by Erica Ridley
Her breath caught.
Cynthia supposed she was meant to be awestruck by the whiteness of his cravat and the exquisite tailoring of his coal black breeches and tailcoat, but when she looked at him all she could think of was how it felt not to see him.
When she’d been lying on the dais with her eyes shut tight. Waiting for him to come to her. Wondering if he would kiss her. Cracking open one eye and discovering him...
There.
“I don’t suppose you can summon a pianist,” he said gruffly.
“Er,” Cynthia said.
Gertie did a horrendous job of looking away from the pianoforte.
“I’ll do it,” Cynthia said before her cousin’s resolve weakened.
Nottingvale looked startled. “You can play the pianoforte?”
“I can climb a tree and shoot a pistol.”
“What has that to do with the pianoforte?”
Fair enough.
“I know a few tunes,” she assured him. “And I’m all you’ve got.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the encroaching army of debutantes eager for a dance, then swung his resigned gaze back to Cynthia. “All right, go. Play a melody we can dance to. Thank you.”
And with that, he disappeared into the sea of adoring young ladies.
“You know what to do,” said Gertie.
“You know what to do,” countered Cynthia. “Find someone your father would deem at least somewhat acceptable. No falling in love with a footman.”
Gertie brightened. “Like Horace and Morris?”
“Especially not a matched pair of strapping country footmen. Your father would expire on the spot.”
“And then I could marry the footmen and be a professional pianist,” Gertie said dreamily. “All at the same time.”
Cynthia turned her cousin’s shoulders around to point her toward a shamefully overlooked group of ton bucks and dandies. Gertie had met them all during her come-out. “Fish in that pond first.”
Gertie took a deep breath and set off to stroll within eyesight of beau monde approved rakes and bucks.
Cynthia hurried to the pianoforte and placed her fingers above the keys.
She did know what to do.
Give Nottingvale something to dance to.
The rousing, bawdy opening bars to A Soldier Goes A-Wenching burst from the pianoforte as Cynthia’s fingers flew merrily over the keys.
Rather, A Spinster Goes A-Wenching.
Nottingvale shot her a wide-eyed glance of abject horror.
She puckered her lips in the form of a kiss without breaking the flow of music and transitioned seamlessly into a traditional country dance.
Only Nottingvale and the naughtier of the gentlemen had recognized the ribald tune before the familiar melody of Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot filled the ballroom.
Pairs were made and patterns formed as the company squared off into the dance.
Luckily for Nottingvale, Cynthia knew more than enough reels and quadrilles to keep the party dancing from now until Twelfth Night.
Unluckily for Cynthia, the raised dais was a perfect vantage point from which to watch Nottingvale dance with pretty young lady after pretty young lady after pretty young lady.
The debutantes were right.
This was a terrible view.
She tried to concentrate on the keys, rather than the duke whirling other women about the dance floor.
Cynthia didn’t want or need to know what it might feel like to dance in the duke’s arms in front of all and sundry. Proximity to Nottingvale addled her brain. Their hands had touched on no less than three separate occasions, and the memory still caused palpitations.
A proper dance would kill her.
And a kiss...
She did want one, damn him.
Even though he wasn’t courting her, a kiss would allow her to live the fantasy, just for a moment.
And only a moment.
If the thought of being a duchess terrified Gertie, to Cynthia the prospect was positively laughable.
She could follow rules if she wanted to, but she didn’t want to.
Cynthia didn’t give a flying fig about fitting in with the world that had shunned her, year after year, no matter how slavishly she’d followed its arbitrary conventions.
She’d rather be single forever than wade back into that cesspool.
Even for a duke.
Gertie was the more pressing concern.
Cynthia didn’t wish to alarm her cousin, but she would not be at all surprised to learn the earl had a marriage contract drafted and ready, in case Cynthia failed to match Gertie with the duke.
Her heart ached.
Cynthia was well past the age of majority, but for Gertie it was still years away. If they didn’t find someone reasonably respectable to pair her off with, the earl would have her in front of the altar by January.
This would be Gertie’s final fortnight of freedom before beginning an entire lifetime of misery.
Cynthia could not allow that to happen.
She wanted Gertie to be happy. If that meant marrying a tavern-keeper’s son or a footman, Cynthia didn’t care in the least.
The earl, on the other hand, would have no scruple breaking an unadvantageous contract in order to pack Gertie off to a roué willing to pay for the privilege of possessing her.
There had to be someone in this ballroom capable of mollifying the earl and being a good husband to Gertie.
Cynthia prayed Gertie found the lad quickly.
Three in the morning tolled by the time Cynthia played the final boulanger.
The crowd had dwindled down to the last dozen or two dancers. If the other guests were like Cynthia, they had their eyes on the morning balloon ascent advertised in the Cressmouth Gazette.
The revelers who remained were either slogging through the last steps or slumped tipsily against the wall between the decimated refreshment table and the door.
When she played the final chord, Nottingvale bid each of his guests a good night.
After the final straggler exited the ballroom, the duke climbed up the dais to the pianoforte and sat down on the wooden bench next to Cynthia.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You saved the evening.”
She stretched her fingers. “What’s a ditty or two between friends?”
“You played for five hours,” he pointed out. “Without stopping.”
She hadn’t done so for him.
She’d done so for Gertie.
Oh, very well, Cynthia had helped for his sake, too.
“Interesting opening,” he said.
She grinned at him. “I’d hoped you’d like it.”
He gestured at the ivory keys. “I’m ready to hear your inappropriate alternate lyrics.”
She folded her hands in her lap primly. “Guests are asleep, Your Grace. It would not do to wake them up to the sound of my skill with rhyming ‘rocked me fore and aft’ with ‘the length of his shaf—’”
Nottingvale closed the lid of the pianoforte.
“You’re right,” he said hastily. “They’re not prepared for the nuance of your lyrics.”
She shook her head in resignation. “No one ever is.”
Nottingvale cleared his throat. “Speaking of—”
“Turgid shafts?” she supplied hopefully.
“Music,” he corrected firmly. “You were wonderful tonight. Really.”
“I’m not embarrassing,” she admitted. “But I’m also not Gertie.”
“Your cousin was astonishing at the pianoforte the other day,” he agreed.
“Every day, if Gertie can help it. If you think she has a knack with songs by Playford or Gallini, you should hear the arias and cotillions she’s invented on her own.”
His surprise was evident. “Lady Gertrude composes her own music?”
Cynthia nodded. “Scores of it. Literally.”
He seemed to think this over. “Do you think she’d agree to—”
“No.”
“I’ll do it,” Cynthia said. “Gertie needs to dance. I’ll play for the rest of the party, if you need. I wasn’t going to dance anyway.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“I never stood up for a set, back when I was hoping to dance,” she reminded him. “No longer trying makes it less awkward for everyone.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Besides, I have things to do,” she said quickly.
“You can’t do other things whilst entertaining at the pianoforte,” he pointed out.
“That’s just at night. During the day, I’ve so many activities planned, I’d need to double myself to have a prayer of seeing them all. Oh, not here,” she assured him. “All of the fun things are happening out in the village.”
“As the host of this party,” he said, “I should be offended by such a statement.”
“As a guest of this party,” she replied, “I should be offended that it’s true.”
He glared at her.
She grinned at him.
“Come with me,” she said impulsively.
To her surprise, he looked tempted. “I can’t. I’m the host. I’m stuck here every second of every day.”
“Do you always do what you’re supposed to do?”
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She patted his hand. “That’s too bad.”
“Almost always.” He trapped her hand in his.
She stared at him.
He lifted her fingers to his lips. Slowly. Deliberately.
This time, he wasn’t playacting at charades for an audience.
This time, his actions were for her.
“Are we reenacting the moment?” she asked. She meant her tone to be flippant, but instead it sounded eager and unsteady. “Should I smash your hands to my breasts next?”
“I am exceedingly amenable to that suggestion,” he said. “But first...”
He lowered her palm to his heart and angled his head until his mouth hovered a mere breath above hers. “May I kiss you?”
“Be quick,” she whispered. “I have things to do.”
“No. You have this.”
And he kissed her.
His lips were soft and firm, at first gentle, then more demanding.
He hadn’t been stalling, she realized. He’d been containing himself. Wrapping himself tight in the should-dos because to cut the strings that tied his hands...
Would lead to moments like this.
This wasn’t one kiss. It was ten.
A hundred kisses.
Her fingers were no longer splayed on his chest, but diving into his hair, clutching him to her. He showed no sign of letting go.
His hands cupped her face, cradling her gently even as he demanded entry into her mouth, claiming her with his tongue as well as his mouth.
This was a different kind of kiss.
Shockingly intimate and deliciously erotic.
She had goosebumps everywhere, despite being enveloped by his heat, with her bodice pressed tight against his chest.
A spinster could get used to kisses like these.
Cynthia could get used to Nottingvale, in specific.
Breathless, she broke the kiss while she still could.
Within a week he would be betrothed to some other woman. It would not do to indulge a tendre for a man she could not keep.
Cynthia was not so silly as to risk her heart.
She hoped.
Chapter 8
Alexander was spoilt for choice.
He had met all of his potential brides, spoken with all of his potential brides, dined with all of his potential brides, danced with all of his potential brides...
And he was no closer to betrothing himself with any of them.
The Yuletide party was performing its function splendidly. It was Alexander who was dragging his feet.
In order to allow his guests time to sleep, he had planned no morning activities other than breakfast, which was laid out on the dining room sideboard at dawn and kept fresh until luncheon.
Afternoon activities were many and varied, most of them arranged by his mother. Society rules dictated that a female hostess preside over house parties, and Alexander’s mother was happy to fill that role until her son could produce a wife.
Alexander was happy, too. Those same rules kept his guests entertained and his mother busy, leaving him free to moon out of a side window unobserved.
Where had Miss Finch gone at eight o’clock in the morning?
Why had she been awake at eight o’clock in the morning?
Was she ever coming back to the party?
For years, it had been her habit to slip away for an hour or two, usually in the mornings before the day’s engagements began.
But last night, she had been up late playing the pianoforte. And kissing Alexander. Who had barely slept as a consequence, except to dream of kissing her again.
Nuncheon had come and gone with no sign of Miss Finch.
Guests were playing Commerce in the blue drawing room, dicing in the red parlor, performing a pantomime in the ballroom, taking chocolate and chatting in the dining room...
Not Miss Finch.
She had things to do.
He wondered what they were. And if, whilst doing them, she occasionally recalled certain kisses she’d shared with the Duke of Nottingvale.
Whose Yuletide party she was supposed to be attending.
A knock on the front door sounded down the corridor.
Alexander strode to investigate. He arrived just as his butler Oswald opened the door to reveal Miss Olive Harper, heiress to and manager of the famous Harper stud farm at the entrance to Cressmouth.
“Happy Christmas, Olive,” said Alexander.
“It’s a dreadful Christmas,” she replied. “I’m going to murder my father. My sworn enemy is here to court me and he didn’t bring any attire suitable for the weather. Is your business partner here? Mayhap he’ll let me borrow the clothes from his manikin. They seem about the right size.”
“If it’s for your sworn enemy,” Alexander said politely, “why not let him suffer his own poor choices?”
Olive let out an aggrieved sigh. “It’s complicated.”
He understood complicated.
“I have entire wardrobes full of prototypes we’ve developed,” he informed her. “I can send over a trunk in no time. How long is your enemy staying?”
“Too long,” Olive answered. “Ten days.”
“Does he need anything else?”
She bit her lip. “Riding boots. If you have them. And he’s rather wide in the shoulders, with thick biceps and defined thigh muscles, if you could ask your tailor to adjust the seams. He’s a large man. Large and... very well shaped.”
Ah. So it was complicated.
“I’ll have it sent over at once,” he assured her.
“Thank you.” She looked simultaneously relieved and panicked, as if she suspected this new development might cause her undoing.
Alexander could understand that, too.
She left before he could ask any further questions.
He knew where to find his business partner, Calvin. Alexander’s yellow parlor had been converted into a makeshift workroom, due to its exceptional light. Tailoring projects were piled on every surface.
He sent a pair of footmen to collect the most wintery prototypes from the dressing room, then explained what Olive needed to Calvin.
“Large,” Calvin repeated. “And very well shaped.”
“I believe she mentioned wide shoulders... thick biceps and thigh muscles...”
“‘Sworn enemy,’ she said.” Calvin glanced about at all of the fashions filling the room. “To be clad in the finest men’s apparel ever designed.”
“‘Complicated,’ she said,” Alexander reminded him. “How long do you need?”
&nbs
p; “To let out a few seams?” Calvin shrugged. “An hour or two.”
“Thank you. Let me know when you’re finished. I’ll have a footman deliver the trunk.”
At least, that had been the plan.
But two hours later, the clothes were hemmed, the trunk was packed, and there was still no sign of Miss Finch at the party. One shouldn’t have anything to do with the other, but...
“I’ll deliver the trunk,” Alexander announced to his footmen, who looked appropriately aghast.
“I’ll summon a coach,” said the butler.
And Alexander would stare out of the carriage window looking for signs of Miss Finch.
He put on his hat and coat and was halfway to the door when his mother stepped around the corner.
“Vale,” she said in obvious surprise. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I have to pay a quick call to the Harpers. Can you manage things here for the next twenty or thirty minutes?”
She looked amused. “I ‘manage’ them for the entire fortnight. That’s why you must choose the perfect duchess. Your presence at parties is practically superfluous, because it is your hostess to whom all eyes will be constantly fixed. I am happy to take her under my wing, but she must have the appropriate potential.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said gently. “I’m aware of the qualifications for the perfect bride.”
“Of course you are.” She gave a sharp nod. “I won’t keep you from your errand. Supper will be at half past eight. I’ve arranged the seating so that you are between two of the likeliest contenders, and right across from another.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “You do think of everything.”
She looked pleased at this, and continued down the corridor without another word.
Alexander dashed to the coach before anyone else could waylay him.
The Harper farm was on the outskirts of the village. Alexander’s home was nestled at the heart, a stone’s throw from Marlowe Castle. Because there was only one road leading out of the village, one might think it likely for one to glimpse Miss Finch out of the window as one’s carriage rolled by.
One would be wrong.
There was no sign of her anywhere.
Alexander delivered the trunk without incident, then paused at the side of the road before climbing back into his carriage.
