying and protective. An entire village of big brothers and big sisters, full of unsolicited opinions and unconditional love. Their livelihoods might depend on tourists, but their loyalties were to one another.
Mr. MacLean was an outsider.
He would leave just as suddenly—and likely as dramatically—as he’d arrived. He did not need to know her given name.
“Miss Parker,” he said, as though tasting the syllables and finding them unexpectedly delicious. “It suits you.”
It did? What was that supposed to mean? That she looked like a Miss rather than a Mrs., or that she seemed like a Parker, whatever that was?
“‘MacLean’ suits you,” she shot back.
His sapphire eyes widened. “Does it? What does that mean?”
She swallowed. This was why she didn’t like to talk to people she didn’t know or speak on subjects she didn’t command. She was bound to say the wrong thing.
“Your burr,” she mumbled, waving a hand without meeting his eyes. “You sound Scottish.”
“I am Scottish,” he agreed. “For better or for worse. Your accent, on the other hand, is poor indeed. You sound...”
She tensed.
“...English,” he whispered, and gave an exaggerated shudder.
“I am English,” she managed.
“Pity,” he sighed. “All jewels have their flaws, don’t they? That is, not yours, obviously; your pieces are exquisite, even the hair combs. I would not be at all ashamed to wear them, all at once or otherwise. But English, now, there’s a challenge. A man must set limits. Although I admit I find you a delight.”
He did?
Strangers tended to find Angelica prickly and taciturn, not a delight. Even not-so-strangers. Two aunts and a distant cousin had independently informed Angelica she’d be married by now if she hadn’t the general demeanor of a startled hedgehog. Adorable, but untouchable.
Armor was smart. Armor kept her protected. Armor let her do her job... which had been woefully neglected ever since Lord Rakish McChatterbox swept into her shop like a knight prancing before his maiden.
She had no time for men or idle chatter. Even if his nonsense had managed to settle her nerves in much the same way the noise of her family reunions did. If she didn’t have a rule of not working in front of a client, she rather suspected she’d finish the Cruz necklaces faster with Mr. MacLean prattling in the background than she would left alone to her own thoughts.
Nonetheless, there was no room in her life for anything but work until she’d reached her goals. No exceptions, not even for handsome Scots.
“No offense meant,” she began, then cleared her throat and started anew.
He was less than an arm’s width from her, which should make it easy to be heard, yet her words had been little more than a squeak.
“No offense meant, sir, but if you aren’t going to make a purchase, I must get back to work.” Was that offensive? It was probably offensive. He looked baffled. “It’s not you,” she added quickly, although it was definitely him. “It’s that I’m untenably busy. My relatives are here, and I can’t see them until I’ve finished these pieces, which at this rate—”
What was wrong with her? Now she was babbling just like Mr. MacLean.
“Who said I wasn’t going to buy the hair combs?” he asked. “I’ll take the bracelets as well, if that helps. And the earrings. You can charge me double for taking so much of your time. I only meant 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—”
“No, 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.
