by Erica Ridley
Chapter 15
“Well,” said Cynthia Louise, “at least one thing turned out for the best.”
“No.” Gertie blanched. “You can’t make me.”
Cynthia sighed. “You’re right. I cannot make you marry Nottingvale. But if you don’t, your father can and will force you to marry a man much, much worse.”
“But Nottingvale is yours!” Gertie protested.
“He’s not mine. He never wanted to be mine. He has moved on, and so must we.”
Gertie crossed her arms.
Cynthia arched a brow.
Gertie made an aggravated sound. “Why would he do this?”
Cynthia turned to the wardrobe.
“For the same reason he does everything,” she said. “To do the ‘right thing.’”
Alexander was exactly the type of duke who would marry a debutante he didn’t love because her good blood and impeccable reputation would bring honor to his title.
He was also exactly the type of man who would pick Gertie above all of the other perfectly perfect young ladies, because Cynthia had mentioned Gertie needed saving, and Alexander was the sort to try and save someone else, at any cost to himself.
That was what his obsession with “duty” was about:
Saving.
He wanted to save the standings and reputations of his title, his mother, his sister, his future heirs. He wanted to save face. He wanted to save himself from spectacle, from being seen as anything less than proper.
And now he wanted to save Gertie.
“You could do much worse,” Cynthia said. “He’s clever, he’s kind, he’s handsome... He’ll provide for you with everything in his power. He doesn’t know how to do anything else. Once you’re his, he’ll protect you to the ends of the earth. You’re very...”
Lucky.
She rooted through the wardrobe to hide her face from Gertie. When she collected herself, Cynthia selected the fanciest gown, and handed it to her cousin.
“Put this on.”
This time, Gertie didn’t argue.
Cynthia helped dress her in silence.
Gertie was exactly what Alexander was looking for. This was exactly the outcome they’d come in hopes of achieving. Everyone had won.
Huzzah.
“You don’t have to pretend to like this,” Gertie said softly.
Cynthia’s eyes stung with sudden heat. She was glad Gertie couldn’t see her while she laced her cousin’s gown.
“I ruined his plans and his party and he wasn’t even courting me,” Cynthia said. “Just imagine if we were married.”
Just imagine.
It took all her strength to keep the image from her mind.
“Why did you decide to be unmarriageable?” Gertie asked.
“That’s not what I decided,” Cynthia said. “When I realized everyone else already thought that, I decided to do as I pleased. If I’m going to be alone with myself for the rest of my life, I might as well enjoy it. Polite Society rejected me, so I reject them.”
“What if you could have both?” Gertie asked. “What if you could be part of Society and enjoy your life?”
“I can’t have both.” Cynthia’s voice cracked. “I tried. I was the picture of propriety until my twenty-fourth birthday. I was such a pathetic wallflower at assemblies, even I forgot I was there. When I decided to the devil with my reputation, do you know what happened?”
“You lost your Almack’s subscription?”
“Besides that.” Cynthia tied the ribbon and tucked the excess in a hidden panel. “People remembered me. I had fun. I made friends. Perhaps not the crowd I’d been raised to covet, but I can go out dancing every night for a year if I wish, and the only danger will be blisters on my feet rather than bunions on my behind.”
Gertie whipped around. “One cannot develop bunions on one’s derrière!”
“You’ve never spent seven hours straight perched on one of Almack’s spinster chairs. Losing my voucher was the best thing that could have happened to my derrière.”
“But did you want to lose it?” Gertie asked. “Or did you hope you could be yourself and still be accepted?”
Cynthia smiled sadly. “Does it matter?”
“I think it does.” Gertie’s forehead lined. “If your reaction to their disapproval was to become England’s greatest hoyden for the sake of impropriety, then aren’t you doing the same thing as before?”
Cynthia took a step backward. “It’s the opposite of before.”
Gertie shook her head. “All you’ve done is switch out one set of rules for another. Whatever you ‘shouldn’t’ say, you say. Whatever you ‘shouldn’t’ do, you do. You’re as bound to your bad reputation as Nottingvale is to his good one.”
Cynthia stared at her cousin in consternation.
Gertie was right.
Cynthia had exchanged one set of rules for another. She’d nurtured her “naughty scamp” reputation as armor against a Polite Society that had been anything but polite to a shy young woman yearning for acceptance.
Being “bad” felt good. It gave her power. It let her believe that she didn’t need them, just like they didn’t need her. It made her think she was free.
When, in fact, everything she did was still dictated by how it would look to the people who had ignored her.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Gertie said. “Being Cynthia Louise is enough.”
It had never been enough.
Not for Society.
Not for Alexander.
Not even for Cynthia herself.
Some people just weren’t meant to be chosen for themselves.
“Come along,” she said briskly. “It’s almost eight o’clock, and the handsome prince awaits.”
Gertie hesitated. “Are you going to wear... that?”
Cynthia glanced down at her comfortable, if wrinkled, day dress and shrugged.
“No one will see me,” she reminded Gertie. “I’ll be behind the pianoforte the entire time.”
Gertie frowned. “What about your stitches?”
“They’re healed enough. I don’t even need the gauze anymore. Besides, do you think I’ll allow some other spinster to play the betrothal waltz for my baby cousin?”
The ballroom was packed with people.
Word had already spread that tonight was the night the Duke of Nottingvale would choose his future duchess from the crowd of primped and perfect debutantes, each of them blushing prettily with excitement.
Despite her bravado, Cynthia did regret her wrinkled gown. Even at her best, she could not compare with these sparkling diamonds. Just the sight of them was enough to reduce her back to the naïve, hopeful wallflower she’d once been.
She tugged at her skirts and seated herself at the pianoforte before too many eyes could turn in her direction. Gertie hovered protectively at her side.
A hush fell over the room.
The Duke of Nottingvale had entered.
Cynthia could tell where he was by the turning of heads and the feminine gasps of swooning approval.
And then there he was.
Spotless black boots, breeches that showed his strong legs to perfection, gorgeous waistcoat the orange-red of autumn leaves, perfectly tailored coat of coal black superfine, a boyish tumble of wavy brown hair above warm brown eyes and all-too-kissable lips…
It was time.
Gertie was going to be a bride.
“Cynthia Louise?” he said.
“Without delay,” she said quickly. Cynthia nudged Gertie toward the dance floor and positioned her fingers over the keys.
“Your cousin is a lovely, charming woman,” began the Duke of Nottingvale.
Cynthia nodded without looking up. She could play this waltz. She could.
“But her name isn’t ‘Cynthia Louise,’” he finished.
Her fingers fell limply against the keys, bleating out a discordant jumble into the preternatural stillness of the ballroom.
She snatched her hands from
the ivory and jerked her gaze toward his.
He stepped onto the dais.
She stared at him.
When he reached the pianoforte, he knelt on one knee beside her.
She tried to breathe.
“Cynthia Louise Finch,” he said softly. “I choose you.”
She definitely couldn’t breathe.
“There is only one rule that matters.” He took her hands in his. “My life means nothing without you in it.”
She almost toppled from the bench.
“I botched the proposal the first time.” His warm thumbs stroked her trembling hands. “I pray it’s not too late to prove to you how much you mean to me.”
“Your reputation,” she stammered.
“Does not matter as much to me as you do.”
“But propriety...” Her pulse fluttered so fast, her heart felt like a bird struggling against its cage. “The beau monde’s rules and expectations...”
“Can take a flying leap from a snowy mountain.” His eyes held hers.
She felt dizzy. Could he really mean it?
“Before,” he said, “I was scared of losing my reputation. Now, the only thing that frightens me is the thought of losing you.”
She gripped his hands tight and pressed them to her bosom.
“Miss Finch is... stealing Christmas!” came the disgruntled harrumph of a chaperone.
“You can have Christmas,” the duke called over his shoulder. His eyes met Cynthia’s. “Miss Finch has my heart.”
He pulled her to her feet and kept her hands in his.
“I’m scared too,” she admitted. “What if I can’t be what you want me to be?”
“I want you to be you,” he said. “And I warn you, this means being burdened with me.”
There would be no escaping Polite Society.
Alexander was a duke, and she would be a duchess, and their heirs would be lords and ladies. Cynthia would not only have to abide by some rules, but also teach them to her children.
Not to smother them with expectations, but to give them tools to make wise decisions for themselves.
“I can try my best,” she told him. “But I won’t be perfect.”
“I hope I won’t be, either.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I thought we might meet somewhere in the middle.”
“I would like that very much.”
He pulled her away from the pianoforte to the middle of the dais.
The crowd pressed closer, as though holding their collective breaths.
“I’ve learned life isn’t about following arbitrary rules.” He touched her cheek. “It’s about recognizing when you’ve met the right person, and creating your own rules together.”
She tilted her face into his palm.
“So romantic,” breathed one of the debutantes, before swooning into her mother’s arms.
Cynthia felt the same.
“Being a duchess doesn’t mean you must stop being you.” He smoothed a tendril behind her ear. “I love you, Cynthia Louise Finch. For exactly who you are. You helped me find joy again. Do you think you might one day come to love me, too?”
Her heart hammered.
“I love you already, you impossible man,” she choked out. “I loved you when we were playing billiards, and I loved you when we took our spontaneous tour of the castle, and I loved you when we flew down a mountain together on skis. I also love you for being such a wonderful brother to Belle, and for starting a fashion venture for the less fortunate, and for all of your work in the House of Lords. I love you, Alexander. I love all of you.”
“In that case...” He glanced at their wide-eyed audience, then turned back to Cynthia with a slow grin. “May I have this dance?”
She nodded jerkily.
He lifted his gaze over her shoulder. “Lady Gertrude, would you do the honors?”
“Straight away,” came Gertie’s gleeful voice. “What shall I play?”
Alexander’s expression turned mischievous. “Do you happen to know the timeless classic, ‘A Spinster Goes A-Wenching?’”
Cynthia burst out laughing.
“Of course I do,” said Gertie. “Everything worth knowing, I learned from Cynthia Louise.”
The ballroom filled with the lively melody.
“Cynthia Louise Finch,” said the Duke of Nottingvale. “Will you marry me?”
“Of course I will.” She gave him a wicked grin of her own. “Even if it means I have to create new lyrics for the song.”
He pulled her into his arms. “This time, we can create our song together.”
And they began to dance.
Epilogue
Twelfth Night
* * *
The farewell ball was underway, and the ballroom overflowed with revelers.
A few mothers and daughters had departed the festivities early, but the rest of the party stayed to enjoy Christmastide. This had certainly become one to remember.
Once news broke of Cynthia and Alexander’s betrothal, the poor butler had been forced to prop the front door open to allow in the endless streams of gawkers and well-wishers.
Alexander had appeared in a gossip column!
The Duke of Nottingvale was scandalously in love with his new betrothed, and it was simply not done.
All of their friends in the village of Cressmouth delighted in their obvious affection for one another, and toasted the new couple at every opportunity.
The dowager duchess would have to make her peace with the new arrangement, as would Gertie’s father.
Alexander had declared himself Gertie’s new sponsor.
He had no legal claim to his new relative, but he outranked her father and was putting all of his influence behind Gertie to give her not only as much time as she desired to choose her future husband when she was ready, but also was arranging for the best music tutors in Europe, as well as opportunities for her to perform her pieces professionally.
Gertie was ecstatic at her new fortune, and could not be pried away from the pianoforte even by the bouncing, barking antics of a newly healed, boisterous Max.
Max, for his part, thrilled to be cooed over and played with by hundreds of new friends, both inside the house and out. One of the guests had apparently invented a new game, involving a dozen lords leaping through the rear garden, tossing sticks for Max to fetch.
“What is he going to do tomorrow?” Cynthia asked her soon-to-be husband. “When all of the guests leave?”
Alexander wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “A better question is, what are we going to do tomorrow, once all of our guests leave?”
“Rock climbing?” she suggested innocently. “I thought we could toss a rope out of the castle’s topmost tower, and descend the stones from the outside using our fingers. And then, after breakfast—”
“Mm, how I would love to risk my neck for no reason at all. Unfortunately, the doctor was very clear, darling. You must rest. In bed.”
“That was last week,” she reminded him. “My stitches are gone.”
“Try it my way once,” he suggested. “And then if you still prefer to jump out of a tower attached to a rope, I’ll go with you.”
“Excellent parry. I accept your offer of bedchamber adventures.”
“I’ll make certain you don’t regret it.”
They never did return to the castle tower.
An all-new adventure begins with THE DUKE HEIST, featuring a tight-knit family of caper-committing siblings finding love and righting wrongs in Regency England!
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Author’s Note
Is “Cousin Olaf” a Frozen reference? Well, he can be, but Olaf was also very real!
Olaf Rye was born in 1791, which makes him a few years younger than Cynthia Louise. Olaf was born in Norway, died in Denmark, and had a celebrated military car
eer.
More importantly to our story, he holds a ski jumping world record!
On 22 November, 1808, in Eidsberg, Norway, he did indeed launch himself 10 yards / 9.5 meters in the air, as described in Forever Your Duke.
Our story takes place six years later, which means his historic jump coincides with the moment when Cynthia Louise decided to stop being a wallflower and start being the heroine of her own life.
What a way to begin!
xoxo,
Erica
The Duke Heist
Sneak Peek
A secret identities, forbidden love, opposites attract romance from a New York Times bestselling author: Why seduce a duke the normal way, when you can accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?
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To anyone who has ever hoped
for a place to belong
* * *
And to Roy,
for everything
Chapter 1
March 1817
London, England
Miss Chloe Wynchester burst through the door of her family’s sprawling residence in semi-fashionable Islington, followed closely behind by her sister Thomasina. Chloe’s pulse raced with excitement. His Arrogance, the Duke of Frosty Disapproval, didn’t have a chance.
Unable to keep her exuberance to herself, she yelled out, “I have news about the painting!”
In a more respectable household, a young lady might expect censure for being so vulgar as to shout, even within the confines of one’s own home. Such a young lady might also be rebuked for donning trousers and strolling about Westminster under an assumed identity.
Chloe was grateful every single day not to have such limitations.
Her roguish brother Graham appeared at the top of the marble stairs, delight and disbelief writ across his handsome face. He was used to being the one with shocking news to share. “Don’t stand about. Come up to the Planning Parlor at once! I’ll ring for tea.”
