How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  He stared at her, astounded. That must have taken hours and hours. How had she managed such a feat? Instead of asking, he kept quiet, not wanting to interrupt.

  “A woman wrote to tell me about her husband. He was older and did not treat her kindly. She refrained from sharing intimate details, but much can be read between the lines when it comes to relationships. She said he had recently grown more violent and she feared him. Feared for her life. However, her religion told her to honor and obey him, so she asked me what to do.”

  Duke’s stomach sank. “You do not have to—”

  “Yes, I must.” She ducked her chin and focused on her plate. “I told her to leave him. She had a sister in Queens and I advised her to move there immediately. That God would understand putting herself and her safety above her marital vows. Never mind that he had promised to honor and cherish her, and how is beating a woman cherishing her? Anyway, I read about her in the newspaper not long after. The husband found her in Queens and strangled her to death in an alley.”

  “That was not your fault.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, and the sight felt like a punch to his solar plexus. Her pain revealed a different side of her, one he suspected not many ever saw, and it affected him like nothing else. Something turned over in his chest, a shifting of some kind, as if puzzle pieces were being rearranged to create a new picture inside him.

  “The logical side of my brain realizes you are right. The fault lies clearly with the husband. However, the emotional part, the part here”—she placed a hand over her heart—“believes you are wrong. She might be alive if not for my advice.”

  “On the other hand, she very well might have died, living with a violent man like that. You cannot know for certain.”

  “No one is able to know for certain. That is why, even though I still receive far too many of them, I never answer those types of letters any longer. The consequences are too dire if I’m wrong.”

  His chest pulled tight with sympathy and…something else. Something more. The reaction should have scared him, but he made up his mind right then. He wanted this woman, every bit of her, no matter who stood in his way.

  The look on Duke’s face changed as the dinner continued, his dark eyes now glowing with heat and intensity, and Rose found herself squirming in her chair.

  Was he…attracted to her?

  The idea was laughable, but something was going on inside that clever brain of his. The looks he gave her were hot and intimate, though no one else at the table seemed to notice. His knee even brushed her leg, a fleeting and forbidden touch that sent waves of electricity through her veins.

  She didn’t know whether to be thrilled or horrified.

  Thrilled, because she had admired him from afar since initially spotting him in the Havermeyer building. Horrified, because she had no idea how to proceed. She was supposed to be married—and Duke was her employer.

  There had been kisses over the years, but nothing more. What would a man like Duke expect from her, a supposed married woman? A torrid affair?

  That was out of the question. While Rose might be very, very tempted by Duke Havermeyer, Mrs. Walker of Mrs. Walker’s Weekly would never engage in an affair. Havermeyer had to know that, seeing as how he read her column each week. Mrs. Walker was about propriety and manners, not brazenness and infidelity. As much as Rose longed to test those brazen waters, reacting favorably to his advances would be completely out of character. Worse, it meant he might discover her deception.

  You must ignore him. Put any ideas about you and Duke Havermeyer firmly from your mind, despite how long you have thought about—and lusted over—him.

  She caught Henry’s gaze and tried to impart the need for escape. Considering they had all finished eating, it was time for the ladies to separate off into the drawing room. Henry nodded and the two of them stood, signaling an end to the meal. The others rose as well.

  “Will the ladies be so kind as to join me in the drawing room for coffee?” she asked the other women.

  “Perhaps we could dispense with that tradition just for tonight,” Duke suggested. “After all, we are excited to watch you make the famous Havermeyer shortbread cookies.”

  Exactly what Rose had hoped to postpone.

  Dread clogged her throat. These dashed cookies were hanging over her head like the sharp blade of the guillotine.

  You will figure it out. Remain confident and they won’t suspect a thing.

  Yes, but what about when they actually put the cookies into their mouths? Her stomach knotted painfully.

  “Everyone would probably rather have coffee first, no?” Rose looked to the guests, trying to persuade them through sheer force of will.

  Her will was no match for Duke Havermeyer, unfortunately. Tall and commanding, a powerful scion of New York society, he addressed his board members. “I know this is bucking tradition, but I promise you shall be rewarded when you are enjoying warm shortbread cookies with your coffee.”

  “And these cookies are your own personal family recipe?” one of the guests asked.

  “Yes,” Duke answered. “When my mother came over from Scotland, she brought this recipe with her. She’d never say how long it had been in her family, just that the recipe was precious to her.”

  Oh, dear. Rose could feel the debilitating nerves building in her gut, like a looming deadline when she hadn’t yet put a single word to paper.

  “My dear?” Henry’s voice got her attention. “What do you think?”

  She appreciated that her friend was giving her the chance to stall, but refusing her employer’s request would appear odd. Though this was supposed to be Rose’s home, it was clear to everyone that Duke Havermeyer was firmly in charge of the evening. “Shall we head down to the kitchens, then?”

  Duke’s mouth hitched in apparent satisfaction and Henry began leading the guests from the dining room. Rose started to join the crowd when a light touch at her elbow startled her.

  “Walk with me.”

  She glanced up at Duke, who stared down at her from his great height, his arm out. Nodding, she accepted his escort. He stood close, their shoulders brushing. He smelled of a soap she’d never afford, the kind Mr. Lowe and his ilk purchased, one with a scent too complicated to pinpoint. All Rose knew was that he smelled divine.

  He dawdled and let the other guests go on ahead. Soon they were in the back of the group, with enough distance between them and everyone else that no one would overhear their conversation.

  “I apologize if this has disrupted your plans for the evening.”

  Not an apology for his high-handed maneuvering, of course. “I sense you prefer to keep control of a situation whenever possible.”

  “Yes, that is true. It is one of my many flaws.”

  Many flaws, like his ability to throw her off balance? The dashing way he filled out his black evening wear? Or the imposing self-confidence that drew her like a fly to honey?

  Stop. He is your employer and you need this job.

  “And do you always get your way?” she asked before she thought better of it.

  “Yes—but I’m not opposed to listening to reasonable arguments. Have you a compelling reason not to make the cookies right now?”

  No, other than terror over her ineptitude in the kitchen. “I fail to see what is so exciting about watching me move about the kitchen.”

  “I think there is very little about you that I would not find exciting.”

  Her heart gave a strange leap at that, her skin going up in flames. No doubt about it, he was definitely flirting with her. But to what end? He believed her married. Affairs might have been commonplace in his social circle, but not in Mrs. Walker’s world.

  This must remain on a professional level. “Thankfully, Mr. Walker seems to agree.”

  Duke made a noise, one that had her glancing at him sharply. He held up a hand in apology, though his expression hardly conveyed contrition. “He holds you in the highest esteem, I am certain.”

  The wor
ds sounded forced. Did he suspect she and Henry were merely friends, not truly man and wife? The idea was ridiculous. They’d been excruciatingly careful tonight to maintain the ruse. Nevertheless, there was a hint of distrust, of superior knowledge, in Duke’s careful smile. She did not care for it. Not one bit.

  She went on the offensive. “Have you never considered marriage?”

  “No. I am far too busy to pursue a wife. And, in truth, I’ve never met anyone worth the chase.” They arrived at the steps, and he held open the swinging door for her. “All the good women seem to be taken,” he murmured as she brushed by him.

  A thrill skated down her spine. Oh, my. You are in over your head, Rose.

  The trouble was, when it came to Duke Havermeyer, she had no idea how to save herself from drowning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rose stared at the ingredients in front of her, a bead of sweat rolling between her shoulder blades. The guests were packed into the warm kitchen, standing around her in a semicircle, their gazes rapt. An audience awaiting the master.

  Little did they know she was not even a novice.

  Breathe and follow the recipe. How hard could it be?

  The maids had placed the ingredients on the large workspace, as well as a bowl, mixing spoon, rolling pin, and pan. With shaking hands, she tied an apron around her waist and reached for the recipe. Cleared her throat. “All right, let us begin.”

  The first ingredient was sugar. This gave her a boost of confidence. As a devoted fan of cakes and pies, she was well acquainted with sugar. After measuring the correct portion and pouring it into a bowl, she went in search of the butter. A dish containing a stick of butter was on the other counter, so she retrieved it and added the softened mass to the sugar.

  She began mixing, the warm butter easily folding into the sugar. The recipe said to “cream” the butter and sugar, but Rose had no idea how long that took. She kept working the mixture, stirring it, breathing hard, until one of the maids—Ida—said softly, “Is that sufficiently creamed, madam?”

  “Yes, I believe it is,” she said, having no idea if the declaration were true or not. “Though I do like to be certain.” She gave it one more beat for luck, then set the bowl aside. “Now, for the flour.”

  “What type of flour do you use?” one of the female guests asked.

  There were different types of flour? Rose attempted to sound knowledgeable when she answered, “Oh, the regular kind. I stick to the tried and true ingredients.”

  “I like Hungarian flour,” one of the other wives said.

  The woman used flour shipped in from Europe? The extravagance of these high-society types absolutely boggled the mind. Hiding her dismay, Rose added the flour to the mixture, along with a tablespoon of salt.

  “That certainly was a lot of salt,” someone commented.

  Rose peeked at the recipe. She could never remember the difference in the abbreviation for tablespoon and teaspoon. Had she added the wrong amount?

  Too late now. Swallowing her trepidation, she lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps that is what gives this particular recipe its distinct flavor.”

  She began combining the dry ingredients with the wet concoction to form the dough. When it was combined, she dumped the mixture onto the counter and floured it. The instructions said to knead it, so Rose set out to work the dough with her hands. She had seen her mother and Mrs. Riley do this many times in the Lowes’ kitchen. Of course, Rose was not as competent as those two, but she soon had a firm ball ready.

  So far, it looked good. Perhaps this cooking thing was not that difficult after all.

  The recipe said to roll out the dough. Was she supposed to flour the wood first to keep the dough from sticking? She debated this for a moment until she realized everyone was staring at her, waiting. Mrs. Walker would know exactly what to do.

  With a confidence she did not feel, she took a handful of flour and rubbed it on the rolling pin. Then she began flattening the dough as best she could. The job was harder than it appeared, however. After a few moments, the dough was uneven and jagged. Hmm. Mrs. Riley’s dough was always so smooth. Perhaps Rose should start again.

  After gathering the dough into a ball once more, she rolled it out as best she could, avoiding Duke’s intense gaze the entire time. The shape was not perfect but it would have to do. Carefully, she lifted the dough into the pan and spread it out.

  “Interesting,” one of the women said. “These shortbread cookies appear thinner than the standard kind.”

  They did? Rose hadn’t a clue. The dough did look a little thin but wouldn’t they puff up when baked?

  “I suppose we shall find out when we sample the finished product,” Duke said from the back of the room. The edges of his mouth were curled up in a soft smile, turning him quite dashing. Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling back.

  “How will you score the dough to decorate them?” another woman asked.

  Oh. Rose had not considered this, which was silly of her. Of course every shortbread cookie had indents and lines on it. Digging deep for inspiration, she found a long knife on a nearby counter and began embellishing the dough. Sadly, her creativity with words did not extend to the kitchen—a regular joke between her and her mother. When she was finished, it appeared as if someone had stabbed the dough in a blind rage.

  Sighing, she snatched up the pan and hurried to the oven, hoping her audience would not see. Perhaps some magic would occur during the baking process and these would emerge as perfectly as everyone in the room expected.

  Oh, Rose. Now you are delusional.

  “I’ll just put these in to bake and we’ll return upstairs to wait.” And pray.

  She pulled on the heavy oven door and noticed the oven was cool. That was odd. Hadn’t she and the maids discussed leaving the fire burning?

  Lord above, this was an unholy disaster.

  She shoved her miserable tray inside, quickly shut the door, and sent a plea to the shortbread fairies. “Shall we have our coffee in the salon?” The sooner she herded them upstairs, the better.

  Ida suddenly appeared, looking as if she were trying not to laugh. “I have coffee ready for you upstairs, madam.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, conveying her panic with her eyes as she untied the apron. “We will get out of your way now. Please bring the cookies up when they are done.” Ida merely winked in response, confusing Rose even further.

  Henry led the guests to the stairs, the group chattering loudly about what they’d seen. Miraculously, Rose had impressed them, though most seemed perplexed about the decorating at the end.

  She hung back to ask Ida about the cool oven, but Duke remained as well, his expression full of a scorching heat that caused Rose’s knees to wobble. Goodness, she could melt into a puddle from that look.

  “That was quite the demonstration,” he said when he reached her side.

  “You enjoyed it?”

  He lifted a hand and swiped her cheek with his finger, which came away coated in flour. Horrified, she started to rub her face—until he caught her wrist. “No, allow me.”

  Taking out a handkerchief, he lightly held her chin and dabbed the soft linen over her nose and cheeks, his touch gentle and thorough. She held her breath, heart pounding, as he cleaned her. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, his body close enough that she could feel his exhalations on her forehead. If she pushed up on her toes, she could kiss him….

  She considered it for one rash minute, unable to prevent herself from staring at his mouth. Would his kisses be rough or sweet? Hard or coaxing? She liked kissing. In fact, she liked it quite a bit. She hasn’t kissed anyone in over a year, but she still remembered how it felt, the pleasant joining of two mouths. The shared breath, the slide of a man’s tongue against hers.

  “There,” he said softly, breaking into her thoughts. “You are presentable again.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, a deep throaty timbre she had never heard before.

&n
bsp; “It was my pleasure.” He didn’t move away or put distance between them. Instead he seemed to wait, the two of them watching each other as the moment stretched. There were flecks of gold and green in his dark irises, a complex set of colors for a complex man.

  The sudden clatter of china behind them in the kitchen startled her, and she took a step back. What had just happened? Her face burned with embarrassment and…disappointment.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his cuffs, but his eyes never left her. Rattled, she darted around him and started up the steps. “Shall we join the others?” she asked.

  She didn’t bother to check if he followed. There was no need. She could sense his presence behind her: the man she longed for but could never have.

  The shortbread cookies arrived not long after coffee had been poured. He was surprised the cookies had cooled so quickly, but how could he complain? They were absolute perfection: delicious buttery squares with intricate designs on top. Of course, they hadn’t looked this smart going into the oven, but clearly Rose knew her business.

  The board members and wives oohed over the results, biting into the cookies and rolling their eyes in pleasure. Satisfaction and pride flooded him. Rose Walker was a marvel. He made a mental note to give her an increase in her salary. Whatever he paid her, it was not enough.

  He watched her move through the crowd, the perfect hostess. She had paused when the cookies arrived, almost appearing nervous over the results, but now she smiled broadly, accepting the compliments graciously, humbly, her hair shining in the soft glow of the gasolier. Christ, she was lovely. When they’d stood alone near the kitchen stairs, he’d been certain she was thinking of kissing him—as he had been thinking of kissing her. It shocked him how much he wanted her, wanted to feel every inch of her pressed against him. In one evening the woman had completely charmed him.

  What was he prepared to do about it?