by Erica Ridley
“I’ll walk,” he told his startled driver. “It’s a beautiful day.”
It was a ridiculously cold day. If it weren’t for warm leather gloves and thick winter layers, he would have frozen into a ducal icicle the moment he’d stepped outside.
But mayhap a bit of fresh air would be good for him.
Alexander spent every Christmas here in Cressmouth, but never left his cottage. There was no time to. He was the host of a fortnight-long Yuletide party filled with activities that ran until three o’clock in the morning. Perhaps none of which required his presence after all.
Practically superfluous, his mother had said.
The two-mile hike back to the cottage uphill through the snow could take an hour. An hour in which he might enjoy his surroundings.
A snow-covered vista stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. Marlowe Castle stood on the highest point, its towers and ramparts glistening where sunlight sparkled against snow and ice. Fields of evergreens rolled in every direction behind the castle, their spiky green needles shimmering beneath ice droplets that looked like crystals.
Once his carriage pulled away without him, Alexander stepped onto the pavement leading up toward the castle. The walking path was kept clear on both sides of the road, for the convenience of tourists.
Alexander had kept a country home here for years, and never properly considered himself a tourist.
The blacksmith shop across the street bustled with business. Sleighs, carriages, and carts lined the road.
He was friends with the le Duc brothers who ran the shop. Sébastien, Lucien, and family attended Alexander’s Christmas Day open house every year.
He had never been inside the blacksmith shop.
Was this his opportunity to change that?
Or was Alexander courting scandal by risking being glimpsed so far away from the party he was meant to be hosting?
He was already walking home, he reasoned. Pausing to greet a neighbor wouldn’t be seen as a crime. Especially not in a village as friendly as Cressmouth.
Alexander picked his way across the road to the shop.
The le Duc brothers’ Uncle Jasper greeted him with a smile. “Happy Christmas, Your Grace. Where’s your carriage? We can’t mend it if you don’t bring it.”
“My carriage is fine,” Alexander assured him. “Happy Christmas to you, too.”
“Well, if you’re looking for the lads, they’re inside playing billiards with their sister and Miss Finch. Difficult to say which team’s winning the tournament.”
Alexander stared at him.
Miss Finch was inside the blacksmiths’ house.
Playing billiards.
“Go on back,” said Jasper. “The door’s unlocked. Billiard room is second on the right.”
Which was how the Duke of Nottingvale found himself straightening his cravat and brushing snow from his lapels on the le Ducs’ front step, before opening the door himself, since there was no servant to do it for him.
The loud thwack of colliding balls greeted him, followed by hoots of laughter. Even without Jasper’s instructions, finding the billiard room would have been obvious.
Alexander placed his hat on a wooden rack, and after a moment’s indecision added his coat as well.
He wasn’t going to stay, but it would be rude to drip melting snow all over the house.
After taking an extra moment to stomp his boots onto a conveniently located rug, he raked his fingers through his hat-crushed hair and strode down the short corridor to the open doorway of the billiard room.
Miss Finch was bent over the table to take a shot, which gave Alexander a splendid view down her bodice at the soft bosom she’d pressed his hands into during his completely ill-thought-out game of charades.
She glanced up and smiled at him just as she took her shot.
Despite her inattention, the cue ball tapped smartly against two other balls, provoking groans from the two brothers.
“Unbelievable.” Sébastien le Duc refilled his glass of champagne. “That was witchcraft, plain and simple. You ladies are unmitigated cheats.”
Miss Finch wagged a finger at him. “Be careful. Those are dueling words.”
“Don’t do it,” Désirée warned her brother. “Your top hat still has a hole in it from last time.”
Alexander gaped at Miss Finch. “You shot him?”
“I shot his hat,” she replied.
“You could have killed him,” he sputtered.
“Often the stated purpose of a duel,” Désirée pointed out.
“Doing so would’ve required skill indeed.” Miss Finch grinned at Alexander unrepentantly. “Whenever we duel, we place our headwear at twenty paces and aim at that instead. You should have seen what this rotter’s five-shot pepperbox did to my favorite bonnet.”
“Whenever you duel,” Alexander repeated faintly.
She held out her cue stick. “Here. You can take my next shot.”
“Non,” said Lucien. “It is men against women, s’il te plaît.”
Sébastien narrowed his eyes at Alexander. “Are you any good?”
“Horrid,” Alexander admitted.
Sébastien waved him ahead. “Take all of Cynthia Louise’s shots. Please.”
“May I ask what you’re doing here?” Désirée enquired. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your party?”
“I’m not staying,” Alexander said quickly. “I’m just... I just...”
None of his motivations would satisfactorily explain his presence here and not there.
At least, nothing he wished to admit to.
“Of course you’re staying,” Miss Finch said as she placed the cue stick into his hands. “What’s the point of being a duke if you can’t roll about in the mud or perform circus tricks or wager at billiards with friends instead of attending your own party once in a while?”
“None of those are things dukes do,” he informed her.
She smiled. “They should.”
Sébastien motioned toward the green baize. “Take your shot.”
Alexander frowned at the table. “Where did the pockets go?”
“Mon Dieu,” Lucien muttered.
Sébastien chortled with glee. “This is the best thing that could have happened to this tournament. He’s never seen carom billiards before!”
“What do I do?” Alexander whispered to Miss Finch.
She demonstrated. “With a straight rail, your cue ball hits both object balls in one strike.”
He tried.
It did not work.
“My turn.” Sébastien leapt to his feet. “Prepare for destruction.”
Miss Finch handed Alexander an empty goblet. “Red or white wine?”
He set the goblet down. “Miss Finch—”
All three le Ducs stared at him. “You call her ‘Miss Finch?’”
“As is proper,” Alexander said.
More to the point, Miss Finch hadn’t given him leave to call her anything else.
“I like it,” announced Sébastien. “His Grace is only permitted ‘Miss Finch’ whilst everyone else in the village may call her Cynthia Louise for short.”
“‘Miss Finch’ is shorter than ‘Cynthia Louise,’” Alexander pointed out defensively.
“And as a penalty for Sébastien’s impudence,” Miss Finch interrupted, “I hereby grant His Grace permission to call me ‘Cynthia,’ which is even shorter than ‘Cynthia Louise.’”
“I thought we were friends,” Sébastien muttered.
He and his siblings swiveled expectant gazes toward Alexander.
“Er,” he said.
From the moment he’d inherited the title, no one outside of the family had ever again called Alexander by his Christian name.
His spine tingled as he said, “Miss—er—Cynthia may call me ‘Alexander’ whilst the rest of you scoundrels continue to call me ‘Nottingvale.’”
“Rude,” said Sébastien. “You’re catching on.”
He then bent to the table and made s
everal shots that inspired grunts of approval from his brother and good-natured cursing from two very unladylike ladies.
Alexander should have been appalled.
Instead, he couldn’t stop smiling.
He was having more fun than he had ever had at a Yuletide party, and all he’d done was walk into a room, fail to make his shot, and parry a few insults.
“Champagne,” he decided. Rather than red or white wine, the moment definitely called for champagne.
Sébastien widened his eyes. “But England, she is at war with la France. Surely you do not accuse humble French immigrants of smuggling contraband from foreign soil.”
“There’s champagne in your glass,” Désirée pointed out.
“So there is.” Sébastien retrieved a bottle from the sideboard behind him and held the neck out toward Alexander. “Veuve Clicquot? 1811 was a comet vintage. You shan’t be disappointed.”
Cynthia Louise held out her glass as well, which caused the others to do the same.
“To Alexander and Cynthia!” cheered Désirée.
“Er,” said Alexander.
His protest went unheard over the clinking of glasses.
Cynthia’s blue eyes sparkled at him over the top of her champagne.
“Halt the tournament,” she commanded. “Shall we at least teach Alexander the rules?”
“And some illegal shots, just for sport,” Sébastien added.
Désirée nodded sagely. “So he knows what not to do.”
The others laughed.
Alexander did not. He had always known what not to do.
Such as abandoning his own party.
Or playing drunken billiards at one o’clock in the afternoon.
Or granting a hoyden like Cynthia Louise Finch leave to abandon all propriety and refer to him as Alexander.
No, propriety had been abandoned long before he walked through the door. Alexander was merely...
Complicating matters.
“Very well,” he said. “Who wants to explain how to make a cannon?”
The next hour and a half passed in a blur of failed shots on Alexander’s part, a series of utterly impossible-to-make shots that everyone but Alexander was able to achieve on the first try, and the uncorking of a second bottle of champagne.
He’d lost track of the time.
Spending a playful, spontaneous afternoon with Cynthia was fun.
She was fun.
And unpredictable.
And terrifying.
She made him want more moments like these.
If he had missed her before when she sneaked away for a few hours, he would now be able to think of nothing else but how much he would rather be wherever she happened to be, doing whatever she wanted.
He tried to memorize every moment, but it was impossible. There were too many, and they kept coming. Teasing banter across the table. The flirtatious look in her eyes when she bent to take a shot—or leaned over to willfully distract him from his.
But like all good things, this too must end.
He handed Lucien the cue stick. “I must return to my party.”
“I’ll go with you,” Cynthia said. “I need to make certain Gertie is following orders.”
“Take him out back to meet Chef,” said Désirée.
Sébastien smirked. “Don’t let him fall in.”
“What...?” Alexander asked.
Once they were cloaked and hatted, Cynthia led him out of the house and around the side, rather than down the front walk to the street.
“They have a pet hog,” she explained. “Named Chef.”
That raised more questions than it answered.
“I don’t care about Chef,” he said.
“Oh, all right.” She pivoted back toward the smithy.
He stopped her. For the moment, they were hidden from view.
She lifted her questioning gaze to his.
“Thank you,” he said. “For letting me stay even though you didn’t invite me. For making me feel welcome, and for... attempting... to teach me carom billiards.”
“You do know,” she said, “you can do this whenever you like.”
“Drink too much champagne and cause you to lose your tournament?”
“Enjoy yourself,” she corrected. “What’s the point of being a duke if you never do anything you like?”
He was starting to wonder.
“There is one thing I’d like to do...” He lifted his hand to her cheek.
She arched a brow. “Then stop talking and do it.”
He pulled his hat from his head and dipped under the brim of her bonnet to kiss her.
The wind disappeared, the icy temperature, the snow. There was only her lips. Her heat. Her tongue.
He couldn’t have her, no matter how much he liked her. He knew that.
But they could have this kiss.
It would have to be enough.
He lifted his head.
“Let me guess,” she said wryly. “You have to go and choose a bride?”
He winced. This was not well done of him.
“They’re all perfect,” he admitted. “How does one decide between perfection?”
“Are they perfect for you?” She tilted her head. “What if you lowered your standards to someone almost perfect? Close enough so that you’re not mortified to be married to her, but imperfect enough to be interesting and amusing and unafraid to put life first.”
He frowned. “I thought you wanted me to marry your cousin.”
She snorted. “Gertie doesn’t want to marry you. No offense.”
“None taken,” he said faintly, then changed his mind. “All offense taken. Why attend the Debutante Derby if she doesn’t want to marry me?”
“She didn’t know she didn’t want to until she met you.”
Now he should definitely be taking offense.
Instead, all he could do was rejoice. For now at least, there was nothing to stop Cynthia from kissing him.
He wrapped his arms about her midsection.
She laced her fingers behind his neck. “You scare Gertie. But you don’t scare me.”
“Nothing does, I suspect.” He suckled her bottom lip. “You scare the devil out of me.”
She grinned. “Good.”
That was the last word spoken for several long minutes as Alexander kissed her with all of the hunger he’d kept locked deep inside.
He wished more than anything that he and Cynthia Louise could have more than stolen kisses.
But he was a duke, and despite her opinion on the matter, dukes were not always able to do as they pleased.
Chapter 9
Cynthia Louise stood atop the snow-covered peak behind Marlowe Castle and flung her arms open wide.
This was the panorama she’d been craving. Snow in every direction. Rolling fields of evergreens to the left, red-roofed cottages of Cressmouth to the right, and directly in front of her... the perfect spot to slide down the mountain on skis.
Blast it all, she should have brought them along, just in case her scouting adventure bore fruit. Although the slightly less steep section just beside it was often used for sledding, that wasn’t the only criteria for a ski hill. She’d needed to ascertain the depth and consistency of the snow, and ensure it stretched over the entire area.
Luckily for her, a snowstorm earlier that month had set things up nicely. The difficult part was going to be convincing Gertie to come with her. Every time the earl took the extended family on holiday to Norway, Gertie had stayed resolutely indoors drinking chocolate rather than strap on what she referred to as “death sticks.”
Seeing Cynthia bed-bound in leg traction twice over the years hadn’t helped matters. No matter how much Cynthia tried to explain that the danger didn’t come from the skis, but rather the riskiness of the tricks attempted by the rider.
Tricks were optional! Gertie could just coast! Cynthia would be right there!
Such arguments hadn’t swayed Gertie in the least.
Indee
d, it was a comment by Gertie’s father that wrought the magic. Once he’d married the last chit off, said the earl, he was ridding the manor of all their paraphernalia—from the pianoforte to the skis.
Nothing made a prospect more enticing than the daunting realization one might never have such an opportunity again.
Tomorrow, Cynthia decided. Tomorrow, she would convince Gertie.
Today was for Cynthia’s freedom.
She flung her arms out wide.
It wasn’t just that she treasured these unstructured moments above all else. “Gadding about,” as her uncle called it, allowed her to bump into old friends or wander into new adventures.
And now, it also allowed her to avoid the Duke of Nottingvale.
Alexander.
Her cheeks heated.
Sneaking off to explore the village’s festivities alone allowed her to avoid Alexander.
His kisses were exquisite.
No woman in her right mind would wish to avoid a moment’s pleasure in his embrace.
But the obvious spark between them wasn’t the problem.
The fact that he was going to marry someone else was the problem.
She’d known that before she came. She hadn’t cared back then.
Very well, yes, she had cared deeply, but she’d thought he was going to marry Gertie, who was Cynthia’s favorite person. Since the duke never looked twice at Cynthia anyway, why not have him rescue her cousin?
But Gertie didn’t want the duke.
Cynthia did.
And Alexander wanted someone—anyone—but Cynthia Louise.
The only way to avoid being hurt when he made his final duchess selection, was to avoid him. The less time they spent together, the lower the probability of her exceedingly foolish tendre developing into something deeper.
After all, Cynthia had a long history of falling in things.
What she had to avoid falling into was love.
She turned from the gorgeous, perfect-for-skis, unblemished, snow-covered slope and stepped... right into the Duke of Nottingvale’s chest.
“Good heavens!” He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her toward the castle ramparts. “You were standing on the edge of a cliff. You could have slid right off!”
“I plan to,” she informed him. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be entertaining guests at your party?”
