by Erica Ridley
Cynthia loved her cousin Gertie. She truly believed the duke wouldn’t be able to help falling in love… if Cynthia could convince Gertie to speak in a voice loud enough to be heard, and to show the duke who she really was.
That was the best part of a Christmastide house party. Intimate close quarters where Nottingvale and Gertie would run into each other a dozen times a day. Even for shy Gertie, It would be impossible to avoid the duke.
“Here we are,” Cynthia said briskly as the carriage pulled up in front of the duke’s so-called cottage.
The only larger residence in Cressmouth was the castle itself.
Smart black carriages stretched down the long winding driveway up to Nottingvale’s cheerful brick façade.
Exquisitely dressed young ladies stepped onto the shoveled path, accompanied by equally proper-looking matrons ranging from hired companions to marriage-minded mothers.
Cynthia recognized most of them. Not the debutantes—she’d been out of society far too long for that. Many of the older ladies had either been in London the same time Cynthia was, or lived near enough to this area that they’d crossed paths in Cressmouth before, perhaps even at one of Nottingvale’s previous parties.
“Ready?” she murmured to Gertie.
Her cousin looked like she was going to be ill. “No.”
The carriage door swung open. A pair of gorgeously liveried footmen Cynthia recognized as Horace and Morris appeared at the opening to hand her and her cousin out of the coach.
“Pluck up, darling.” She dug her elbow into Gertie’s side. “You’re the swan following the ugly duckling into the water. There’s no need for speeches. You smile and curtsey and say ‘How do you do?’ just like we practiced.”
“Can we practice some more?” Gertie whispered. “Maybe we should come back next year.”
“He’s picking a bride this year,” Cynthia reminded her. “This is the only opportunity. If you’re not inside that house when the Duke of Nottingvale…”
There he was.
Right there in the doorway.
He’d only been visible for a brief moment. Half in shadow behind his stoic butler Oswald, a shaft of sunlight had fallen onto the Duke of Nottingvale’s absurdly handsome face and touchably tousled soft brown hair whilst he passed from one side of the entryway to another.
A second or two. The space of a heartbeat.
Cynthia’s breath froze solid in her lungs. She had become as stiff and silent as an icicle, teetering precipitously before a fall.
“All right.” Gertie’s voice was brave as she looped her arm trustingly through Cynthia’s. “I can survive it with you at my side.”
“Wonderful,” Cynthia croaked. Absolutely marvelous. The moment they’d both been waiting for.
It was time to matchmake Nottingvale to her cousin.
Chapter 2
His Grace Alexander Borland, seventh Duke of Nottingvale, stalked from room to room, ensuring everything was in order. The month-long Christmastide party was an annual tradition, and this year it had to be perfect.
It was already a disaster.
A sudden snowstorm had halted all travel for the past fortnight, reducing Alexander’s party from four weeks to two. He himself had only arrived that morning, just in time to have a hurried meeting with business partners for a project they’d intended to complete last week, only for—
“Guests are arriving,” announced Oswald, the butler.
There was no need to adjust postures. Oswald was perpetually stoic and ramrod-straight. Respectable and proper at all times, just as Alexander liked.
The butler opened the door and the first team of liveried footmen rushed out into the cold, ready to bring in heavy trunks and hand guests down from carriages with all of the elegance and efficiency they deserved.
But they weren’t the first to arrive.
Alexander’s new business partners, Calvin and Jonathan, were staying through the grand Twelfth Night gala. Alexander had no idea where they were at this moment, which was just as well, because he did not have time to make dozens of introductions on top of ensuring the perfection of every detail of his party.
The almost perfection.
As a consequence of the inconvenient snowstorm, the arrival of Alexander’s mother, the Duchess of Nottingvale, was also delayed.
No gentleman could host a house party on his own. A hostess must always play the lead role. As an impeccably dignified matriarch, his mother was perfect for the part.
In the meantime, Alexander’s younger sister Lady Isabelle would have to do.
Belle was... no longer completely respectable.
While Alexander had spent the past fortnight burrowing north from London to distant Cressmouth, his sister Belle had apparently spent the past weeks in the arms of Alexander’s business partner Calvin, resulting in their betrothal.
Alexander’s surprise at his sister’s impending marriage to a tailor would be nothing compared to the duchess’s reaction once Mother arrived.
Belle had fallen in love, not that romance would sway the matriarch’s opinion.
Alexander was dependable. He had never been in love, nor would he allow emotion to overtake him. A duke was logical, unemotional, and above all things: proper.
There were rules.
Alexander followed them.
Strict adherence to expectations and station was the only way to ensure one’s life unfolded with clockwork precision.
“Any further instructions, Your Grace?” asked a footman.
“Be ready,” Alexander replied.
The kitchen had been instructed to avoid strawberries, due to one of the guests’ adverse reactions to the fruit. The maids had replaced another guest’s feather pillows with soft wool stuffing, once Alexander learned downy feathers made her sneeze. He kept detailed notes so that returning guests’ experiences would be even better than the previous year.
He didn’t want his party to be good.
He needed it to be flawless.
This was the day before Christmas Eve. His friends were entrusting Alexander with their Yuletide. He wanted them all to have the best holiday possible.
“Here they come, Your Grace,” said the butler.
Alexander’s sister Belle joined him in greeting the guests.
He positioned himself a respectable distance from the open door and greeted each guest as they entered the cottage, before handing them off to a footman or maid to show them to their guest chambers.
Alexander had assigned rooms with the same care he devoted to every aspect of his life. Windows with morning light for the early risers. Snorers grouped as far as possible from light sleepers. Extra blankets and fully stocked fireplaces for everyone.
Locals began to fill the parlor as well, partaking of the strawberry-less refreshments and chatting with old friends they hadn’t seen since Alexander’s previous Christmastide party.
At a break in the tide, he turned to his sister. “As soon as Mother arrives, you can relax.”
“Can I?” she said doubtfully, but her eyes twinkled with merriment.
Excellent point.
“As soon as Mother arrives, you can hide,” he corrected. “I’ve given you and Calvin adjoining rooms on the opposite side of the house as hers. This is your Yuletide, too. I want you to enjoy it.”
She gave him an arch look. “Will you enjoy it?”
“It’s not my duty to make merry,” he reminded her firmly. “It’s my duty to ensure everyone else does.”
She didn’t look convinced. “When was the last time you enjoyed anything, even when other people’s happiness wasn’t riding on the outcome?”
“It’s not my purpose to—”
“You’re a duke, not a gear in a pocket watch. You can change the pace once in a while. Not everything has to be controlled down to the second.”
It was Alexander’s turn to look appalled.
Belle burst out laughing. “I suppose that snowstorm had you in a tizzy.”
“Duk
es don’t tizzy,” he informed her.
“Mm-hm. You probably stalked out-of-doors and commanded the snow to stop falling in that imperious all-things-must-go-according-to-plan way you have.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It stopped snowing, did it not?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t pull your hair out in panic.” She tilted her head. “Never mind. You would never allow a hair on your head to be out of place, no matter the wind’s wishes. You’d command the clouds if you could.”
“You’re hilarious,” he told her. “No one has ever had a wittier sister. Your jests warm my heart.”
“You don’t let anything near your heart,” she said. “You’re too busy being perfect to enjoy your own parties. You could be replaced with an automaton and I’d be the only one to notice.”
That was hardly fair.
“You used to be straitlaced too,” he reminded her.
“And look how much better my life is now,” Belle shot back. “Particularly compared to yours.” She crooked her elbows at ninety-degree angles and made stiff, choppy motions whilst speaking in monotone. “‘I am a clockwork duke. Tick tock, I love rules.’”
Alexander lifted his nose.
Life would be easier if everyone followed rules.
He was grateful to have them. Rules let him know what to do and what to expect. Rules were what guided him when he’d inherited the title as an adolescent. He’d felt lost without his father, but the rules had given him a path to follow to succeed.
What Alexander wanted to do didn’t signify in the least. A duke did what must be done, and refrained from all activities not befitting his station.
Especially a respectable duke on the hunt for an equally proper bride.
He was glad that his sister had found love, but there would be scandal when the gossips heard the news. Any latitude Alexander might have had before was now gone. It was up to him to salvage the family’s reputation.
With luck, it would all be over soon.
He and Belle turned back to the doorway as a new wave of guests splashed inside.
This would be the biggest crush yet. With Alexander’s permission, his mother had let it be known that her son was finally seeking a duchess.
Hopeful young misses flooded his cottage. They might be in competition with each other, but Alexander knew his own behavior was now under a microscope as well.
Not only did mothers and chaperones want their charges to make a splendid match... Those spurned would be happy to spread gossip of any of the duke’s faults.
His duty was not to have any.
He and his party must be perfect.
“Of course,” his sister assured a highly respected society matron, all traces of her earlier irreverence gone. “I would be honored to show you and your daughter to your chambers. Follow me, please.”
Alexander was glad for Belle’s presence.
She was a meddlesome sister, but a wonderful hostess. For all her teasing, she would help ensure no unwelcome surprises happened to—
Miss Cynthia Louise Finch stood on his front step, holding a mongrel puppy aloft to his impressively stoic butler.
His heart stopped, then raced faster.
Miss Finch was the opposite of proper.
She was a firework in a box of candles.
Everything about her was significantly more than necessary. She had two names when one would suffice. She brought a dog to a house party. She was tall, with abundant curves. She had apple cheeks and plump rosy lips and big blue eyes.
Her excessiveness ought to be overwhelming, but instead made him feel as though he stood dizzyingly close to a statue of a Grecian goddess come to life.
“Is that a dog?” called out one of the locals.
“It is. Meet Max!” She swept into the room brandishing the wiggling puppy in front of her chest, passing the mongrel off to the first taker.
It was not at all how a proper young lady would enter the home of a duke—or anywhere.
It was not done.
Which made it classic Cynthia Louise Finch.
“Who wants to go ice racing later?” she asked her friends at the refreshment table.
“Do you mean ice skating?” asked one.
“She means ice racing,” said another. “I lost ten quid to her last December.”
Miss Finch laughed in delight. “Want to lose another ten?”
Had the audacious hoyden failed to notice his receiving party of one?
He hoped she hadn’t glimpsed the Duke of Nottingvale ducking ignominiously into the closest shadow rather than greet Miss Cynthia Louise without the protective buffer of his sister at his side.
Belle was the reason Miss Finch was here.
Belle had been bashful during her come-out. Her first season had not gone as planned. At the time, Miss Finch was on her sixth unsuccessful season. She’d been extraordinarily kind to Belle, and earned a lifelong friend in the process.
And by extension, an open invitation to Alexander’s famous Christmastide house parties. How he had railed against the suggestion!
Alexander had been certain Miss Finch would not get on with any of his guests.
He had been wrong.
She lived an hour away in Houville. Miss Finch visited Cressmouth so often, she’d been on a first-name basis with every soul in the village long before Alexander ever built his cottage.
She might have fizzled out of Polite Society after six years, but here in Cressmouth, she was celebrated like family.
He watched in horror.
Whilst her puppy was humping the leg to Alexander’s refreshment table, Miss Finch linked arms with her cousin, a terrified-looking waif of eighteen years, and began introducing the chit to everyone in sight.
No amount of shadow could save him now.
It was only a matter of time before Miss Finch started toward Alexander.
His muscles tightened. The last thing he needed at a party as important as this was a dare-devil spinster causing trouble.
Alexander was in search of an aristocratic young lady who would bring honor and continued decorum to the esteemed Nottingvale dukedom.
Miss Finch’s only connection to the aristocracy was an aunt who had married a second son, who decades later inherited an earldom. The waif at her side was the earl’s youngest daughter, Lady Gertrude, whose come-out had occurred scant months earlier.
Miss Finch’s come-out had been twelve long years ago. She’d had no dowry, no connections, and no luck. By society’s standards, now she was simply old.
Yet it was difficult to think of Miss Finch as “on the shelf” when she never stood still.
Her brand of beauty was like a summer storm rising over the horizon. Fascinating to watch from a safe distance, but dangerous to go anywhere near.
And she was coming toward him.
“There you are,” Miss Finch said as though Alexander had been hiding from her, which he absolutely had been. “Lady Gertrude, this is His Grace, the Duke of Nottingvale.”
Despite the obvious terror on her face, Lady Gertrude dipped in an exquisite curtsey.
Alexander made an extravagant leg in response. “How do you do?”
Lady Gertrude swung panicked eyes toward Miss Finch.
“She’s fine, thank you,” Miss Finch said with good cheer, as though her mongrel were not currently climbing up the silk stocking of Alexander’s footman. “We’re both fine. Gertie made the journey up from London before the snow fell, and we’ve spent the past fortnight in Houville having a brilliant time of it. Haven’t we, Gertie?”
Lady Gertrude’s eyes grew even wider, her face worryingly pale.
“The carriage ride was quick enough,” Miss Finch continued, “and your refreshment table as outstanding as I remembered. Why should drinking chocolate only be served at breakfast, I always say. Gertie loves chocolate, don’t you, Gertie?”
Lady Gertrude blanched further.
“She is also an accomplished pianist, capable of the finest embroidery I ha
ve ever seen, and is well-versed in the minute details of managing the staff of a large estate. Now that her elder sisters have married, Gertie frequently steers the household of the country pile whilst her parents are in London. Don’t let her young age fool you. If I had a dukedom, I would feel absolutely confident with Lady Gertrude at the helm.”
“If you had a...” What the devil was Miss Finch talking about?
Dukedoms. His dukedom.
Lady Gertrude.
Miss Finch was matchmaking. Or at least, attempting to, her charge’s frozen demeanor notwithstanding.
Alexander cleared his throat. “She certainly sounds...”
What was he doing, talking about Lady Gertrude in third person as though she weren’t standing right in front of him?
He turned to Lady Gertrude and smiled.
She looked like a puff of air could knock her over.
“You certainly sound like a capable young lady.” Capable of disappearing through the floorboards before allowing her eyes to meet his. “I look forward to speaking more with you—” Or hearing her speak at all, rather. “—over the course of the party.”
There.
That was polite and true, and more than welcoming. Surely he could now extricate himself from Miss Finch’s radiating energy, and slip off to—
A tiny bark sounded from beneath the biscuit table. A blur of brown fur shot out from under the tablecloth, only to launch itself up through the air in the direction of Alexander’s freshly pressed and starched cravat.
Lady Gertrude’s arms flashed out, snatching the puppy from thin air with lightning reflexes, only to toss the mongrel up over her shoulder in the direction of Miss Finch.
Miss Finch not only intercepted the puppy smoothly, as though this were a maneuver they’d practiced for months, she rubbed between his ears and continued talking as if nothing at all had occurred.
“Gertie is very organized,” she was saying. “You have never seen a more orderly kitchen or library than the ones on the earl’s estate. The household is gallingly neat. If you leave her alone too long near your refreshment table, you’ll return to find every item in alphabetical order.”
“It’s already in alphabetical order,” Alexander said.