Wish Upon a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  He leapt down from the ladder and took his place beside her. Their hips and shoulders touched as they lowered their eyes to the lenses. His telescope was in excellent working order. She was a genius.

  His jumbled brain, on the other hand… No matter how hard he concentrated his gaze through a series of perfectly functional lenses, his vision barely registered.

  He did not feel the hard metal cylinder beneath his fingers, but the warm curves brushing tantalizingly against his side. He could not concentrate on picking out stars from the heavens, because his mind had filled with the scent of her hair. Or perhaps it was the scent of her skin. He suddenly wanted to know everything about her. To press his mouth to her cheek, to her hair, to her lips.

  “I have to go,” he said hoarsely.

  But he didn’t move away. He turned toward her.

  She glanced up from her telescope and froze when she discovered her face scant inches from his. Froze, but did not move away, either.

  There was that scent again. Lavender, or perhaps lilac. Something soft and floral and feminine. Something that could envelop him, just as he wished to envelop her in his arms. Bury his fingers in her hair. Crush his mouth to hers.

  If only she wasn’t the exact opposite of what he needed.

  He jerked his head backwards before he made a mistake that they would both regret.

  “I should go,” he said again. His voice sounded tinny, as if it no longer belonged to him. “Thank you for fixing my telescope. And for sharing your viewing platform with me.”

  She licked her lips. “You can leave yours here if you like. To keep it safe from the elements while you’re in town.”

  He nodded. As much because it was a generous offer as because he did not trust himself to carry expensive equipment anywhere.

  Come to think of it, right now he did not trust his hands at all.

  He shoved them into his pockets to keep them a safe distance from his newly repaired device—and the softness of Miss Godwin’s hair—and walked away before they embarked down the wrong path.

  Chapter 7

  The following day, Christopher did not visit Miss Godwin’s cottage. It was the first break in their routine since commissioning her as his matchmaker.

  It could not continue. The dynamic between them was too charged.

  They were each other’s worst possible match, and they knew it. Yet he could not focus on other women while she was about. He shoved a hand through his hair and stared out the guest chamber window at the late-afternoon sun.

  He needed a new matchmaker. Or no matchmaker at all. He ought to drive his chariot right back to the Harper stud farm and offer Miss Harper his matched grays as a wedding present. He groaned.

  Life was full of ought-to-dos.

  If he wanted a distraction from Miss Godwin, all he had to do was wander down into the castle’s common area and walk off with the first woman who approached him. It was what his brother would’ve done. What his father would have done. What a thousand other men would do.

  But Christopher didn’t want temporary oblivion. He wanted to wed his perfect match.

  If only it was as easy as ordering a telescope.

  As the sunset blossomed, he could stand the wait no longer. Miss Harper it was. He marched out of the castle, summoned his carriage from the mews, and headed over to—

  Blast.

  He had come straight to Miss Godwin’s.

  She answered the door. “Did your pocket watch break again?”

  He gazed at her, irritated by his own weakness. The smart play would be to cut off all contact at once. Take his telescope back, climb into his carriage, and drive away.

  He did nothing of the sort.

  “Is the pudding ready?” he asked as he stepped through the door.

  The corners of her mouth quirked. “Have you ever made pudding?”

  “Don’t throw stones,” he chided. “It didn’t look like you knew what you were doing, either.”

  She watched him pass. “Where are you going?”

  “To check your work.”

  He touched his fingertips to the fragrant cloth as he’d seen her do, and stroked his chin with his free hand as if in thought.

  “No,” he announced. “It needs at least another day.”

  She lifted her brows. “It needs another month. Once it’s dry, it will last for ages.”

  “That’s what I said.” He patted the cloth. “At least another month.”

  She burst out laughing. “Shall I save you a portion?”

  There. That took the wind out of his sails.

  He would be gone in a month. It did not matter how the pudding turned out. Christopher would not be around to enjoy it.

  She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  Yes. Many things.

  He was in search of a suitable bride. Yet the woman he was most drawn to didn’t match him at all.

  He had to put a stop to this.

  “About the matchmaking,” he began.

  Before he could continue, a loud knock sounded at the door.

  Madge sailed past the corridor to answer. Moments later, the sound of boisterous caroling filled the air.

  “It’s February,” he whispered to Miss Godwin.

  “We’re in Christmas,” she whispered back. She looped her arm through his and dragged him toward the corridor. “Come on. Let’s listen.”

  As soon as the carolers caught sight of her, half soldiered on with their out-of-season songs and the other half erupted in cheers.

  Christopher had expected off-key drunken warbling, but the group was far more skillful than anticipated. Several sections were sung in two- or three-part harmony. Carolers this talented did not need to practice at all. He stood by Miss Godwin, transfixed.

  When the song finished, they reached for her. “Join us, Gloria! Just for a few cottages. You’ll be back in time to see the stars.”

  She sent a wicked sideways glance up at Christopher.

  “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  She grinned at the carolers. “Only if my friend can come, too.”

  They cheered their approval.

  “I’m not caroling,” he said. “I already warned you.”

  She ignored his protests and hooked her arm through his. “Come along, Mr. Adventure. I want to hear you sing.”

  He could not keep up the battle. Not with his arm looped with hers. All ability to form logical arguments fled.

  She dragged him into the crowd.

  “What about your maid?” He sent a startled glance over his shoulder. “Madge!”

  “It’s fine,” she laughed. “There are thirty of us. It’s just caroling.”

  Was anything ever just caroling?

  Very well. He prided himself on being predisposed for any adventure. Certainly, he could handle this.

  “Is this your carriage?” asked one of the young ladies.

  “Not any old carriage,” said one of the young men. “It’s a le Duc chariot, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”

  “Excellent suggestion,” he whispered to Miss Godwin. “I’ll follow behind in my carriage.”

  “In your chariot,” she corrected. “And you’ll do no such thing.”

  “You’ll drive me?” he asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never driven anything. Nighttime is definitely not the moment to start.”

  His face fell. “Pity.”

  As they walked to the next cottage, Christopher found himself surrounded by young ladies.

  “Mr. Pringle, what do you think of my new bonnet?”

  “Mr. Pringle, will you walk with me?”

  “Mr. Pringle, I waited for you the other night. Did you lose my note?”

  Good God. He stared at the fluttery-eyed woman in dismay. It was she of the calling card with printed directions to her bedchamber. It would be difficult to pretend he had not understood the message.

  “He’s not a rake,” one of her friends whispered loudly. “He’s bride-hunting.�
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  That got the attention of every other female in the group. Those not already familiar with his particulars were quickly put to rights within the space of a few whispers.

  Never before had Christopher wished so fervently that people would start singing carols.

  He glanced around for Miss Godwin. She was hanging back, allowing his unwanted admirers to pick him apart like crows upon carrion.

  In as gentlemanly a manner as he could, he squeezed his way past the flirtatious faces until he reached her side.

  “I see you don’t need me to matchmake,” she said, her face inscrutable.

  “I…” don’t want you to matchmake at all. Not a good start. He tilted back his head and pointed toward the sky. “Look, it’s Auriga, the charioteer.”

  “No, that’s a dunce,” she corrected with a straight face. “You can tell by his odd hat and petulant expression.”

  “We’re knocking!” yelled a voice up front as they reached the next house.

  In moments, the group erupted into song.

  O come, all ye faithful…

  Miss Godwin’s boot jabbed into his leg. “Sing.”

  He sighed. She asked for it. He joined in with the final refrain.

  “You do know the words,” she said as they walked to the next house.

  “I have lived through two-and-thirty Christmases,” he pointed out. “I know many words. Did I acquit myself somewhat?”

  “Let’s see how you do at the next house.” She curled her fingers about his elbow. “Look, there’s The Great Walking-Stick!”

  “That’s Canis Minor.” He glowered at her. “Good God, woman. I cannot believe you use England’s most advanced telescope in order to not learn about the stars.”

  She grinned up at him. “I’m idiosyncratic.”

  “You’re insane.” He jabbed his finger back up to the sky. “Please try. That one there is—”

  “We’re singing!” came the cry from up ahead, immediately followed by Here We Come a-Wassailing.

  To his surprise, Christopher was enjoying himself immensely. At least until the following house, when he overheard Miss Godwin’s words.

  “On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me… Twelve droll devices, eleven piping puddings—”

  “That is not how it goes,” he hissed in horror.

  She held her hand to her lips and whispered, “I’m singing the revised edition.”

  He stared at her. “That is not the revised edition. That’s utter hogwash. You’re making it up on the spot.”

  “I don’t remember the words,” she admitted. “It’s either invent my own or not carol. And which would be the greater tragedy?”

  “Gloria,” yelled one of her friends. “After caroling, let’s play Snapdragons over at Susan’s house!”

  She gazed up at Christopher. “What do you say? Are you any good at eating raisins set on fire with brandy?”

  There was nothing he wanted more than to spend time with her. That was the reason why he could not. His actions would make promises he couldn’t deliver. Like becoming part of her community. Like staying a part of her life. Like anchoring himself to one spot.

  He shook his head.

  If she was disappointed, she did not show it. Perhaps she had guessed his answer before she extended the invitation.

  He had not been as certain what he would say.

  Chapter 8

  When Mr. Pringle failed to present himself for matchmaking the following afternoon, Gloria could not help but recall her friends’ less-than-subtle reactions to discovering him in the market for a wife.

  Perhaps he no longer required the aid of a matchmaker. Certainly, no unwed young lady in this village intended to allow him to be lonely. Perhaps he was in his true love’s embrace right this second.

  She tried to scrub the image from her head by rereading one of her favorite travel journals.

  It didn’t help.

  She rearranged the solar system in her orrery. It didn’t help, either. She checked on the pudding.

  It definitely didn’t help.

  She needed answers. With an aggravated sigh, she grabbed her pelisse and set out for the castle. He liked fact-finding missions? Well, now she was on one.

  It was too early for supper and too late for tea, but the dining area positively frothed with single young ladies wearing pastel gowns and hopeful expressions. It could only mean one thing.

  Mr. Pringle was within.

  Gloria eased her way into the dining area and took one of the last remaining seats at a far table.

  Perhaps she had misread the situation. Perhaps Mr. Pringle wanted nothing more but to escape to her house for some nice matchmaking, but the buzzing cloud of shameless hoydens surrounding him would not let him leave.

  She clenched her teeth. Any chit who would throw herself so blatantly at a man simply because he was charming and handsome and funny and adventurous and single…

  Gloria dropped her face into her hands. She was one of the shameless hoydens. Jealous because she, too, wanted a chance at love.

  Specifically, with Mr. Pringle.

  “I heard he never stays anywhere more than a month,” whispered a voice.

  She lifted her gaze. It appeared she was sharing a table with a gaggle of gossipy wallflowers.

  Wonderful.

  “He’s already been here three weeks,” said another. “We’ve little over a sennight left to catch his eye.”

  “He’ll never see us through that ocean of hussies,” lamented another.

  Gloria could not dispute the logic. The situation was worse than she thought.

  “Isn’t he a fine catch? I would adore a husband who loved to travel,” gushed one of the wallflowers. “I would have him take me to Rome.”

  “Madrid,” said another.

  “Paris,” said a third.

  “We are at war with France,” Gloria burst out. “Do your idyllic holidays include a trip to the guillotine?”

  They all stared at her.

  She jerked her gaze away just in time to hear one of them whisper, “He would definitely take his bride to Paris if she wanted to go.”

  Gloria set her teeth. It was probably true. He’d speak his flawless French, charm everyone in sight, and whisk his new wife anywhere she pleased.

  She crossed her arms and forced herself to face a hard truth. Her irritation wasn’t that he had impossible standards.

  It was that she didn’t meet them.

  He did not need her help to find a willing bride. If she wanted to matchmake someone, she ought to start with herself. Stop waiting around for Prince Wonderful to appear, and go find him.

  In fact, she would do just that.

  She pushed to her feet and surveyed the common area. The unmarried ladies were here because of Mr. Pringle. The eligible bachelors were here because all the single women had conveniently gathered in one place. Gloria started forward.

  One of them had to be her perfect match. Someone smart, someone sweet, someone local, with no intention to leave Christmas—or her. Someone who didn’t care how she made her pudding or what names she gave the stars. Someone completely unlike Christopher Pringle.

  She felt his gaze upon her before she even turned around.

  He was on the opposite side of the crowded dining area, surrounded by women, and yet he had somehow glimpsed her rise to her feet. Or sensed that she was in search of someone else.

  Good. She avoided danger. Everything about him was dangerous. She wasn’t promised to him as anything other than a matchmaker.

  If she could arrange her own match, she could put paid to her this silly mooning over the wrong man. She would simply have to find someone safe.

  As best she could, she flitted from table to table with a smile and a kind word for all her single male neighbors.

  She could practically feel Mr. Pringle’s glare stabbing into her back.

  She ignored him.

  When her meandering path brought her closer to his harem, she gli
mpsed a male neighbor at the next table. Perfect. She sat down, careful not to position herself with a direct view of Mr. Pringle.

  “We missed you when we were out caroling last night,” she began with a smile.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mr. Pringle gather what appeared to be a pile of bread and cheese into a large serviette and whisk an unused tablecloth from a neighboring table.

  Her mouth fell open. What on earth was he—

  “Meet me on the roof,” he whispered as he passed.

  A wave of disappointed women trickled in his wake as he strode from the dining area without a backward glance.

  She made light conversation with her neighbor for as long as she could stand, then excused herself and all but ran up the winding staircase leading to the closest roof access point.

  Mr. Pringle was there waiting. He had spread the tablecloth on the landing as though it were a picnic blanket. He was seated on the opposite side of a serviette piled with bread and cheese.

  “I forgot to grab wine.” He held up a palm. “I hope you’ll sit anyway.”

  She did not.

  Her legs trembled too badly to trust them to take her anywhere but directly into his arms.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she stammered. “You’re… a client.”

  “I officially renounce the contract,” he said, his voice grave. “As of this moment you are not my matchmaker anymore. Agreed?”

  She swallowed hard, her pulse pounding. “Then, what’s this?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Do you want to find out?”

  She sat down across from him. The serviette of cheese would have to act as chaperone.

  “Would you like to eat?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  He tied up the bread and cheese and moved it aside. Now there was nothing between them.

  She gulped.

  He leaned back onto the cloth, his knees propped before him. Elbows at a casual angle, he laced his hands behind his neck and gazed up at the sky. “Look. The stars are coming out.”

  Slowly, she lay back and linked her own hands behind her head. It should be cold. Instead, she could feel his heat.

  They would be lying within arm’s reach of each other if they hadn’t quite sensibly given their arms something else to do. She tried to focus on the stars.