Noelle curved her fingers about the warm teacup in her hands and lowered her face to breathe in the fragrant, familiar aroma. These were her favorite moments of each morning.

Although her friends loved to tease her for her unusual taste in tea, the detour through the greenhouse to pluck fresh mint ensured she started each day with nature and beauty. Then, once she arrived at the castle’s community dining area, she broke her fast surrounded by hundreds of people she had known and loved her entire life.

What could be better than indulging a favorite ritual among such marvelous company? Until recently, Noelle might have answered Nothing could be better.

Today, the minty steam flushing her cheeks did not bring the same simple joy as usual. Instead of joining her friends and neighbors in conversation, her mind was focused on the gentleman least likely to partake of Cressmouth’s many charms.

When she’d heard Mr. Marlowe’s words for his grandson at the reading of the will, Noelle had fully expected a man as busy and important as the Duke of Silkridge to laugh off the preposterous terms of his bequest and return to London without any attempt to fulfill the eccentric requirements.

She knew better than to read too much into the fact that Silkridge had stayed. He was not on holiday. He had been coerced into an unexpected delay that very much went against his plans.

But what about Noelle’s plans to keep her distance? She, too, had been maneuvered into deviating from her safe, comfortable routine. She had been assigned as helpmate to a man she’d never expected to lay eyes on again. But now that she had…

She set her empty cup onto its saucer and straightened her spine. Just because he was as handsome and maddening and temporary as ever did not mean she could use the community dining area as her private refuge.

After all, she was not afraid of falling in love with Silkridge all over again. She knew better this time. Besides, her role as personal advisor meant that every time she helped him fulfill the will, she was also hurrying him back out of her life. Which was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

Enough stalling. Noelle prided herself on not being the sort to dither, and she wasn’t about to start today.

Without further ado, she marched from the dining area to the spiral staircase leading up to the counting house and mounted the narrowing steps with determination. She was impervious to the Duke of Silkridge. She would prove it.

Even before her booted feet crossed the final threshold, Noelle sensed his presence.

He was seated at the oversized mahogany desk that had once belonged to his grandfather, himself oversized in both body and spirit. Silkridge was dwarfed by neither. His presence seemed to fill the small room.

As always, everything about him was portrait-perfect. His jaw, strong and smooth. His hair, styled just so. The cut of his suit expensive, his waistcoat understated, his cravat a work of art. She swallowed.

He looked like 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 her meaning.

“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.”

Nor would she change a single thing. In fact, she resented his disapproval of her town, his dismissal of their joyful way of life. No one was forcing him to paint I love Christmas on his top hat. If he didn’t see the magic, he was welcome to leave.

“I looked at the journals,” he said, changing the subject entirely.

She knew those books like she knew her town. He was right. This was a much safer topic.

“Did you have a question about the contents?” she asked.

“No questions at all,” he replied. “That’s what’s so impressive. Every piece of information one might want is presented within its pages in a clear, easy to follow manner. If one does not wish to peruse the inflow and outflow transaction by transaction, the bold headings and concise summaries quickly communicate the state of accounts at any given moment.”

Her pulse skipped. That pretty speech had sounded suspiciously like a compliment. Affirming her position as an essential part of Cressmouth. She stared back at him in silence, almost forgetting to breathe. How long had she yearned to believe it was true?

She had been left on the castle steps as a baby. No note, no explanation, no name. Although the villagers had taken her in without question, although Mr. Marlowe had been a wonderful guardian and mentor, Noelle had never forgotten that she wasn’t truly one of them. She had been foisted upon them by parents willing to leave a crying infant in an abandoned basket in the snow rather than keep her. Rather than love her.

From the moment she could toddle, Noelle had strived to be an indispensable part of her community. Not just to be needed, to be wanted, but to ensure she would never again be left behind. To convince herself she was right where she belonged.

Whether Silkridge intended to or not, his words had just affirmed she was at least important to the counting house.

“My own man of business doesn’t keep books as nice as these,” he continued. “I shall have to have a stern conversation with him about increasing his standards.”

Noelle blinked. Was that a hint of a smile curving at the corner the duke’s lips?

“Send him here,” she said when she found her voice. “I shall whip him into shape.”

Yes. That was definitely a smile. “You’d more likely stuff him with biscuits and hot chocolate. He would return home the most accomplished man of business in the city, but too portly to fit through my door.”

She found herself smiling back. He had deduced the culprit behind the treats in his guest chamber.

The gesture had nothing to do with her feelings toward him. She was simply treating him with the same goodwill all Cressmouth inhabitants showed one another. Nothing personal.

“Before I forget,” he continued, “your report on the aviary was invaluable. Every one of the workers named in your list reported for duty this morning at dawn. With so little left to do, the final touches should be completed by tomorrow.” His eyes met hers. “Thank you.”

There was no reason for the sudden hollowness in her stomach.

She had meant to be useful. Helping people was what she did. He was grateful. Considered her capable and thorough, characteristics she strived to portray. Hastening his departure was a goal they both shared. So why did she feel like she was losing?

“You’re welcome,” she managed, despite the pit in her stomach.

Perhaps she was out of sorts because she had not anticipated being praised for her efforts. Not just because she was a female in a traditionally male role, but because she was simply doing her job. Providing assistance to Silkridge had literally been her mentor’s dying wish. This was her post; balancing the accounts, her responsibility.

Yet Silkridge knew all this and complemented her anyway. He’d wanted her to know he appreciated her effort and recognized her talent.

He must be wonderful in the House of Lords, she realized. Demanding and exacting, without question. But also encouraging and fair. As generous with thank you as with demands.

“The papers say you are in charge of all of Parliament’s committees,” she blurted. “That you practically live in the Palace of Westminster.”

“It feels that way at times,” he admitted. “I head several initiatives but can neither take credit nor full responsibility. The committees work together toward a common goal. Every one of us wishes to make England a safer, healthier, more prosperous home for all its citizens.”

Noelle was not at all convinced that every lord was like Silkridge. The fact that he guided his life by such a principle caused a crack in her armor. They were not as dissimilar as she wished to believe. She cared about others. He cared about others. They both put community first. Hers was Cressmouth. His was all of England. He was as needed in the House of Lords as she was in this counting house.

The realization that they shared similar perspectives made her traitorous heart like him all the more. Her pulse skittered. She could not stay in this room another minute.

She leapt to her feet.

He jumped to his. “What is it?”

It was the obvious concern in his magnetic blue eyes. The way he strode toward her as if to rescue her from any evil, even the demons in her own mind. It was the familiar shape of the mouth she had once kissed and never would again. It was her erratic heart, slapping its wings against her ribs as if only by allowing it to escape could she once again fly.

“I…” The word was too soft, a breath, a plea. She knew what she wanted but dared not voice it, for fear he might give it to her.

His hand touched the side of her face. It was all she could do not to nuzzle her cheek into his palm. His hand was warm, his body too close and yet not close enough.

“I’m trying as hard as I can,” he whispered huskily, “not to kiss you.”

She did not move away.

Neither did he. “I beg you to slap me before I lose the battle.”

She could not break away. If she lifted her hand it would be to place it against his own, or perhaps to throw herself into his arms.

This was madness. He said as much himself. Yet if he was counting on her to stop him from indulging in a kiss they both knew far too dangerous to allow…

“Help!” called a footman from the stairwell. “Miss Pratchett, come quick! It’s Tiny Tim!”

She and Silkridge burst apart as if galvanized.

Noelle spun toward the open door.

Silkridge was already rushing over the threshold and down the stairs. “Where is he? His sickbed? The infirmary?”

“The menagerie,” the footman responded. “He lives there.”

The duke paused. “Lives there?”

“He’s our Christmas goat.” Noelle sidestepped the befuddled duke to follow the footman down the stairs.

“What?” The duke called down to her. “Wait, what?”

She did not elucidate until they had reached the foot of the stairs.

“Your grandfather brought a pygmy goat back from Africa,” she explained, “and declared—”

“That it was the town’s official Christmas goat?” the duke asked in disbelief.

“—that he should be called… Tim.” Noelle motioned for him to hurry. “This way to the menagerie.”

The duke was perhaps understandably hesitant. “What other beasts are in the menagerie? Bruce, the puma? Horatio, the puffin?”

“Just Tim,” she said as the footman swept open the door. “We didn’t feel it safe to introduce other animals. Tim jumps onto everything.”

“Rather, he doesn’t anymore,” the footman put in. “Tiny Tim arrived full of vim and vigor not a week before Mr. Marlowe took ill. At first we thought his weakened spirits were due to mourning his master.”

“You thought a goat was in mourning?” Silkridge repeated, incredulous. “Over a man he’d known less than a week?”

“Mr. Marlowe had a way of getting into one’s heart from the very first,” the footman said staunchly.

Noelle stepped between them. “What’s happening now?”

“Nothing’s happening.” The footman gestured at the small, white-and-black spotted goat lying listlessly in a shadowed corner. “He’s been doing this for a sennight.”

The duke frowned. “Why summon Miss Pratchett? She was my grandfather’s clerk, not his animal trainer.”

“She was his personal advisor. One of them, anyway.” The footman gave Noelle a commiserating glance. “We could have called Miss Underwood, but…”

“I understand,” she assured him. This was not the moment for Virginia’s eccentric aphorisms. This was the time for action.

She stared at the motionless goat.

“Has he been eating?” the duke demanded.

The footman shook his head. “Appetite is always the first to go when one suffers a depression of the spirits.”

Silkridge looked as though he might throttle the man.

“Has anyone else been summoned?” she asked. “A goat expert?”

With an exasperated sigh, the duke stalked over to where Tim lay, and placed the back of his hand to the goat’s furry forehead as if checking the temperature of a child. “How much has he been drinking?”

Noelle stared at the goat dubiously. At times like this, she wouldn’t mind a drink herself.

“Not a drop,” the footman assured him. “Of anything. We have even been adding bits of ice to his bucket to keep the water nice and cool.”

“Dump it out,” the duke said at once. “Goats require fresh, lukewarm water or they won’t drink.”

The footman turned wide eyes to Noelle. “Is that true?”

She had no idea, but it was as good a plan as any.

“His Grace has no reason to dissemble,” she told the footman. “Please fetch a fresh pail of water. Mind that it is not too cool.”

The footman nodded. “At once.”

The moment he was gone, she turned to Silkridge. “Is it true?”

“Of course it’s true,” he said. “I’ve better things to do than invent fake facts about pygmy goats. Nonetheless, you should have the footman send for an expert.”

“It sounds like you are one,” she admitted. “How else would you know Tim’s preferred temperature for drinking water?”

“One of my properties has goats,” Silkridge said dismissively, as if every land owner exhaustively researched all flora and fauna upon his property.

No wonder he was phenomenal when it came to crafting laws. He was likely the only member of the House of Lords that truly understood whatever subject they were discussing.

The footman not only returned with a pail of fresh water, but with three more footmen all bearing the same.

Silkridge raised his brows. “What’s this?”

“Wasn’t certain how lukewarm ‘lukewarm’ ought to be,” the footman admitted. “Brought four different varieties to ensure Tiny Tim received his preference.”

To her surprise, Silkridge did not scoff at this notion. Instead, he knelt next to the goat and offered water from first one pail, then another, until at last Tiny Tim’s parched tongue lapped up more than a few drops.

“He did it,” the footman breathed. “Tim’s cured!”

“I suspect it will take several days to recover from severe dehydration,” said the duke. “You should send for a proper veterinarian all the same.”

But he scratched behind Tiny Tim’s ears, rather than leaping to his feet and dusting the goat hair from his ducal breeches.

Noelle’s heart thumped. Silkridge was softhearted, of all things.

Perhaps that was why she had almost kissed him. Not because he was arrogant and bullheaded and about to disappear from her life before she would get another chance. But because he constantly surprised her with proof that he was so much more.

She knew not to trust romantic emotions. Being kind to a goat, being nice to her, did not mean the duke was capable of falling in love with Cressmouth or anyone in it.

Even if he could, it wouldn’t be enough. Noelle was never enough. Her own parents had left her. Was it any wonder a London lord would do the same?

She knew this deep into her bones. Had sworn to never again put herself in a position to be abandoned. The very last person she should be gazing at with calf’s eyes was the Duke of Silkridge. He was destined to leave her. Danger incarnate.

And yet she couldn’t look away as he held a water pail to the lips of an exhausted goat and stroked its bristly hair in comfort.

The same skills he used to command Parliament were on display before her eyes. Smart and decisive, capable and compassionate. Silkridge’s ability to adapt to the moment was second to none. Anyone who chanced upon the duke engaged in such a selfless activity could be forgiven for believing him incapable of inflicting pain.

He looked up at her. “You were somehow responsible for my grandfather, Fuzzy Wig, the counting house, the castle’s welcome biscuits, and a Christmas goat?”

“I don’t mind,” she stammered. “Cressmouth needs me.”

It had never seemed like a lot before. Or if it had, all the better. The more the village needed her, the less likely she would find herself alone.

“You deserve a break,” the duke said firmly. “A holiday from this endless ‘holiday.’”

She shook her head. “I would never leave Cressmouth.”

He snorted. Of course he felt the opposite. He couldn’t wait to leave.

His inevitable departure ought to fill her with relief, not emptiness.

She knew better than to wish he would stay. It was impossible. He was a duke. He belonged in London. She was nobody. She belonged here.

Yet she could not help but wish she could change his mind. About Cressmouth. About Christmas. About her.

If he of all people admitted Christmas was magic, it might do more than prove her right.

It could make him want to stay.