How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  “I drank last night, and it did the job,” Allryd said, tying the knot of his dressing gown. “I’ve the head to prove it.”

  “A day with my too-loud nephews is the punishment you deserve,” his devious partner replied, already heading for the door to the chamber. “Get yourself presentable. My sister-in-law expects us at two. I shall meet you in the kitchens. If you’re lucky, I’ll have made coffee.”

  Lawton left, slamming the door behind him, exacerbating the throbbing pain in Allryd’s head—a pain made worse when the duke shouted a wicked curse at the closed door.

  Goddammit. Why anyone drank was beyond him. It was a stupid habit that served little purpose. After all, on the one night of the year he drank to forget, the thing he’d attempted to eradicate from memory had been made flesh in his kitchens.

  And what glorious flesh it had been.

  She was the same as she’d been when they were young, long and curved, with those bold eyes and that bright smile and freckled, bronzed skin from too much time in the sun.

  Not too much. Just enough.

  He’d thought of those freckles for years—lain awake at night and counted them as sleep teased at the edges of his consciousness. He’d dreamed of running his tongue along the dusting across her nose and the apples of her cheeks, of kissing the constellation of them on her left shoulder, of finding all the others, hidden beneath satin and linen, waiting for his arrival.

  There were more of them now, on her chest and shoulders, a kiss from the sun, along with creases at the corners of her eyes and the deeper swells of her curves—all proof of her time away. He wanted to explore every one of those changes.

  The thought of exploring Lady Jacqueline Mosby made him hard again, even as his head pounded with the aftereffects of the night before. He cursed and moved to the basin at the far side of the room to strip and wash, splashing cold water on his face and willing away the results of his misplaced desire.

  The strategy failed. He’d spent every day of the last twelve years trying not to remember her. Trying not to imagine how she’d grown. How she’d changed. How she might be the woman she’d become—a richer, fuller, more perfect version of the girl he’d known.

  The girl he’d loved.

  The girl he should have married.

  Now, he did not have to imagine. He knew.

  Not that it mattered. She was to marry another. Fergus, the long-tongued, cabbage-headed Scot.

  Allryd violently splashed frigid water on his face, rubbing his hands over his skin as though he could erase her from his thoughts. Finally, he plunged his entire head into the basin, enjoying the shock as he scooped liquid over his hair and the back of his neck.

  He supposed the Scot did not deserve the descriptor…He couldn’t imagine that Jack would tie herself to someone who lacked a brain in his head, but it helped to think that the man who was to have his life was less than he was, in some way.

  His life.

  He surfaced at the thought, hands fisted on the table that held the basin, droplets of water falling to the bowl, unseen.

  Jack wasn’t his life.

  She might have been, once, but he’d chosen differently. He’d chosen responsibility and an estate in debt to the rafters, along with a title that had been left in shambles. She’d deserved better than what he could give her—no money, no comforts, and even less time.

  She’d been right to leave.

  Even though she’d stolen his heart from his chest when she’d gone.

  Not that he’d noticed until he realized she’d never come back.

  He shook his head, willing memory to fly with water, scattered in all directions.

  Fucking holidays and their maudlin nostalgia. Getting out of Mayfair was a damned good idea.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, vaguely taming it before cleaning his teeth and rinsing his mouth. Lawton had promised coffee and a hot meal. More importantly, that meal would be far from Jacqueline Mosby and the demons that followed with her.

  Except, as Allryd made his way down the rear servants’ staircase to the kitchens, fairly proud of how he’d turned himself out without a valet to do the job, he realized that he was not going to avoid Jack and her partner demons that day.

  Because she was once more in his kitchens.

  And this time, she was more dangerous, because she was laughing. Eben hadn’t heard that laugh in twelve years. In longer. At some point, during their faraway youth, she’d stopped laughing.

  Or he’d stopped hearing it.

  But there it was—a sound he’d missed so much, he hadn’t realized he’d forgotten it. It was rich and full like a miracle. Or a curse. Yes. A curse. She was a damn Christmas curse.

  He paused at the entrance to the kitchens to find her looking like she belonged there, in a functional pale day dress covered by an apron, wide smile on her lips as she slid a teacup across the table toward Lawton.

  She did belong there.

  Eben resisted the thought as his business partner peered into the cup for a long moment before looking up at her and saying, “I didn’t know there was chocolate here.”

  Her smile widened and she reached down to wipe her hands on her white apron. “Now you may have it whenever you like.”

  Over the years, Eben had had his frustrations with Lawton—a man as carefree as Eben was careful. He spent money as though it was water on ridiculous frivolities like gold-threaded waistcoats and high-gloss phaetons. He routinely mocked Eben for his fiscal caution and his foul temper, and half the actresses on Drury Lane were liable to turn up for luncheon on any given weekday because women came to Lawton as easily as funds seemed to, and the man was happy to welcome them.

  But watching his associate on the receiving end of Jack’s brilliant smile made Eben want to do serious damage to him. Business partnership and friendship be damned.

  Her smile wasn’t for Lawton.

  It wasn’t for others.

  Except for her fiancé.

  Ignoring the insidious thought, Eben schooled his features and said, “He may not have chocolate whenever he likes, as it is mine.”

  “Consider it a trade for my whisky,” Lawton drawled smugly into his cup.

  “Was it your whisky that got him soused?” Jack asked cheerfully. “It did an excellent job.”

  “Did it?” Lawton asked, curious brows rising in Eben’s direction at the revelation that Jack had witnessed him drunk at some point. Eben scowled a warning and the other man added, “How’s the head, Duke?”

  Eben ignored the question. “As neither of you were invited, would one of you please explain what in hell you are doing in my home this morning?”

  The words were threatening and cold—enough that any number of others across London would have cowered in the corner, or turned tail and run.

  Neither of the intruders were moved.

  Instead, Jack turned that wide smile on him, and it was he who considered running. She was far more threatening with her heat than he was with his cold—her smile instantly warming his freezing house as though fires roared in every hearth. “Happy Christmas, Eben.”

  He ignored the words and the way they claimed his heart for a beat. “Was I unclear about your welcome?”

  She lifted a spoon from a pot on the stove. “I made chocolate.”

  “Because you don’t have it in your own house?”

  She tilted her head, the expression doing strange things to him. “Perhaps.” She paused. “Does it help that I’m also cooking you Christmas lunch?”

  “No.” So that was the delicious smell. “Go home.”

  She shook her head and turned back to the stove. “No.”

  Before Eben could remove her bodily, Lawton smirked. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered a beautiful woman hard at work in your kitchens this morning, Eben.”

  Eben growled at the emphasis on his given name, a name Lawton had never used before this moment. A name with which no one but Jack had ever been wholly comfortable, not even Eben himself.


  Irritation and frustration flared. “She’s not beautiful.”

  He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, even before Lawton’s brows knitted together in instant, deserved censure. Even before Jack’s breath caught on a little hitch, so soft that he shouldn’t have noticed it. Of course, he did notice it. He noticed everything about her, now that she was no longer his to notice.

  But he already hated the words before he even realized they’d hurt her. Because they were such a damn lie. He would have done anything for them to be the truth…maybeif she weren’t so damned beautiful, he might have a chance of surviving her.

  As it was, he couldn’t look at her. It was like staring into the sun.

  “On the contrary,” Lawton replied. “Lady Jacqueline might well be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen on Christmas—and when I was a boy, my father gave me a tin soldier the likes of which you’ve never dreamed.”

  He winked at Jack, and she offered up a little giggle. “I have never been compared to a tin soldier, but I shall take it as a high compliment.”

  “As well you should,” Lawton said, lifting the cup from the saucer in front of him. “It was my favorite toy for ages.”

  “No longer?” Jack teased, and Eben hated the instant, easy rapport between the two. The rapport that used to be his, a thousand years earlier.

  “I’ve graduated to better toys.”

  “For example?”

  Lawton winked over the edge of his cup. “Well, this Christmas, I happen to be partial to pretty brown-haired angels.”

  She blushed, and Eben considered upending the table when she replied, “You’re a terrible flirt.”

  “Really? I’ve always thought myself rather a good one,” Lawton replied.

  Their shared grin was enough, goddammit. “You can stop barking up this particular tree, Lawton. She’s engaged.”

  His partner put a hand to his chest. “Holiday dreams dashed.”

  Jack laughed. “Believe it or not, there is another who finds me more than repulsive.”

  “I didn’t say you were repulsive,” Eben said. “You’re not repulsive.”

  “Be still my heart,” she retorted before turning back to the stove, where several pots boiled away. “It is a shock you remain unmatched, considering your way with words. Truly.”

  Feeling beastly, Eben looked to Lawton, who stared back and forth between them, jaw slightly dropped, which made Eben want to put a fist to it. “What is it?”

  Lawton shook his head. “Only that I’ve never seen anyone less cowed by you than this woman. She could offer lessons for pay and we’d never make another sound business deal again.”

  “The duke won’t like it if you ruin his business.” The words came from behind Eben, the voice instantly familiar.

  He spun around, a thread of something that might be called happiness coursing through him. “Aunt Jane.”

  The older woman cut him an uncompromising look. “That’s Lady Danton, to you, boy.” Eben’s jaw went slack. He’d never called the owner of the town house next door Lady Danton. She’d always been Aunt Jane to him, just as she’d always been Aunt Jane to Jack.

  Though, he supposed he couldn’t claim Jack anymore, so he should not expect to claim Aunt Jane, either.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t have smarted as much if she hadn’t looked to Lawton then, considering the tall man who had come to his feet when she entered the room.

  “Jacqueline,” she asked, all curiosity, “who is our guest?”

  Wait. Our?

  Eben blinked. “These remain my kitchens, do they not?”

  Lawton bowed low. “Charles Lawton, my lady. May I say it is an honor to meet you; your reputation precedes you.” He gifted her with his most winning smile—the one Eben had seen win countless women.

  The dowager baroness considered Lawton for a long moment, then said, “And what reputation is that?”

  Lawton inclined his head. “A woman with a discerning taste for adventure.”

  Eben rolled his eyes. Aunt Jane was more than double Lawton’s age.

  The baroness laughed, full and flirtatious. “You, my dear, are welcome to call me Aunt Jane.”

  “I am deeply honored.”

  The older woman’s lips curved softly. “You remind me of a boy I knew a long time ago. He had a smile that made skirts swirl.”

  “Aunt Jane!” Jacqueline interjected from her place at the stove. “You’ll scare the poor man off!”

  “Nonsense,” came the reply. “He’s faced worse than me.”

  Lawton chuckled, leaning back on the table, black eyes twinkling as though he’d never had such fun as this mad crew. “Indeed, you shall have to do much worse to scare me off, my lady.”

  “My point, exactly. After all, he works with Allryd.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Eben said, feeling as though he ought to defend himself.

  “Oh, are you offended by my assessment of your company?” Aunt Jane asked.

  “I am, rather,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Lawton guffawed, and a long buried instinct had Eben turning to Jack—for defense, perhaps? Or perhaps to see if she, too, was laughing at him. She wasn’t. She was transfixed by the simmering pot on the stove, gently stirring the liquid within.

  She was not interested in defending him. And he could not blame her. He did not deserve it.

  Eben returned his attention to Lawton and said, “Don’t you have a Christmas luncheon to go to?”

  Lawton waved away the words. “I’ve time to stay and watch this play—it’s rare to see a pair so uninterested in simpering before you.”

  “I’ve known Eben too long to simper before him,” Jack replied.

  “You’ve never simpered in your life,” Eben shot back.

  She turned her head at that, her brown eyes meeting his. “Fair. That might be why I never found a husband.”

  Did she simper before the idiot Scot who was taking her away from him?

  The thought of the Scot grated. “Shouldn’t you also be somewhere celebrating a holiday? With Fergus?”

  He hadn’t meant to snarl the name.

  Actually, he had. Everything about their presence in his kitchens seemed like pain and punishment. Like penance for past sins and the promise of a punishing future without her.

  “Who’s Fergus?” Lawton asked, as though this were tea and cake with the vicar and not an invasion of his private space.

  “Jack’s fiancé,” Eben said.

  He didn’t have time to consider Aunt Jane’s disapproving harrumph before Lawton asked, confused, “Jack?”

  “Me. Jacqueline,” Jack clarified.

  Not to Eben. Never to Eben. He wondered what hound-Fergus called her.

  “He’s Scottish,” Eben said. “They leave tomorrow to marry there. On his estate.” Good Lord. He couldn’t shut up. What was wrong with him?

  “Felicitations,” Lawton said to Jack.

  Another harrumph from Aunt Jane.

  “Do you mind?” Jack said to the older woman before nodding at Lawton. “Thank you.”

  Eben wanted to murder something. He wanted to leave. But he wanted to stay more, and therein lay the pain and punishment. He hunkered down on the far side of the table, pretending not to notice when she set a steaming cup of chocolate in front of him. Pretending not to care immensely when he asked, “And so? Where is this perfect Scot?”

  A pause. “On his way.”

  “Why not here already? Or rather, why not in your home already?”

  She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “He will be here for luncheon.”

  “If I were him, I’d be here now.” He shouldn’t have said it. The words were out, the product of his irritation, before he could stop them.

  Before he could predict that they would draw the full weight of Jack’s gaze. “To watch me stir plum sauce?”

  To make sure I don’t toss you over my shoulder and take you to bed.

  Christ. He couldn’t say that.<
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  Eben lifted the cup and drank, the scalding liquid a punishment he refused to acknowledge. As if it were not enough, it came with the judgment of Aunt Jane. “You’re not him, though, are you?”

  Eben could not speak, and the burnt tongue had nothing to do with it—the accusation in the words stung worse than the chocolate.

  “Aunt Jane,” Jack whispered, and he hated it. Hated the soft censure. Hated that she leapt in to stop her aunt’s admonishment. Hated the quiet hint of past in her voice.

  The older woman watched him for a long moment, then made for the oven. “My shortbread is ready to come out.”

  “You made shortbread?”

  “Not for you,” Aunt Jane shot back.

  “Yes, for him,” Jack said. “We ate his entire stock last night.”

  “It should be for Fergus,” the older woman said.

  The idiot Scot could get his own damn shortbread.

  “But it is for His Grace.”

  His Grace. Good Lord. She’d never called him that. He wanted to leap across the table and make her take it back.

  “You’d best be certain you want this batch to be for him,” Aunt Jane said.

  Jack sighed, and he recognized the sound, one he’d heard a thousand times before. She was exasperated. She turned back to the stove and opened another pot, this one larger. Drawn by the delicious aromas beckoning from within, he stood and went to look inside. At her elbow, he peered into the pot.

  “Parsnip crème.”

  “Your favorite,” she said quietly. “It seemed you should have it on Christmas.”

  How did she remember? Why would she make it for him now, after a dozen years away? Why would she remember that he loved chocolate enough to hide pots of it all over the kitchen? The answer was there, undeniable. She remembered just as he remembered the same—her love of treacle and raspberry tart.

  Just as he remembered the taste of those summer berries on her lips when he kissed her.

  And then he realized that he was staring at her lips, parted on an intake of air. He wrenched his gaze away from them, willing it to her eyes, only to find them focused on his mouth.

  Had she been remembering those kisses, too?

  “A Christmas curse,” he whispered.