Helookedlike a duke. One could tell at a glance. He looked as though he could rise from behind the desk and go directly to address Parliament or bow over his future duchess’s hand in a London ballroom. Silkridge did not look like Cressmouth.
He looked like trouble.
There. That should put her spinning heart to rights. Noelle did her best to ignore his proximity as she crossed to her own small desk in the corner.
After taking a seat, her awkwardness did not ease. The duke, however, seemed perfectly at home in a room Noelle had come to think of as hers.
No. This would not do. If this forced togetherness reminded her of all the ways in which they were incompatible, surely politeness dictated that she should return the favor.
“Good morning,” she called out cheerily. “Isn’t this a lovely Christmas day?”
One could almost see his bubble of practiced calm shatter.
“It’s January.” He cast her a dark look over a pile of journals.
“Christmas the town,” she said with an exuberant grin. “Have you ever seen a lovelier village?”
A muscle twitched at his temple. “I don’t visit villages.”
“Then you agree,” she replied at once, her smile even bigger. “This one is the finest you’ve ever seen.”
He was not amused. “The people here are too…”
“Happy?” she suggested helpfully. “Compassionate? Thoughtful?”
“Friendly,” he concluded as if there were no greater horror in all the world. “Every one of them insists on conversing with me whenever I pass too close.”
Did they? How positively delightful. This time, Noelle’s grin was unfeigned.
“You’re famous,” she pointed out. “And you know how Christmas loves dukes.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he gritted out. “The townspeople don’t inquire about London or the House of Lords. They wish to complement me on being related to my grandfather.”
“He’s even more famous,” Noelle agreed. “Mr. Marlowe—”
“If you say ‘invented Christmas…’” Silkridge interrupted in warning.
Noelle had been about to describe Mr. Marlowe’s philanthropy and philosophies, but now that the duke mentioned it…
“No one claims he invented Christmastide,” she allowed magnanimously. “But only an imbecile could fail to see Mr. Marlowe’s impact on this town. Without your grandfather, it would not be Christmas.”
There. Silkridge could not argue the point without invoking the inevitable comparison to an imbecile. Besides, there was nothing to argue. The timeline was stark.
Before Mr. Marlowe’s arrival, the town had been doomed. Instead, he had managed to turn it into a holiday destination. A picturesque mountain village, a majestic castle, a plethora of activities, music, food, smiling faces… Cressmouth was truly the happiest place on earth.
For Noelle, anyway. Silkridge appeared unconvinced.
“Why bother?” he asked.
To her surprise, the question sounded sincere rather than sarcastic. As if he acknowledged the possibility that someone might find Cressmouth charming, even if he himself failed to see any attraction.
Noelle had no such difficulty. Without Cressmouth, her life had nothing. The castle gave her a home. Mr. Marlowe had given her hope. More than that. The counting house gave her purpose, but Christmas gave hermeaning.
“What’s not to love?” she said simply.
“All of it,” Silkridge answered without hesitation. “It’s cold, it’s far, it’s only relevant once a year...”
“Christmas lives in one’s heart, not on one’s calendar.” She lifted her shoulders. “In my case, it lives all around me.”
