He was back.

Noelle Pratchett gazed at the imposing, impossibly handsome gentleman before her in disbelief. For years, she had vowed that if she ever crossed paths with the Duke of Silkridge again, he deserved nothing less than the cut direct.

And yet she was rooted in place. Her knees were locked tight to keep from trembling and her traitorous eyes could not be distracted from his form.

Tall, intense, tightly controlled. It wasn’t just that his clothing had been perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular body. Every thread, every stitch had been selected with the same care and precision that ruled the rest of his life.

He was never well-dressed; he was perfectly dressed. Every fold of his cravat, a work of art. Every crease, starched and crisp. Every hair just so, with nary a tendril out of place. His jaw, smooth and clear of stubble.

He wasn’t a fashion plate come to life. The duke was no dandy. Rather, he was the very embodiment of rules and expectations. His hair, the perfect length. His waistcoat, the ideal pattern. His choices in color and style, muted but elegant. Timeless. As if an artist might paint his portrait at any moment.

And this magic, despite having just stepped inside from a long drive on a blustery day. Not even wrinkles would dare to mar the plans of the Duke of Silkridge.

He was not here for her, of course. For a while—a very short while—her naïve heart had once believed such a thing possible.

Back in those days, he was not yet a duke but rather Benjamin. Irresistible, despite the same haunted eyes and carefully controlled exterior. If it had not been for that one reckless kiss, she would not have believed passion capable of sneaking past his defenses.

At the time, she had been delighted. It was a fairy story. She, the penniless orphan. He, the handsome prince. What had begun as friendship had turned into so much more. He would not have kissed her otherwise. Surely this meant they had a future.

He had been horrified. They had no future at all. Indeed, the next morning he was in the first coach heading out of town. That was the last time she saw him.

Until now.

“This is a surprise,” came the duke’s low, comforting voice. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

Noelle was not comforted. She was annoyed. She hadn’t wished to see him.

The time for girlish innocence had long since passed. She had learned her lesson well. If you open your heart, you will be left behind. She would not make such a foolish mistake again.

The duke accepted two mugs of mulled wine from a passing footman and offered one to her.

Noelle had come to the refreshment table in search of biscuits, not wine, but she supposed now was an excellent time to change her mind.

She accepted the warm mug and allowed its fragrant steam to bathe her face. “Is Christmas as you remember it?”

“Cressmouth,” he corrected immediately with no attempt to mask a light shudder. “I don’t know how anyone could live here.”

Irritation flashed through her. She loved her hometown. Loved the people, loved the scenery, loved being wanted. That he felt himself above all of that, including her, made her vow to be Christmassier than ever just to vex him.

“I wish it would snow year-round in all of England, not just here,” Noelle replied cheerfully. She gestured about the great hall. “Nothing could be merrier than a cold crisp day outside and a crackling fire inside, especially when surrounded by so many friends.”

He didn’t bother to hide his disagreement. “I don’t recognize anyone here but you.”

Unsurprising. Silkridge hadn’t spent any significant amount of time here since he was a child. During his most recent visit—five years ago—he had spent a fortnight almost exclusively in Noelle’s company. At first, they had thought their friendship was deepening. During a long moonlit stroll, they’d discovered the connection between them was so much more. That perfect, magical night had culminated with their mouths meeting in a kiss. Of course, he would remember such a moment.

It was unforgettable.

“I suppose this party is in Grandfather’s honor?” Silkridge gestured at the long buffet piled with refreshments.

“Not at all,” she said, infusing her voice with even higher spirits than normal. “You’re looking at the spirit of Christmas. The castle offers libations to weary travelers year-round.”

He stared at her. “Biscuits are not the spirit of Christmas.”

“How would you know, when you don’t have any?” she asked.

His blue eyes narrowed. “Biscuits or Christmas spirit?”

“You appear to be sadly in want of both.” She took a sip of the spiced wine. Its warmth was just what she needed. It tasted like home. “The castle’s kitchen boasts the finest cooks in the region. These biscuits have no equal, and the rest of the meals are every bit as sumptuous. You will not easily find more accommodating footmen or a more thoughtful and efficient maid staff. This is the spirit of Christmas.”

His skepticism was obvious. “Cressmouth barely holds a thousand souls. Where would Grandfather even find such a quantity to employ?”

“You said it yourself. Right here in town. Most of us worked either for your grandfather or for the castle in some capacity.”

He looked at her sharply. “You work?”

Noelle raised her cup to her mouth. She had not meant to give him any personal details about herself at all.

Especially not information that highlighted the unbridgeable distance between them. To those of his class, “work” was a filthy word fit only for commoners. But here in Cressmouth, work was something everyone did together, making each day even better than the last.

“Noelle,” came a breathless voice from just behind her. “Have you seen the duke?”

Silkridge stiffened in affront, no doubt because he was standing within arm’s reach of both Noelle and the speaker.

“Not you,” she murmured under her breath, then turned to her bosom friend Virginia. “Have you checked the amphitheater? They are setting up for The Winter’s Tale, and you know how he loves those props.”

“You are brilliant,” Virginia gushed. “Of course that is where he must be.”

She dashed off before Noelle could introduce her to Silkridge. Not that Noelle had any particular wish to ingratiate the duke with her friends. Besides, he would be gone on the morrow. He wasn’t here to make friends.

Nonetheless, she performed the niceties. “That was Miss Virginia Underwood. It is a wonder robins and bluebirds don’t follow her about, singing on her shoulders. She is one of the kindest and sweetest people in all of Christmas.”

He frowned. “She mentioned a duke?”

“You are not the only one,” Noelle said. Her attention was caught by another familiar face.

“Noelle, you’ve outdone yourself.” Angelica Parker lifted a china tea plate towering with biscuits. “I could subsist on the cinnamon ones for the rest of my life.”

Silkridge choked in disbelief. “Miss Pratchett is the castle cook?”

Angelica laughed. “Even better. She is the grand architect that made these biscuits possible. Without her, one might as well be greeted with gruel.”

“Grand architect?” The duke blinked in confusion. “What is that supposed to mean?”

But Angelica was already gone, and Noelle didn’t feel like explaining. The less he knew about her life, the better. The lives of her friends were a much safer topic.

“Miss Parker has the steadiest hand and keenest eye in all of Christmas. I once saw her create an intricate, jewel-encrusted tiara fit for royalty. You should see it.”

He lifted his brows. “I find that jewel-encrusted tiaras tend to unseat one’s top hat.”

No. She would not find him amusing. That path only led to heartbreak.

“There you are,” came another familiar voice. This one belonged to Olive Harper. “Azureford won’t stop pestering me about my stallions.”

“Azureford the duke?” Silkridge said in obvious incredulity. “The Duke of Azureford?”

“I told you,” Noelle reminded him. “You’re not the only duke in Christmas.”

She turned to her friend. “You need an auction, of course. Don’t allow him to be the only bidder.”

Olive pulled a face. “I haven’t time to plan an auction. The stable roof needs to be patched and one of my broodmares is looking breach—”

“I’ll organize it,” Noelle said immediately. “You take care of your horses and I will take care of the auction.”

“Noelle, would you? I shall owe you any favor you wish.” Olive squeezed her hand and then dashed toward the door.

A frown marred Silkridge’s ducal brow. Either Christmas familial informality or talk of a breach broodmare had met with his disapproval.

He cocked an eyebrow in Noelle’s direction. “Do you allow everyone in town to address you by your Christian name?”

“Not everyone,” she said sweetly. “You may call me Miss Pratchett.”

A muscle worked in his temple.

“That was a dear friend of mine,” she continued as if his question had never been spoken. “Miss Harper has a quick mind, an enormous heart, and one of the most sought-after stud farms in all of England. She is a fascinating woman and a wonderful person.”

Silkridge seemed amused by this explanation. “You make it sound like everyone in Cressmouth is a fine soul and perfect neighbor.”

“Possibly because everyone in Cressmouth is a fine soul and perfect neighbor,” Noelle agreed. She arched her eyebrows right back at him. “That is, almost everyone.”

She knew she was being prickly. But sometimes the only way to protect oneself was to keep a safe distance from those who could inflict hurt.

Unfortunately, she was no longer certain such a distance existed between her and Silkridge. His presence on the same mountaintop was more than enough to send her heart racing.

“Will you be attending the reading of Grandfather’s last will and testament?” he inquired.

“Most of the town will be attending,” she said noncommittally. “Your grandfather meant everything to Christmas.”

“He’s gone.” The duke’s expression shuttered. “You can stop calling it ‘Christmas.’”

“Mr. Marlowe was the town’s savior, not its dictator,” she snapped. “He didn’t just rename us. He gave us Christmas every day.”

Noelle could swear the duke muttered humbug under his breath.

“Then I suppose I will see you tomorrow?” he asked aloud.

Not if she saw him first seemed a churlish reply.

“I expect the castle to be packed with people,” she said instead. “There will be refreshments after, of course.”

He shook his head. “Not for me. By then I’ll be on my way back to London.”

Of course he would. Their hours were already numbered.

Her lips tightened. She should not even be speaking to him. Having him at arm’s reach, knowing his presence was only temporary, dredged up all the old feelings, the hackles, the shields. This was not a reunion. It was a brief, chance encounter between former acquaintances who had once shared an equally brief kiss.

If he would not stay for her before, the promise of a refreshment table clearly would not be enough to tempt him.

She doubted anything could.

“Enjoy being home,” she said. “Christmas hasn’t been the same without you.”

It had been better. Safer.

She straightened her spine. From now until his departure from town, she would endeavor to avoid him completely. Seeing him ripped open a scar she had believed long healed.

“Cressmouth is not home,” the duke growled. “And don’t call it—”

“Happy Christmas!” she chirped as sunnily as possible, then turned her back and walked away with her head held high.