by Erica Ridley
Indeed, the other teams were darling at charades, many of them quite talented.
Soon enough, all eyes turned to their corner.
“It’s our turn?” gasped one of Cynthia’s teammates, as if they were all to be shot by firing squad.
Another clutched a scrap of foolscap with their assigned subject printed inside.
Cynthia plucked the trembling paper from her hand. “It says ‘Mail Coach.’ That’s simple enough. Go on, then. Nottingvale, you can be the driver—”
“Me?”
“Then you two can be horses, which leaves the others to be passengers and... you to try and purchase a ticket to ride on top.” She handed the paper back.
“On top?” the debutante squeaked. “I would never travel by mail coach.”
“It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures,” Cynthia informed her. “And also this is charades. Your friends have never been horses. You’re to pantomime.”
She shooed them all toward the dais, whilst staying behind with the mothers and chaperones to watch.
“I wish it was my Hortense deciding amongst a sea of suitors,” said one of the mothers wistfully.
Cynthia couldn’t fathom hosting an entire soirée of aristocratic suitors. She imagined deciding between dozens of men would cause just as much anxiety as not having any interest at all.
As much as she loved Gertie, playing duenna to a pretty young marriageable thing was an exercise in walking around with constant evidence of one’s unsuitability.
She pressed her lips together.
At thirty years old, Nottingvale could barely fit all of the eager young ladies under one roof.
At thirty years old, Cynthia Louise Finch was considered a dusty, dried-up relic.
In that sense, the mothers were right to caution their daughters not to end up like her. For women who wished to marry well, there was a short window of desirability.
Debutantes were like young tomatoes. A little green, a little unripe, and in danger of being sent back to the scullery the moment blemishes appeared.
“They guessed it!” the young ladies crowed as they skipped back to the group. “We’re to go one more time.”
“You do it.” One of the pink-cheeked debutantes shoved a paper into Cynthia’s hand. “After playing a horse, I cannot show my face again.”
Cynthia unfolded the paper.
“‘Romeo and Juliet.’” She cast a dry look toward Nottingvale. “Forbidden love. Who could possibly believe that your family would disapprove of you making a match with me?”
“It practically writes itself,” he murmured. “Shall we attempt the balcony scene?”
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon...
Cynthia shook the wistful image from her head. “Too romantic. It’ll confuse everyone. Let’s skip to the poison and the stabbings.”
She took her place on one side of the dais and motioned him to the other.
As dramatically as possible, she pantomimed unstoppering a bottle and drinking the poison within, making certain to stagger drunkenly for a few steps before crumpling to the floor like a corpse.
Only then did she remember how Romeo died.
He entered Juliet’s tomb and kissed her lips before consuming the poison himself.
After which, Juliet awoke, and kissed Romeo’s lips, before resorting to the dagger.
Her heart clattered.
In this version, there would be no kissing.
Would there?
No, definitely not. She just had to lie there with her eyes shut, corpse-like, whilst Nottingvale pretended to break into her tomb and become overset at the sight of her death, causing him to swallow what remained of the poison.
She held her breath.
Was he in her invisible tomb?
Had he drunk the poison yet?
The trouble with charades was the lack of dialogue to let one follow along with one’s lover’s path to self-destruction.
There was no way to know if it was time to wake up unless she peeked.
Cynthia cracked open one eye.
Nottingvale’s face was inches from hers.
A tiny, un-corpse-like gasp escaped from between her parted lips.
He wasn’t really going to kiss her... was he?
If he did, she would have to play her role, and kiss him back when it was her turn. Here, on the dais. In front of three dozen hopeful debutantes and their gimlet-eyed chaperones.
She hoped he would.
She prayed he wouldn’t.
His face retreated from hers, and her heart lurched in... Relief? Sorrow?
She squeezed her eyes shut.
He lifted her hand, which was not in the script at all.
He drew her fingers to his lips, which was definitely not in the script.
He pressed her palm to his chest, beneath which, his heart beat as erratically as her own. Her entire body seemed to pulse in syncopation with his. Wanting. Waiting. Wondering.
She couldn’t look.
She daren’t look.
Her hand was placed gently back on her midsection, followed by a poignant pause in which Nottingvale was presumably consuming the last of her poison.
An ungainly thump shook the dais as he fell lifeless to the wooden floor beside her.
The ballroom was unearthly silent.
Surely by now, someone should have guessed the play, making it completely unnecessary for Cynthia to “awaken” and pretend to kiss Nottingvale’s lips.
Not a whisper sounded in the still chamber.
Very well.
Cynthia shot upright with a loud gasp.
Several of the debutantes squeaked in terror.
Cynthia cast wild-eyed glances about her “tomb” before noticing her lifeless Romeo lying still beside her.
With exaggerated expressions of panic and horror, she scooped up both of Nottingvale’s hands and pressed the bare knuckles to her bosom—take that, you scoundrel—before bending down as though she intended to kiss his lips.
She didn’t move.
No one moved.
Nottingvale’s hands were still clutched to her breasts.
The duke cracked open one warm brown eye. He flinched to discover her face floating mere inches above his and immediately squeezed his eyes back shut.
He deserved it.
She cradled his fingers to her bosom for a moment longer before tossing his hands to his chest, drawing an imaginary dagger from his hip, and plunging the invisible blade into her gut for a slow, dramatic death, culminating in her lifeless body slumped against his side.
A beat of silence.
Another beat of silence.
Wild, one-person applause accompanied by a familiar squeal, and her cousin’s cry of, “Brava, Cynthia Louise! Brava! Oh, and Nottingvale, you were fine, too!”
“Romeo and Juliet!” came the shout from all corners of the ballroom.
Cynthia opened her eyes and tilted her head on the wooden floor toward the duke.
He was watching her, a slight smile playing on his lips and an unreadable expression in his eyes.
She smiled back shyly.
Shy. Her.
Cynthia Louise Finch.
He leapt up and pulled her to her feet, keeping one hand clasped in his. He made an exaggerated bow. She dipped in a magnificent curtsey.
“I believe they won,” someone called out. “That means it’s time for wine and cakes!”
The clumps of straw-drawn teammates burst into motion like the explosion of white seeds from a late-summer dandelion.
“I should go,” she told Nottingvale. “Who knows what Max has done to the guest room.”
He dropped her hand but didn’t step away. “I’ll walk with you. In case I need to authorize the complete replacement of every stick of furniture in that chamber.”
“Don’t order until the end of the party,” she suggested. “Then you’ll only have to do it once.�
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As they exited the ballroom and entered the corridor, they ran into Nottingvale’s business partner Mr. MacLean carrying a life-size, extremely well dressed, wicker doll.
“That thing is as big as you are!” Cynthia exclaimed.
“It ought to be,” said Mr. MacLean. “It’s modeled in Nottingvale’s image.”
“Why are you carrying it through my house?” asked the duke. “For a second time.”
“Angelica told me to give it back,” he explained, though it explained nothing.
“Why do you have a well-dressed wicker doll modeled after your proportions?” Cynthia asked Nottingvale as his business partner disappeared around the corner.
“It’s a new venture,” he said hesitantly, as if uncertain what she’d make of it. “We’re selling inexpensive men’s apparel via catalogue, in order to offer high fashion to those who would not otherwise be able to afford it.”
“That’s... marvelous.” She stared at him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know what I thought your explanation was going to be, but ‘bringing men’s fashion to the masses’ was not on the list. I think your venture sounds lovely.”
“I hope everyone else feels the same. We hope to begin next month. We’ve an entire stack of fashion plates, all illustrated by Mr. MacLean with aquatints designed by my sister Belle. The next step is arranging the printing. My man of business wrote this morning to say—” Nottingvale scrunched up his nose and glanced away. “I’m blathering on.”
“I didn’t know you could blather on” she admitted. “I find I like it.”
Worse, she found she liked him even more than she had feared.
As if it weren’t enough to merely be titled and filthy rich and mind-bogglingly handsome, Nottingvale had to also be a good sport and compassionate and friendly.
It was unfair.
Cynthia admiring his pretty trappings was bad enough, but developing a soft spot for the man he was inside...
Unacceptable comportment.
She increased her pace, reaching her closed bedchamber door in less than a dozen brisk strides.
“Thank you for seeing me safe to my door,” she said. “Goodbye.”
He didn’t leave.
She didn’t flee into the safety of her chamber.
Her heart beat faster.
“I should have kissed you,” he murmured.
She stared up at him, which wasn’t nearly far enough away. If she’d been of average height, she’d have an exceptional view of his cravat at the moment. Instead, her eyes were level with his lips. Which were at a temptingly close kissing distance.
“I would have kissed you,” he amended, “but I wasn’t certain if our audience would recall the staging for that scene as written.”
Oh, yes. By all means.
Faithless interpretation of Shakespeare’s theatrical wishes was the major conflict they ought to be discussing.
“You shouldn’t kiss me,” she forced herself to say. “You should marry my cousin.”
Even she wasn’t convinced by the emptiness of her words.
Her make-believe poison bottle had more substance than Cynthia’s desire not to kiss Nottingvale.
He was right.
He should definitely have kissed her whilst they’d had the chance.
And the excuse.
Her pulse fluttered. She pretended not to be affected.
“I’m not married yet,” he said. “Or betrothed, or promised, or anything of the kind.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the problem your guests have been summoned to solve.”
But it wasn’t what he was talking about at the moment, and she knew it.
His lips were so close.
He lowered his head slightly. “What if—”
Loud yaps sounded from the other side of the door.
“Max,” she stammered. “He’s going to scratch through your expensive door and maul me through my stockings.”
Mayhap she shouldn’t have mentioned her stockings.
“Ah.” Nottingvale took a half-step back. “I would never put you in danger.”
“I put myself in danger all of the time,” she babbled. “Like the time I invited the bachelor host of a Christmastide party to follow me unaccompanied down an empty corridor because I secretly wished he would kiss me even though it’s a dreadful idea from all angles and—why am I telling you this?”
His eyes darkened and he reached for her.
“Cynthia Louise!” came a sunny voice from down the hall. “I should’ve known you’d attend to Max. Shall I return to the ballroom?”
“Gertie. What wonderful timing! Do come save me from myself, if you wouldn’t mind, darling.” Cynthia fumbled for the door handle, scarcely registering the feel of Max’s little paws climbing her legs. “Lovely chat, Nottingvale. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your party. All those future duchesses under one roof.”
“That was rude,” Gertie said when Cynthia all but slammed the door in their host’s handsome face.
“It wasn’t rude,” Cynthia told her. “It was self-preservation.”
Gertie drew herself up straight, eyes flashing. “If that blackguard—”
“Not him, darling. Me. I’m supposed to be matchmaking him to you, not kissing him in the corridor.”
Gertie squealed and clapped her hands. “You kissed him?”
“I did not,” Cynthia said quickly, grateful it was true. “But... I wanted to.”
“You should have,” Gertie said. “We all thought he was going to up there on the stage.”
“He was acting,” Cynthia reminded her.
Gertie shrugged. “It didn’t look like it.”
“You’re not listening to me.” Cynthia scooped up the bouncing puppy and tried again. “I’m failing you. I’m supposed to be driving his attention in your direction, and instead he looks at me like... like...”
“Like he’s not pretending when he says he wants to kiss you?”
“Yes,” she burst out desperately. “Exactly like that! I am a horrid chaperone and an even worse matchmaker.”
“But you’re a wonderful cousin,” Gertie said. “Only an idiot would fail to see your charms, and Nottingvale is clearly a clever man.”
“You’re not helping,” Cynthia muttered.
“I’m not trying to help,” Gertie said. “I don’t want to marry Nottingvale. I never did. He scares me, but he doesn’t scare you. I’d be a wretched match for him, and you know it.”
Cynthia closed her eyes. She did know it. That didn’t change the facts.
“If I return you home without a betrothal—”
“Who said without a betrothal?” Gertie took Max from Cynthia. “I said not a duke. I didn’t say no one. The tavern-keeper’s son—”
“—is the son of a tavern-keeper. Your father would send me to Newgate before he’d allow that union to happen.”
“Then you’ll find the right suitor.” Gertie beamed at her with complete confidence. “You’re a wonderful matchmaker, Cynthia Louise. You’ve matched yourself to the Duke of Nottingvale—”
“He wants to kiss me, not court me.”
“—and if there’s a gentleman out there for me, you’ll find him.” Gertie snuggled her face between Max’s floppy ears. “I wish I didn’t have to marry anyone at all, but I trust you.” Her smile wobbled. “If you say you’ve found someone who will please Father and me, I promise not to say no.”
“Oh, Gertie.” Cynthia pulled her cousin and the puppy into her embrace. “I wish you didn’t have to marry until you were ready either. I wish all of the debutantes at this party had time to be themselves before they’re forced to become someone else.”
But they didn’t have time.
They had five days.
Chapter 7
By the following evening, the ballroom had devolved into mutiny.
It was time to dance. The famous musicians from London had not arrived. Might never arrive.
“I’ll do it,” said Gertie. “I’ll play for the rest of the party.”
Cynthia swung out an arm to block her cousin’s forward movement. “No. I shan’t make you marry anyone who doesn’t suit, including the duke, but there are dozens of other gentlemen in this ballroom. If you’re not going to entertain the thought of Nottingvale, then you must promise every dance with a new gentleman until you find someone you like.”
“Every dance?” Gertie repeated doubtfully. “What if I played the pianoforte for eight out of ten dances? I like the pianoforte. I would marry the pianoforte. The pianoforte and I are an excellent match.”
“Tell that to your father,” Cynthia said, then wished she hadn’t.
Gertie had told her father. It had been the only occasion in Cynthia’s knowledge of Gertie standing up for herself to the earl.
It had been a disaster.
A “professional” pianist? bellowed the earl, his face livid. No daughter of mine...
Gertie hadn’t got a single word in edgewise.
Afterward, she rarely spoke at all. Not to her father. She poured her frustrations into the keys and disappeared into her music.
I’ll turn that deuced contraption into kindling, said the earl. If you haven’t a suitor by the end of the year, I’ll find one for you!
Four days remained, and already the earl had made good on his promise. An oily lech who thought nothing of trading a choice piece of land for a bride forty years his junior.
Unless Cynthia worked a Christmas miracle before the end of the party.
“Promise me,” she told Gertie. “You’ll dance with a different man every set until you’ve met them all. And you’ll consider them. You’ll try to talk and be yourself and see if you might suit. After we find your match, I’ll break the news of your betrothal to your father.”
Gertie’s face was white, but she nodded jerkily. “I’ll dance.”
“You have no choice,” Cynthia said softly. “Not if you want any hope to control your future. Meanwhile—”
Meanwhile, the Duke of Nottingvale had just stepped into view.