by Erica Ridley
He wasn’t thinking about the refreshment table or Lady Gertrude.
The puppy had flopped belly-up against Miss Finch’s bodice, all four paws with their tiny little pads pointing in four different directions. Alexander could swear the mongrel smiled as Miss Finch rubbed its belly, his little pink tongue hanging from his mouth in obvious ecstasy. His fur looked ridiculously soft.
Miss Finch lifted her arms in Alexander’s direction. “Want to touch?”
He was now looking at her bare arms instead of the puppy.
Of course he was.
Alexander’s footmen relieved guests of their winter hats and coats as they entered the cottage. It should not surprise him at all to discover Miss Finch clothed in a highly impractical lightweight frock with short puffed sleeves rather than the more sensible long-sleeved velvet-and-sarcenet of her young charge’s gown.
Miss Finch’s bare arms were completely exposed to the air… and to Alexander’s gaze.
Her skin looked just as soft as the puppy snuggling into her arms. Soft and warm, for there was no sign of gooseflesh upon her skin.
Until she noticed him looking. Goosebumps rippled down her arm as a flush raced up her cheeks.
Alexander’s own neck was uncomfortably warm as he broke his gaze and began mumbling incoherently.
“A basket,” he said. “It’ll be sent to your room at once. And a small blanket to put in the basket. And a bowl of water. And a bone—”
At the word bone, the puppy leapt from Miss Finch’s arms and darted off through the well-dressed crowd.
Lady Gertrude vanished after him, with Miss Finch right on her heels, leaving Alexander babbling about his supply of bones to the empty air.
He closed his mouth with a click just as Oswald swung the front door back open.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Nottingvale swept into the cottage.
“Thank God,” Alexander said.
His mother exuded proper decorum from every pore. Her presence would ensure respectable comportment by all parties.
“Oh, Vale,” she said as they exchanged cheek kisses. “How I apologize for the horrid delay.”
“Perfectly understandable,” he assured her. “I arrived this morning, and we’re still missing half of the guests.”
Three-eighths of the guests, to be exact. He’d been checking them off in his head as they crossed the threshold.
“And your sister?” his mother asked. “I presume she’s been an exemplary hostess in my stead.”
“Yes,” he replied without elaborating.
There would be plenty of time later for and she had a torrid affair with my tailor, to whom she’s now betrothed.
Much, much later.
At least, he hoped there was time to find a bride and prove himself utterly above reproach before the scandal sheets tore his family apart.
Mother would be appalled when she learned Belle had prioritized love over her reputation. Mother was the one who had taught Alexander the trick of following society’s rules, no matter what. It was how she had learned to be a duchess, and how he had learned to be a duke.
Entire books had been written on proper comportment, and Alexander had memorized every one. He expected no less from his future duchess.
Mother surveyed the growing crowd. “I suppose you think a fortnight won’t be long enough.”
Yes. That was exactly what he thought.
It was like having to select the right goldfish from a fishbowl of identical goldfish. There was nothing wrong with any of the goldfish, which wasn’t the point at all. A duke was meant to select the best.
Somehow.
By observing two dozen polite, pretty debutantes in an unnatural environment over the course of fourteen days.
“It’ll be easy,” Mother assured him. “You’ll know by Epiphany.”
He certainly prayed for an epiphany.
“They know I intend to announce the betrothal at the Twelfth Night gala?”
“Yes. Choosing your young lady for the first dance will make a lovely statement,” Mother agreed. “She can spend the rest of the ball by your side, as your hostess. Have you anyone in mind?”
“The first carriage just arrived an hour ago.”
“Plenty of time to whittle down the choices.” Mother narrowed her eyes at the milling crowd. “The Twittington girl is slouching. You don’t want a slouchy duchess. The Whittleburr chit won’t stop twirling her hair. I absolutely cannot abide a hair-twirler at the dinner table. And that one over there...” Mother frowned. “Who is she?”
He turned to look. “That’s Lady Gertrude.”
“Excellent posture,” Mother said, impressed. “She’s neither twirling her hair, nor running on at the mouth like some of these vapid chatterboxes.”
No, Lady Gertrude did not seem the sort to talk a man’s ear off.
“We’ll see,” said the duchess. “Whomever you choose—”
“—must be a credit to the title,” he finished. “I know my duty.”
Alexander had many privileges, but a love match was not one of them. He had a dukedom to consider. A family, whose reputations would be impacted by his choice. Heirs of his own one day, who should be afforded every advantage Alexander could provide.
If having a sister had taught him anything, it was that women could be as strong and as stubborn as any man… and just as scandalous. Alexander had to take great care.
He needed a nice, safe, sweet, predictable bride. A wife he need never worry about, because she would always do the right thing.
“Who is Lady Gertrude with?” asked his mother. “Good heavens! Please tell me the poor dear’s ‘chaperone’ isn’t Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
“For the next fortnight,” he answered bleakly.
Or weakly.
He was looking at Miss Finch’s bare arms again and trying not to wonder what her skin would feel like beneath his fingertips.
All he had to do was avoid her.
It shouldn’t be a difficult task. Miss Finch had a long history of sneaking off from his party after Christmas Day to take part in the village’s many festive activities. She appeared to believe no one ever noticed her sly absences.
Mayhap no one did.
No one except Alexander.
He was glad she was such a rude guest. Her disinterest in his company was a boon to them both.
While she was ice-racing or setting off fireworks from the castle turrets, he would be right here selecting the perfect future duchess.
Chapter 3
Cynthia Louise placed a gentle hand on her younger cousin’s heaving back. “Breathe.”
“I can’t,” came Gertie’s muffled voice between shuddering breaths. She lifted her wan face from the shallow burlap bag she’d been breathing into. “Cynthia Louise, I can’t go caroling.”
“You know all of the words,” Cynthia reminded her. “You know the songs so well, you could play them at the pianoforte blindfolded. Besides, it’s not a solo. We’ll be in a large group—”
“That’s it,” said Gertie desperately. “I’ll stay here playing the pianoforte whilst everyone else goes door-to-door, singing. Out loud. In front of people.”
“We can stand in the back,” Cynthia promised. “You can mouth the words. No one will know.”
Gertie clutched the burlap bag to her chest. “If no one will notice, why must we go?”
“Nottingvale can’t choose you if he never sees you.” Cynthia knelt beside the four-poster bed. “You’ve been in this guest chamber all day. You missed breakfast—”
“I rang for service,” Gertie mumbled. “He has good chocolate.”
“—and you missed luncheon—”
“I had that delivered as well. They were very nice sandwiches. I sent a note of appreciation back to the kitchen.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, darling. We’re at a Christmastide party. In a village called Christmas.” Cynthia took the battered bag from Gertie’s hands and placed it on the bedside table. “Come and be festive
, just for a few hours.”
“You promise I’ll like it?” came Gertie’s timid voice.
“No,” Cynthia answered honestly. “But I promise you will survive it. I’ll be there, too. And we can take Max.”
Gertie brightened. “All right. I’ll go if Max goes.”
“That’s the right outlook, darling.”
Was it a good outlook? Cynthia had her doubts. But at this point, she’d be willing to strap antlers to Max’s head and pretend he was a reindeer if that was what it took to coax Gertie back to the party.
The plan had seemed simple enough on the carriage ride up.
The duke was in search of a bride.
Point him toward Lady Gertrude.
This plan presupposed that Gertie and the duke would occasionally occupy the same room at the same time. Worse, while Gertie burrowed her head in a burlap sack, the rest of the debutantes threw themselves at Nottingvale.
Even worse, every single one of them was... a true delight.
As near as Cynthia could tell, Nottingvale could close his eyes and pick a bride at random, and end up with a pretty, well mannered, respectable young lady worthy of the title of duchess, no matter which contender he chose.
The key was to have Gertie within sight when Nottingvale pointed his finger.
“Come along,” Cynthia said briskly. “Shall we choose an unwrinkled gown?”
“Why?” Gertie asked suspiciously. “Won’t we be bundled in coats and capes?”
Cynthia unfolded a fresh gown. “We’ll be meeting in the parlor for biscuits and wassail prior to heading out in the cold.”
Gertie looked as though she’d rather hide under the bed with Max.
“You like biscuits and wassail,” Cynthia reminded her.
“I could ring for it,” Gertie said hopefully. “We could consume ours in here.”
Cynthia held out the new dress.
With a resigned huff, Gertie slid out of the tall bed and trudged over to don the fresh gown.
“I’m going to drink all of the wassail,” she warned. “They’ll have to refill the bowl five times, because I’m going to drink until I warble carols like an opera singer on opening night.”
“At least Nottingvale would notice you.” Cynthia arched a brow. “If you’re waiting for me to talk you out of a hilariously muttonheaded idea, you’re speaking to the wrong cousin. I could come up with a lively dance to accompany your rousing choruses.”
“Then he’d notice you,” Gertie muttered. Her eyes widened. “Can you pretend to be me? Maybe we can switch at the altar if I wear a heavy enough veil.”
Gooseflesh danced along Cynthia’s arms at the remembrance of that brief moment the night before when the Duke of Nottingvale had seemed to notice her.
She still wasn’t certain what to make of it. Or how to forget it.
“No switching at the altar,” she said firmly. “His Grace knows who I am. More importantly, you need to come to know each other. I won’t have you frightened of him on your wedding day. What will the guests think of you gasping into a burlap bag beneath your pretty veil?”
“I won’t know,” Gertie said. “I won’t be able to see the witnesses because my face will be buried inside a burlap bag. Can we take it caroling with us?”
“Max comes. The bag stays.” Cynthia hauled her cousin to the doorway.
“Come on, Max,” Gertie cooed. “Here, boy.”
The little brown puppy crawled out from under the bed and leapt into Gertie’s arms.
Cynthia tapped her heavy reticule to ensure Max’s coiled leash was inside, then steered her cousin down the corridor toward the sounds of laughter and revelry.
“—caroling,” the Duke of Nottingvale was saying, “followed by additional refreshments and dancing when we return.”
A cheer rose up all around him.
Despite the crowded parlor, Cynthia could make Nottingvale out perfectly. She was tall and he was tall, which meant their startled eyes could meet over the tops of the heads of most of the guests.
She tried to glance away, but could not.
It had always been like that with Nottingvale. Or Vale, as his friends called him—which did not include Cynthia Louise Finch. She was tolerated at his Christmastide parties for the same reason her calendar hadn’t been completely bare during her six failed London seasons.
She had just enough social connections not to be given the cut direct.
And not enough of anything else to bother inviting to the dance floor.
Cynthia wondered if her come-out had set a nationwide record. Six years of nightly fêtes, soirées, dinner parties, and grand galas... with nary a single dance.
It had been interminable.
The subsequent six years were much better. Not because aristocrats like Nottingvale suddenly deigned to dance with her—Ha!—but because Cynthia had stopped trying to impress people who had already decided they weren’t interested.
Cressmouth’s celebrated Marlowe Castle hosted open balls all year long. Cynthia danced until her feet hurt with the local blacksmith, the local baker, the local dairy farmer, the local solicitor, the local wine smuggler, the local parson...
They’d all married different women, but they hadn’t looked through her as though she were less substantial than fog. They were friends, which was more than she’d had in London.
Here in Cressmouth, she now had three godchildren, all of whom called her “Aunt Cynthia Louise” with varying abilities to pronounce the complicated letters, making it the cutest thing any spinster had ever heard.
Who cared if she was still invisible to the beau monde? She had her own world. One in which she mattered, and was seen.
Kind of like the way the Duke of Nottingvale was staring at her at this moment.
His warm brown eyes sent a glow of heat over her skin, as though she’d wandered too near the fireplace.
The duke hadn’t had a moment to himself since the morning began, which somehow made him all the more attractive. His rumpled brown hair looked touchably soft, his jawline just as touchably rough. The hint of shadow instead of his usual close-shaved perfection made him seem... approachable. More real. Less regal.
He would be horrified if he knew.
“What is he looking at?” came a whisper from behind.
“Get up there,” hissed another woman. “Fall into step with him while he’s distracted, and don’t leave his side until he’s forced to ask you to tonight’s first dance.”
“But the dancing isn’t for hours, Mama,” came a panicked whisper that reminded Cynthia of Gertie. “What am I supposed to talk about?”
Eighteen years was far too young to make decisions that would impact one’s future forevermore. Cynthia wished all of these desperate debutantes had a few years to find out who they were before they were forced to find a husband.
“Dukes don’t want wives who talk,” snapped the mother. “Sing the carols and look pretty. You don’t want to end up a thirty-year-old spinster with no prospects, do you?”
Cynthia blinked.
A thirty-year-old spinster with no prospects. That was oddly specific.
“Your Hortense is nothing like Miss Finch,” scolded another mother. “Our daughters are well-behaved and pretty.”
Gertie stiffened and slowly lifted Max away from her bodice.
“Do not throw your puppy in her face,” Cynthia whispered. “Even if she deserves it.”
“We’re right here,” Gertie whispered back. “We’re not invisible.”
Ah. This was her first time.
Gertie had never been invisible. That was a large cause of her anxiety. She was used to people staring at her everywhere she went.
“I’m an ‘ape leader,’” Cynthia reminded her. “I don’t care.”
“I hate that term,” Gertie said fiercely. “Why are unwed dukes more eligible as they get older, and women less eligible by the day? It’s not fair!”
“Lesson number one,” Cynthia murmured. “Nothing is fair.”
Gertie’s eyes flashed. “They talk about you like you’re a... a cautionary tale.”
“I prefer ‘folk legend.’ You recall this past February when the river Thames froze over and I helped an elephant to cross the ice? Jolly good fun!” Cynthia wiggled her eyebrows. “Proper matrons dream of amusing themselves half as well as thirty-year-old spinsters with no prospects. I enjoy being me.”
It had taken catastrophic failure in the Marriage Mart for Cynthia to realize being a wife was like losing at whist. You played the game and lived with the consequences. It was about stratagems, not soulmates.
Love was an illusion. None of the young ladies in this room wanted to marry Nottingvale because they liked him. They wanted his money, his title, his status, his security. Those were the cards on the table.
In turn, he won a pretty bauble. A malleable, impressionable, unobjectionable young lady capable of being molded into the finest duchess England had ever seen.
Huzzah! A winning hand for all.
Unless you wanted more.
“Maybe I should be a spinster like you,” Gertie said. “Would I make a good ape leader?”
Oh no.
“You cannot decide to be an ape leader,” Cynthia whispered. “That’s as bad as deciding to take the first churl who offers marriage, just because he asked.”
“Nottingvale will be the first to offer,” said Gertie. “If he asks.”
“Nottingvale is not a churl,” Cynthia said firmly. “He has all of the material things any woman in search of a secure future could possibly want, and...”
Gertie’s eyes widened. “And?”
And I like him.
It would not do.
“He’s clever,” Cynthia forced herself to continue. “I’ve heard him debate with other gentlemen. He’s honest to a fault. We all know why we’re here. He’s kind. He cares about all of his friends, even the local ones who’ve never stepped foot in Almack’s assembly rooms. He’s a dreadful singer.”
Gertie blinked. “That’s a good quality?”
“A wonderful quality. He doesn’t let it stop him from enjoying Christmas. Don’t let your shyness stop you.”
Gertie gazed doubtfully about the crowded room, then visibly straightened her spine.
