by Erica Ridley
“Wait,” he said, but of course Miss Finch did not.
By the time Lady Gertrude played the final notes of the country-dance, a queue had already started to form behind the bench with other young ladies eager to display their talent with music.
Alexander arrived at the dais just as the next melody began.
“What lucky happenstance,” said Miss Finch. “It’s a waltz.”
“You told her to play a waltz,” said Lady Gertrude.
Miss Finch shoved her into Alexander’s arms. “Can’t talk. Must join the other spinsters in the shadows. Have a lovely dance, you two.”
She vanished into the crowd.
There was nothing left to do but waltz.
“Your cousin is terrifying,” he told Lady Gertrude.
She brightened. “Cynthia Louise will be delighted to hear that. She always says, if you can’t please someone, scare the pants off of them instead.”
“That’s something she always says?” he repeated, then replayed her words in his mind. “She thinks she doesn’t please me?”
“She knows she doesn’t please you,” Lady Gertrude said. “If she pleased you, you would have married her years ago, before she was a spinster. Cynthia Louise says she doubts you even remember her at her come-out. She says the only reason you invite her to your Christmas parties is because your sister makes you.”
All of that was... uncomfortably true.
“Belle can’t ‘make’ me do anything,” he said instead. “I’m a duke, and she’s—”
“Not a spinster any longer.” Lady Gertrude’s eyes shone. “I just heard the news. How lucky to have found a love match!”
If only the rest of the beau monde would view it the same way.
“My sister wasn’t a spinster,” Alexander protested. “She was a... late bloomer.”
“Then Cynthia Louise isn’t a spinster either,” Lady Gertrude said in satisfaction. “She’s a flower, just like Belle.”
Very neatly done. He couldn’t argue without undermining his own assertion.
“Whose lieutenant are you?” he asked suspiciously.
“Cynthia Louise’s.” Lady Gertrude lowered her voice. “Don’t tell her. She doesn’t know.”
“Why does she need one?” he asked. “She seems quite capable.”
Lady Gertrude’s eyes were almost pitying. “Everyone needs someone. The people who think they don’t are the ones who need someone the most.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be shy?” he muttered.
“I usually am,” she agreed, “but you asked me about Cynthia Louise, who is my favorite person in the world. I can’t wait to tell her you think she’s a flower.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “Don’t tell her.”
Miss Finch had orchestrated this waltz for Alexander to come to know her cousin, and instead he’d turned the topic to Miss Finch.
“Tell me about you,” he said to Lady Gertrude.
Her expression shuttered and she stared over his shoulder without speaking.
“Your cousin wants us to talk,” he reminded her. “About you.”
She dragged her gaze back to his and visibly sucked in a restorative breath.
“Five feet tall, eight stone, youngest of three daughters to Lord and Lady Eddlestone, fluent in French, middling at mathematics, well versed in the running of a household, skilled at the pianoforte, reasonably talented with a needle, shockingly bad at watercolor, excellent at memorizing timetables and lists, and unapologetically partial to tragic operas with sad tenor solos.”
He blinked. “It sounds like you memorized a spy’s intelligence report... on yourself.”
She nodded. “Cynthia Louise’s idea. She said if I ever didn’t know what to say, I could always use one of those things. Since this is an interview, I decided to use them all at once.”
“It’s not an interview,” he said. “It’s a waltz.”
“It’s an interview whilst waltzing,” she amended. “How efficient of you! It must help with the hunt. You can quiz our brains while inspecting our looks up close and making certain we shan’t embarrass you on the dance floor.”
“That’s not what I...”
Very well, fair enough.
Though such cold-bloodedness did not paint Alexander in the most favorable light.
“It’s like any given Wednesday at Almack’s,” he tried to explain. “But smaller.”
She nodded. “I appreciate that. It’s much more relaxing. We’ve only to be terrified of you, rather than of a hundred gentlemen and half a dozen patronesses.”
He glimpsed Miss Finch out of the corner of his eye. It was impossible to imagine her terrified of anything.
She was not dancing. That would have limited her to one swain. Instead, she held court between the biscuit table and the mulled wine. She was surrounded by a dozen locals who hung onto her every word, all of them snort-laughing together at some jest that involved comical facial expressions and wild gestures.
It was not at all the manner in which a lady was supposed to comport herself.
Yet there was no denying her allure.
The debutantes under this roof might have come here in hopes of a dukedom, but the local gentlemen were in this ballroom to be near the effervescent Miss Finch.
“Do you want to dance with her?” Lady Gertrude asked.
“Not at all,” Alexander fibbed.
He could not dance with her. To do so would spark gossip, which was something he assiduously avoided. Alexander had spent his life striving to live up to societal expectations. Miss Finch didn’t bother pretending for a single moment.
Dancing with her was completely out of the question.
Completely.
“This year, I’ll only dance with young ladies I’m considering as potential brides,” he explained.
“Did you dance with her last year?” Lady Gertrude asked. “Or ever?”
No, he had not.
Even when not actively pursuing a bride, Alexander was mindful of his reputation. Cynthia playing at “lieutenant” for a fortnight skirted respectability closely enough.
He was not the sort of gentleman who told loud jests with big gestures and comical expressions, or snort-laughed with pretty spinsters next to the refreshment table.
But he suspected Lady Gertrude knew all of that.
She was remarkably astute.
“How old are you?” he grumbled.
“Eighteen years, one month, three days,” she answered. “I’ll add ‘exact age’ to the list for the next time I’m interviewed by a bride-hunting bachelor.”
“If I choose you, there won’t be a next time,” he pointed out.
“It’s still a good list. Cynthia Louise has one for everyone at the party.”
He blinked. “She does?”
“Cynthia Louise knows everything,” Lady Gertrude said. “She’s the one who taught me to create mental lists. She says it helps with counting cards when gambling.”
“Counting cards,” Alexander said faintly. “When gambling.”
“We practiced vingt-et-un during the carriage journey.” Lady Gertrude frowned. “I’m dreadful at gambling. I should add that to the list.”
“Don’t add it to the list,” he said quickly. “Leave some mystery.”
Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re just as clever as Cynthia Louise.”
Two days ago, Alexander might have believed that to be true. “She says she’ll help me select my perfect match before the Twelfth Night ball.”
“Of course she did.” Lady Gertrude beamed at him. “That’s what she said she was going to do.”
“Are her claims always true?”
Lady Gertrude nodded. “But never how you think. If she says, ‘Shall we go out for ices?’” it won’t be Gunter’s. She probably means to hike a fjord with a knapsack full of lemons in order to grate the virgin ice herself and make her own batch of lemon ice whilst sliding down a snow-covered mountain on skis.”<
br />
The idea was preposterous.
Alexander could absolutely imagine Miss Finch doing it.
It was probably the story she’d been telling the locals over by his biscuit table.
“You do realize,” he said, “the effect having her as a cousin has on your reputation.”
Lady Gertrude nodded. “Everyone wishes they were me. Or Cynthia Louise.”
Alexander blinked. As far as a not-so-veiled reproof went, his rebuke had failed spectacularly.
“No,” he said. “The young ladies are here because they want to be a duchess.”
“Or,” said Lady Gertrude. “They want to be a duchess because they can’t be Cynthia Louise.”
The music stopped.
“Thank you for the waltz.” She dipped an exquisite curtsey. “I’m going to drink three glasses of wine and spend the rest of the night playing ball with my puppy.”
She was gone before Alexander could fathom a reply.
His sister Belle intercepted him on the edge of the dance floor. “Are you bored with your plan yet?”
“Not even a little bit,” he said. “I’m not even certain what just happened.”
He watched Miss Finch welcome her cousin into her circle with obvious delight and affection.
“Is that the one you’re after?” Belle asked.
Alexander cut his gaze to her in horror. “A duke would never.”
“I think Lady Gertrude is perfectly nice,” Belle said. “Even Mother likes her.”
Lady Gertrude.
Right.
“Did you know she weighs eight stone and is middling at mathematics?” he enquired.
“Eight stone,” Belle murmured. “She should eat more biscuits.”
“She also adores tragic operas.”
“You hate tragic operas,” his sister replied. “And now you’ve made one. You should call the whole thing off, Vale. This Christmastide bride hunt is a farce.”
“A Duchess Derby, according to Miss Finch,” he muttered.
“She’s not wrong.” Belle placed a hand on her chest. “What if... No, hear me out. What if... you looked for love instead of societal perfection?”
“There’s no more foolish way to make a decision as important as marriage than to base it on one’s heart,” he snapped, then wished he hadn’t. “No offense meant.”
“All offense taken,” she assured him. “You’re disinvited to the wedding.”
“Then who will give you away?”
“Very well, you can attend. But I will be miffed at you the entire time for having suggested love is foolish.”
“Not for you,” he allowed. “You’re not a duke. I am.”
And now he had to make an even better match to counteract her choice.
The perceived quality of his bride would affect the entire family—Belle, whether she liked it or not, their mother, the next generation of children… He did not take such heavy responsibility lightly.
“But a duke is not all you are, is it?” Belle patted his shoulder a bit too hard to be accidental. “What if you let these ladies come to know you? You’ve assembled the finest collection of duchessy debutantes in the country. Why not let love whittle it down from here?”
“Nobody needs to know me,” he said. “The fact that they’re here means they’ve already decided in my favor.”
“Nobody does know you,” Belle corrected. “You don’t let them. All they have to go on is Debrett’s Peerage and the unending references in gossip columns to a certain handsome, wealthy Duke of N— who remains stubbornly single.”
“What else is there to know?” he asked. “My voting record in the House of Lords? Whether I have any skill at embroidery or watercolor?”
“You’ve no skill at watercolor,” his sister replied softly, “or any idea what it would feel like to have someone choose you for you.” This time, her touch to his arm was gentle. “I wish you knew what you were missing.”
“I’m not missing anything,” he assured her. “I even have a lieutenant.”
Chapter 5
Christmas Day was an enormous celebration, second only to the grand Twelfth Night farewell ball the eve before Epiphany, upon which guests would return home carrying the news that the Duke of Nottingvale was betrothed to a future duchess.
Shortly after the sideboard was laid for breakfast, Alexander’s halls were positively brimming with merrymakers and well-wishers.
Each Christmas, his house was open to everyone in the village—and everyone in the village took him up on the offer.
All of the parlors and drawing rooms were stocked with food and drink. He had not planned specific activities this afternoon due to the sheer number of people flowing in and out of the house. Villagers came to mingle with aristocracy. Party guests might slip away to attend church in the castle...
Or, in the case of his business partner Jonathan, sneak off to win the heart of the local jeweler.
It was lovely that some people could afford to let their hearts decide marital matters, truly it was, but Alexander had neither the time nor the freedom for nonsense.
Which was the only reason why he and Miss Finch hadn’t left each other’s sides all day.
The only reason.
She was his lieutenant in the battle to win a duchessy bride, and so far the operation was unfolding flawlessly.
“—in the cerulean dress,” Miss Finch was murmuring into his ear. “She’s nineteen, so not properly a debutante, but her first Season was superlative by any standard. She turned down no less than five proposals. Two from minor peers, one from an eye-wateringly wealthy textiles heir, and the others from heart-wrenchingly lovesick swains. Like you, she is not motivated by love or money, but rather—”
Miss Finch was the perfect height for murmuring into Alexander’s ear. He could not help but admire this trait every time she did so. Modern fashions might consider her appallingly tall for a lady. But for a lieutenant, her height was absolutely perfect.
He was especially glad her blond tresses had been carelessly twisted into another plain, unadorned bun high above her nape.
If Miss Finch had taken the time to curl a few face-framing ringlets, as a lady ought, those soft tendrils might tickle against Alexander’s shoulder every time she murmured into his ear, thus distracting him from the surprisingly detailed intelligence she had amassed on everyone she had ever met.
He was definitely not distracted.
He was paying very close attention.
To... what was she saying? Daughter of a marquess, cousin to the Speaker of the House of Commons, mm-hm, intriguing.
What was that light scent he caught whenever Miss Finch inclined ever so slightly in his direction? Was it a perfume? A soap? It was not-quite-flowery, which shouldn’t surprise him in the least.
If Miss Finch went on a botany expedition for eau de toilette, she’d likely return with stinging nettles, a Venus Flytrap, and a stack of sticky honeycomb she’d nicked from beehives with her bare hands.
That was how she smelled. Chaotic and sweet and dangerous.
“—if she hadn’t selected the wrong spoon in front of one of the patronesses of Almack’s,” Miss Finch concluded, apparently no longer singing the praises of the young lady in blue, but rather recounting the worst known scandal of an otherwise unobjectionable young lady in green.
“You seem to know Society’s rules to the letter,” he murmured to Miss Finch.
See? Another reason to be glad she hadn’t curled ringlets into her hair. One soft tendril might have brushed against his mouth as he bent his head to hers, causing his mind to deviate from finding his future bride. Miss Finch’s plainness had a purpose. It was practical. She was helping him to concentrate on his aims. Just as she’d promised to do.
“Of course I know society’s rules.” Her low, earthy chuckle tickled his skin beneath his clothes. “How else would I know how to break them?”
Was it too hot in here? Too cold? The fireplace was crackling, the windows ajar to allow i
n fresh air—surely that was the explanation for this strange sensation of not knowing how to feel in his own skin.
He wasn’t attracted to her.
Here, he would prove how much they did not suit.
“Is it true you ran through the cascade fountains of Chatsworth House during a garden party?”
“I didn’t run. I luxuriated in them.”
She burst out laughing at his flinch of shock.
“In my defense,” she said, “it was a hot day. We had been playing Pall Mall on the lawn. I’d tried to balance a lemonade whilst taking a swing at my ball, and ended up splashing half of it down my bodice. Changing clothes would’ve taken an hour, and we were winning. I was the only person in my group who knew what to do with a mallet, and my team depended on me. Whilst the others took their turn, I nipped over to the fountain to wipe the stickiness from my bosom as best I could. I might’ve been soaking wet, but I won the game.”
See? Not an attractive picture at all.
He was definitely not imagining her hair clinging to her face in damp tendrils as she dabbed a wet handkerchief to her water-misted bodice.
So glad he’d asked for clarification on the idle gossip.
Brilliant move. Now that he had the true mental image to picture, he’d... he’d...
Never sleep soundly again from dreams of Miss Finch glistening with water like a siren from the sea as she swung her mallet to victory.
“Why are you invited anywhere?” he blurted out.
“Oh, I wasn’t invited back,” she said with a laugh. “But that was mostly due to the gentlemen being poor sports about losing a game of Pall Mall to a team of ladies. It seems men aren’t as superior as they like to claim.”
Or they were distracted.
By Miss Finch, who wasn’t plain at all.
Which, Alexander supposed, only proved her point as to men’s inferiority.
She was standing before him perfectly dry, and he still had no hope in heaven of hitting a ball in a straight line in his current state. All he could think about was holding the next party at his West Midlands manor, which had plenty of garden for installing cascading fountains.
