by Erica Ridley
“You’re a guest at my party,” he reminded her. “And you’re not there. I came to... chastise you.”
“You’re not there, either,” she pointed out. “Consider your chastisement rebutted.”
Alexander glowered at her. “Very well. I confess. I came to see what you were doing.”
He also hadn’t let go of her yet. If anything, he was holding her closer.
She felt in danger of losing her balance over a different type of cliff.
With skis, Cynthia hadn’t minded getting hurt, because she knew she could win in the end.
With Nottingvale, the game was already over.
She swallowed. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Fortunately, people tend to notice when you pass by, which provided subtle clues to follow.”
“Was it the chestnut cart?” she asked. “Children love it when I eat chestnuts from the air whilst juggling them.”
“It was the archery targets,” he informed her. “The competition apparently isn’t until tomorrow, but a certain hoyden paid five quid to practice shooting today... and didn’t hit a single hay mound.”
“My hands were sticky,” she protested. “That was after the chestnuts.”
He still hadn’t let go of her.
She was suddenly aware how protected their position was behind the castle. Ramparts to one side, a forest to the other… They were out-of-doors yet completely hidden from view.
Anything could happen.
“Well.” He tilted his head, his voice a low, seductive purr. “Now that I’m here, what shall we do with ourselves?”
Cynthia knew what she was going to do.
She was going to show him how incompatible they were.
Once she proved they didn’t suit, he would see their flirtation was as pointless as it was temporary.
She respected her heart too much to be nothing more than a man’s passing fancy.
If the duke wished to procrastinate, he could take up a hobby.
Juggling chestnuts was nice. So was picking a blasted bride, so as to put the rest of the party out of their misery.
“We’ll begin,” she said briskly, “in the counting house.” Cynthia lifted her arm to point up high at the tallest tower. “It’s in the room at the top.”
He gulped. “Let me guess... It’s countless uneven flights up a narrow, winding, windowless staircase?”
“Oh, you’ve already seen it?” she said brightly. “If the idea bores you, go on back to the party.”
“I’ll go,” he said quickly. “Lead the way.”
Marvelous.
But they’d no sooner stepped beneath the castle archway and in through the open entrance doors when the duke stopped stock-still and gazed about in childlike wonder.
“It’s incredible.” His voice was hushed, his expression filled with awe. “The interior looks new.”
“Mr. Marlowe renovated the castle a decade ago.” Cynthia stared at the duke in befuddlement. “Have you never been inside the castle before?”
He shook his head. “I heard there were free refreshments for villagers, but I don’t require charity. I have a French chef and a well-stocked kitchen.”
“People don’t come to the castle for charity,” she began, then corrected herself. “I concede that free food and entertainment is one of the reasons I came the first time. But it’s far from the only reason. Wealthy tourists pay the same to rent a suite with a view for a fortnight as they would renting a room for an entire year in London. People come because it’s Christmastide here, all year round. This village is a family anyone can drop into whenever they please. Fellow strangers are just future friends. And yes, the free cakes are nice.” She frowned at him. “Why do you come?”
“For Christmas,” he assured her. “But I put it on myself. I’m in London most of the year for Parliament, then at my country estate the rest of the year, making up for lost time. I tend to arrive here toward the beginning of December, a week or so before my guests, so that I have time to prepare. I must be present during the party because I am the host. After the grand Twelfth Night farewell ball, the house clears on Epiphany, and I head back to London myself the following day to retake my seat in the House of Lords.”
“Wait,” she said. “This isn’t just your first time inside the castle. You’re saying you own a holiday home at a famous perpetual Yuletide tourist destination... that you’ve never actually seen?”
“I can see the castle from my windows,” he told her. “Well, parts of it. I can see the towers and the wall.”
“Come with me.”
She hooked her elbow around his and dragged him past the lavish reception area to a dining hall as large as any palace ballroom. Tables filled every inch of space. Villagers and tourists alike filled the tables.
“Look,” the duke said in surprise. “They’re eating—”
“The same sort of meals your French chef prepares?” Cynthia said dryly. “This may come as a shock, but Marlowe Castle also has French chefs. As well as not-French chefs. The menu is extensive and changes fortnightly.”
“Fortnightly?” Alexander’s brows shot up. “How can an extensive menu change fortnightly during the winter? Nothing but evergreens grows for miles around.”
She took him out through a side door and into an enormous glasshouse.
“Behold,” she said. “The conservatory, half of which is dedicated to fruits, vegetables, and spices. Where do you think your French chef obtains the items he cooks for you in your kitchen?”
The duke gazed about in wonder. “This indoor ‘garden’ is as big as a park!”
“Wait until you hear about all of the activities at Marlowe Castle in addition to eating,” she said. “The ballroom hosts assemblies every week. Guests come from all corners to enjoy the orchestras and the dancing. I’m sure you passed the amphitheatre on your journey in?”
“I did know about the theatre,” he assured her. “I just haven’t had a chance to—”
“Unless it’s raining, there are performances every day of the week. Plays, musicals, choirs, operas, acrobats... It’s not Drury Lane, but it’s fabulously entertaining. Many of the villagers act on stage or play an instrument.”
He grinned. “I’m surprised you haven’t done so.”
She stared at him.
He closed his eyes. “Of course you’ve done so.”
“I played Maria in Twelfth Night three years running.” She swept him out of the conservatory and into the brisk winter air. “Through these trees is a path leading down to the lake, which is currently frozen over and will remain so through March, making it the perfect spot for ice-skating.”
His face briefly twisted.
She stopped walking and placed her gloved fists on her hips. “Are you afraid of heights and skates?”
“I’m not afraid,” he said defensively. “I’m a duke with no heirs. I could die falling down twenty flights of stairs, and I could die sinking through a patch of ice that’s supposed to hold my weight, but doesn’t.”
“And you could die if your French chef decides to poison you, or if a squirrel spooks your horses and your carriage rolls off of a bridge. We all eventually die, whether we want to or not. The question is how you want to live.”
“I...” he said.
Whatever he’d been about to say vanished as the six-foot, fourteen-stone duke darted from the path in a futile attempt to hide behind a leaf-less sapling.
“Did you see a squirrel?” she whispered.
“People,” he whispered back. “I thought I heard voices I recognized.”
Ah. The one thing that scared His Grace more than thin ice and tall towers and steep cliffs: being caught on a public path in proximity to Cynthia Louise Finch.
Not insulting at all.
The voices indeed belonged to people, and without doubt at least one of them knew Nottingvale well: the Duke of Azureford and his new bride strolled up the winding path arm-in-arm.
“Cynthia Louise!�
� squealed the Duchess of Azureford, better known as Cynthia’s childhood friend Carole. Because Houville was so close to Cressmouth, they’d seen each other at least monthly for decades.
The ladies bussed cheeks and the Duke of Azureford inclined his head to the Duke of Nottingvale, who had wisely abandoned the spindly sapling he’d hoped would disguise him.
“I hear you’re as terrible at billiards as I am,” Azureford said with a chuckle.
“Wonderful.” Nottingvale sent Cynthia a dark look. “I’m now being gossiped about.”
“I didn’t create the gossip,” she informed him. “Or invite you to billiards.”
“We’re inviting you both,” said the duchess. “Cynthia Louise has visited our new billiards room countless times, but it would be lovely to play with partners. Perhaps later this week?”
“Er,” said Nottingvale.
“He’s hosting a party,” Cynthia explained. “Right now, at this very second.”
He shot her an even darker look.
“Of course it’s still going on,” the duchess said with a shake of her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps Epiphany, then? Once the guests have departed?”
“We’ll let you know,” Cynthia said quickly. “In fact, I’ll drop by tomorrow for tea, and catch you up on the latest scandal broth.”
At Nottingvale’s startled look, she whispered, “I’ll leave out the good bits.”
His face flushed crimson.
“Well, then,” said the duchess. “You two look... busy. We’ll carry on. I’ll see you tomorrow, Cynthia Louise!”
As soon as they disappeared from sight, Alexander groaned and rubbed his face. “I cannot possibly play couples’ billiards.”
“Why not?” She raised her brows. “Is there some way to die from it? Their rank is as high as yours, and they’re perfectly respectable. Besides, you already played couples’ billiards with me at the le Ducs’ house.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “Everything that happened was an accident.”
“Some of the best things in life happen by accident,” she told him. “The others happen on purpose. For example, by saying ‘yes’ when friends invite you to visit them. Unless...”
“They’re friends,” Alexander said quickly. “I’m not shy or a misanthrope. I just... always have something else I ought to be doing. If I say yes to them, I’ll have to say yes to everyone who asks, and then I’ll never have time to attend to my responsibilities.”
“Actually, no,” Cynthia said. “I receive far more invitations than I could possibly accept. I am indescribably talented at accepting only the best ones, and sending polite regrets to the others. ‘Polite regrets,’” she informed him, “are generally more socially acceptable than hiding behind a tree.”
“In your circles,” he muttered.
“What you need,” she said, “is to separate the ‘duke’ from the ‘duty.’ One is a thing you are, and the other is a thing you do. Sometimes. When it fits in your calendar. Not all of the time, such as when you should be sleeping or relaxing.”
“There’s no time for relaxing,” he said.
“Then you’re doing the ‘duke’ bit wrong. Don’t you have a secretary?”
“Yes, but—”
“And a man of business?”
“Yes, but—”
“And presumably an entire army of bankers and solicitors to manage the piles of gold in your coffers?”
“A team of five,” he said. “And I wouldn’t claim ‘piles’ of—”
“Alexander, you can live. You should live. I don’t know who told you that your worth comes from working yourself to the bone attending to every detail yourself, but they lied. Your duty is to ensure the important things are accomplished. Disregarding your own needs isn’t virtuous. It’ll send you to an early grave.” She poked at his chest. “That’s what you should be afraid of.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“I am afraid of that,” he said. “I’m afraid of not doing my duty. I’m afraid of doing nothing but my duty. I’m afraid of taking time for myself only to discover I no longer know who that is.”
“Find out,” she said softly. “Let yourself try. At the least, being less tightly wound will help you terrify fewer debutantes.”
He sent her a flat look.
She grinned at him and smoothed his lapel. “It’s an excellent experiment. If being New Relaxed Nottingvale helps you to woo your bride, it’s practically an act of charity. You owe it to your future duchess to have less of a stick up your—” She cleared her throat into her fist.
“I thought the phrase was ‘stick-in-the-mud,’” he said drily.
“I changed the words,” she murmured.
He frowned. “Do you really think I’m boring and fusty?”
“No,” she said. “I think you think that. Some well-intentioned goose told you a duke is nothing but constant duty, and you’ve convinced yourself duty is all you’re good for. It’s not true, Alexander. You can be a good duke, a good friend, a good kisser, and a terrible billiards player all at the same time.”
His gaze heated. “A good kisser?”
“A mediocre kisser,” she said. “Actually, I cannot even recall your kisses. I forget them at once, and don’t want you to feel bad for not making much of an impression—”
He shut her up by whirling her behind the trees and covering her mouth with his.
Very well, she hadn’t forgotten a single detail about his kisses. They were melting, searing deliciousness that haunted her dreams and caused her skin to tickle with gooseflesh every time his eyes met hers.
She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back.
There was no winning this game. She knew she couldn’t keep him. But maybe it was all right to pretend, just for this fortnight.
As long as she was careful to remember that kissing was just kissing, she could keep the armor around her heart intact.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers with obvious reluctance. “The sun is setting. I have to return to the party.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “I have to check on Gertie.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I’ve a date to gossip about you behind your back at four o’clock.”
“Before that,” he amended.
“Hmm.” She pretended to think it over. “I have a party I was planning not to attend.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
She bit her lip to hide a wicked smile. “Only if you agree to do any activity of my choosing.”
“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered. “But yes. Anything.”
Cynthia kissed him.
Tomorrow, he would truly live.
Chapter 10
Cynthia Louise tried not to giggle as the Duke of Nottingvale’s skis bumped hers for the twentieth time as they smuggled the long wooden runners out through the rear servants’ exit.
“I’ve never sneaked out of my own house before.” Alexander had looked bewildered all morning. “You’re a bad influence.”
“I’m a terrible influence,” she agreed cheerfully. “It’s the best thing about me.”
Fortunately, the close proximity of the duke’s cottage to the castle meant they could hike up through the woods rather than conspicuously lug skis up the primary public road.
She had been disappointed but unsurprised when her cousin Gertie refused to take her still new skis for a practice slide. The idea had sent her straight into her burlap sack.
Cynthia had been delighted and very surprised when the Duke of Nottingvale had agreed to the adventure. He had stuck by her side all morning.
She slanted him a suspicious look. “Are you doing this because you made the mistake of agreeing to ‘anything’ yesterday, and now feel it’s your ducal duty to honor your word?”
“No. I meant ‘anything.’” His brown eyes held hers. “I wanted to spend time with you.”
> Oh.
Very well, then.
No more questions.
With her cheeks flushing with heat, Cynthia averted her gaze to the woods and pointed at a nearby break in the evergreens. “There. That’s our entrance to the castle.”
“How did you know?” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you sneaked through my servants’ access door before?”
She laughed, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. “I know because the only trick is to keep going up. The castle is at the top of the mountain and so is our launching-off point.”
“Launching off,” the duke repeated. “This plan sounds worse by the second.”
“You can stay at the bottom of the hill and watch me have all of the merriment,” she offered.
“No.” His voice was low, and his gaze hot. “I absolutely intend to have fun with you.”
She gave him a saucy grin and sauntered ahead, in part because the path through the trees was plenty narrow for one person to manage whilst balancing skis on her shoulder, and partly because...
Well, because she adored spending time with him, too.
Cynthia was used to people finding her spontaneous and unpredictable, but she’d never imagined feeling the same way about the Duke of Nottingvale.
No matter how many times she poked at him or how far he ventured from his usual comfort level, he remained a constant good sport; agreeable and easy-going. If he hadn’t been born anchored to a dukedom, who knew what manner of antics he might have got up to?
Without that deuced dukedom, they might even have become more than friends.
Very well, they were more than friends. Or different from friends, anyway.
There wasn’t really a word to describe two people who were completely wrong for one another, yet delighted in each other’s company and indulged in forbidden kisses because they couldn’t stay away from each other.
She suspected the only reason they weren’t kissing at this moment was because of the six-foot skis forcing them to keep a respectable distance.
For now.
Her poles were in her other hand, and she used them to brush stray branches aside as they climbed through the woods.
Alexander’s home was as close to the castle as possible without being inside its ramparts, but the thick snow and steep incline had them both breathing heavily by the time they burst through the trees up to the clear mountain peak.
