by Erica Ridley
Cynthia Louise took a long, steaming hot bath in silence.
What was there to say? Although her bedchamber was down the corridor from the entranceway, the door had been left open and she’d heard every word.
The crowd was loud enough, she’d likely have heard it all even if the door was locked tight and her head was buried under her pillow.
Alexander still planned to select a bride from his young, pretty guests.
That had always been the plan. Cynthia knew that. It was the reason she and Gertie were here.
And yet, confirmation that he had not wavered in this mission stung as sharp as the arrow wound in her shoulder.
“I’ll help with your shift and gown,” Gertie offered.
Cynthia nodded her appreciation.
They picked a violet frock with oversized puffed sleeves, in order to hide the wound from delicate sensibilities. She covered the stitches with a thick square of gauze, and tied it loosely in place with a strip of dark cloth, to mask any blood that might escape.
It looked like a badly placed mourning arm band.
That was also how she felt. Out of place, with her chest empty inside.
“Shall I ask the footmen to look for the skis?” Gertie asked.
“No,” Cynthia answered. “The merrymaking is over.”
Even the Christmastide party was falling apart.
“It looked like you and Nottingvale were enjoying yourselves,” Gertie said tentatively. “Before I barged in.”
“Oh, Gertie, it’s not your fault.” Cynthia wrapped her cousin in a one-armed embrace. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s the way of the world. He’s a duke. I’m me. We should never have been together, even for stolen moments. We knew we were playing with fire.”
She’d never expected him to acknowledge their... friendship.
He’d never planned for such a contingency either.
That their affiliation was now public knowledge brought no joy or pride. The only reason his interest wasn’t still a secret he planned to carry to the grave was because she’d taken an arrow to the shoulder.
Huzzah.
Acknowledged.
And in doing so, she’d ruined his plans... and possibly his life.
Now he wasn’t the Perfect Duke of Nottingvale anymore. That myth had shattered the moment he dove down a mountain to gather her in his arms—when he was supposed to be courting respectable ladies at his house party.
His mother was right.
Cynthia was demonstrably bad for him.
If she liked him at all, the kindest thing she could do was leave him alone.
As she should have done from the beginning.
“He should have married you,” Cynthia told Gertie.
Gertie shook her head. “I didn’t want him to.”
“You should have done so anyway.” Cynthia sighed. “Gertie, at this point... I don’t see how we’re going to find you an alternate match capable of appeasing your father. We’ve less than a week. I can’t go anywhere until these stitches heal a little, not that my presence would help you even if I did.”
“Nottingvale isn’t the only man at the party,” Gertie said. “I had a lovely chat with Timmy Wilson while we were waiting for the duchess to summon tea. He’ll be eighteen in six months. Timmy is new to archery, but he’s very good at—”
“Gertie,” Cynthia interrupted. “No.”
Her cousin’s shoulders sagged, and she looked suddenly much older than her eighteen years.
“I know.” Gertie’s lips twisted in a sad smile. “This was my last chance to pretend.”
Cynthia kissed her forehead. “Come on. There’s a party out there. Mayhap there’s a gentleman or two you’d do well to meet.”
“What about you?” Gertie asked. “Did you ever consider any of the gentlemen?”
Yes.
There was one.
With soft brown hair and warm brown eyes and a kiss that could melt the snow from a mountaintop.
“No,” she said firmly.
Gertie’s eyes were sympathetic. “Are you in love with him?”
No.
Yes.
Damn it all!
“No,” Cynthia said even more firmly.
Or it would have been firm, if the word hadn’t wobbled coming out of her throat, only to audibly crack at the very end.
She blinked hard and pasted on a smile. “It’s time to meet the ladies for Speculation. You remember how to count the cards, don’t you?”
A knock sounded on the door.
Cynthia and Gertie exchanged glances.
“Did you ring the bell pull?” Cynthia whispered.
Gertie shook her head and whispered back, “It could be Doctor Quinney.”
“And it might not be,” Cynthia pointed out.
The knock came again.
She rolled back her shoulders and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her as though the arrow had struck again.
Gritting her teeth against the injury, she wrenched open the door.
It was Alexander.
“I won’t come in,” he began.
“You’re not invited in,” she told him.
“But this needs to be said.” He took a deep breath as if gathering courage, then met her eyes. “Although you are not what I’m looking for in a duchess, I cannot deny I enjoy your company. Marrying you will cause even more scandal on top of the unfortunate revelations that occurred today, but by refraining from unbecoming conduct in the future, with time and assiduous effort, I can rebuild some of my lost reputation.”
Cynthia stared at him. “What?”
“For now, the damage has been done,” he said. “My primary concern is the future. Heirs will need to be raised to be respectable pillars. There can be no further embarrassments to the title or the family. I’m sure you understand.”
“I think I do understand,” she said. “Now that there’s a smudge on your sheen and the debutantes you actually wanted won’t have you, you’ve decided to save your reputation by turning our compromising situation into a surprise betrothal... on condition that I become an entirely different person.”
“Yes,” he said. “Exactly. It’ll save your reputation, too. You’ll be important and watched carefully, but I’m certain you can—”
“I’m certain I cannot,” Cynthia said flatly. “This isn’t a marriage proposal. It’s a script for a performance. You’re not trying to be ‘husband and wife’ but rather ‘duke and duchess.’”
“I am a duke,” he told her. “My wife will be a duchess.”
“But that shouldn’t be all she is, or all that you are. Can’t a duchess also be her own person, too?”
His jaw tightened. “Not if she brings shame to—”
“Let me stop you there. Don’t try to ‘save’ me. Save your own reputation by not worrying about mine.” She flashed a teeth-baring smile. “It will apparently shock you to discover that I don’t want a husband who’s ashamed of me. If you’re too embarrassed to be seen with me, go and find a bride you can stand.”
She slammed the door in his face, then sagged her good shoulder against it.
Gertie winced in sympathy. “That went well?”
Cynthia stumbled forward and dropped her forehead onto her cousin’s shoulder. “That was a disaster. I’m a disaster. The only man to ask for my hand led with, ‘You’re an embarrassment. I’m ashamed to acknowledge you publicly, but since we’ve been thoroughly compromised, the precious rules force my hand...’”
“You choose to be a disaster,” Gertie pointed out. “You could follow the rules if you wished to.”
“I don’t wish to.” Cynthia lifted her head. “I couldn’t be what he wants, no matter how hard I tried. He wants perfection. I’m... me.”
“You are perfect,” Gertie said. “I love you exactly as you are. And you’re right. So would your husband... in a love match.”
“Oh, Gertie.” Cynthia scrubbed her face. “Am I being selfish? None of the women in that parlor
are hoping to be chosen because of an emotional connection. It’s like a game of whist. Some cards outrank others. Some hands are better than others. It’s not personal. I shouldn’t take it that way. It’s just a game.”
“No,” Gertie said. “I cannot think of anything more personal than choosing the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with. You’re not selfish to want a husband who is pleased to have married you. You’re the bravest person I know. You’d rather have a partner than a title, and you’re not afraid to stand up to a duke.”
“He wasn’t even trying to ‘win’ me,” Cynthia said. “I don’t want to be the thing he settles for only because I’m what Fate saddled him with. I’d rather be alone than unhappily married to the man I love.”
“So you are in love,” Gertie said softly.
Cynthia swallowed hard. “And now I’ll watch him pick someone else.”
Chapter 14
Alexander tried to make small talk.
All of his conversations felt smaller by the hour.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Cynthia Louise.
She had spent the past three days taking meals in her room. Alexander had spent the past three days with the rest of his party, pretending to feel festive.
He wanted to give her a chance to heal without being plagued by guests, or... him.
He wanted to give her so much more than that.
But she had emphatically declined his offer to marry, and she was right to do so.
Mother had been appalled to learn that Alexander had suggested the union. She had been delighted that at least Cynthia Louise had the good sense not to make a bad situation worse.
So why did Alexander feel like this was the worst?
He was standing in an extravagant ballroom decorated with bright ribbons and boughs of holly. He was surrounded by a slightly diminished but still impressive number of sweet, pretty, well bred, respectable, proper young ladies who would not slam a door in his face if he offered to make her his duchess.
But he didn’t want to.
They were all perfectly fine. They were better than fine. Each of them were splendid, accomplished women who would be a credit to the title and no doubt caring mothers to their future children.
But they weren’t Cynthia Louise.
He shouldn’t care.
It shouldn’t matter.
He hadn’t planned this party intending to marry her in the first place. As she’d rightfully pointed out, he would not have offered if extraordinary circumstances hadn’t divulged his indiscretion. He should be thrilled she hadn’t taken him up on his offer.
Thrilled.
Squeals filled the ballroom as the blindfolded gentleman with outstretched arms in the center almost touched one of the other guests before they could dance away, laughing.
It was as though Alexander were at a completely different party.
“Your Grace!” A rosy-cheeked miss held up a long strip of cloth. “Do you want a turn?”
“No, thank you,” he called back, pressing himself deeper into the wainscoting.
He didn’t need a blindfold.
Alexander was adept at avoiding uncomfortable truths.
Such as, his offer to Cynthia Louise had been no better than the morning seventeen-year-old Alexander Borland had woken up the new Duke of Nottingvale.
Here’s a coronet. Now, be someone else.
Alexander hadn’t been given a choice. Primogeniture forced the change upon him. He’d gone from an adolescent lad to a powerful lord overnight.
The rules had saved him.
Those same rules would stifle Cynthia.
Asking her to not be all of the things he liked best about her... What kind of offer was that?
A duchess had expectations she was required to live up to. He should choose someone who wanted to live by the strictures of the beau monde. Who would thrive ruling that world, not wither within it.
If he liked Cynthia, he should leave her be.
His sister Belle emerged from the crowd and joined him against the wall. “Not playing the game?”
“There’s no way to win,” he muttered.
His heart was torn in two.
The thought of living without Cynthia Louise was infinitely worse than the scandal of choosing her.
But he was a duke, and duty came first.
“How is Cynthia Louise?” his sister asked.
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Whose fault is that?”
He sent her a flat stare.
She blinked innocently and turned her gaze back to the ballroom. “Skis, eh? Was it terrifying?”
“Yes,” he replied. “And the most amusing afternoon I ever had... Until it wasn’t.”
“Mm.” She made a moue. “Mother says you narrowly avoided leg-shackling yourself to a mortifying hoyden.”
Said like that, it sounded horrid.
Said like that, Mother’s words resembled Alexander’s speech to Cynthia Louise.
“I asked,” he told his sister. “She declined.”
Belle raised her brows. “Did you ask? Or did you imperiously inform her of your ducal decision?”
He glared at her. “What’s the difference?”
Belle’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “If you have to ask, then I have my answer.”
“We don’t suit,” he said.
Belle’s expression was suspiciously blank. “Mm-hm.”
“The weight of this title almost crushed me. I cannot ask Cynthia Louise to voluntarily subject herself to the same fate.”
“You definitely didn’t ask,” Belle murmured. “From the sounds of it.”
“She doesn’t have to be a duchess,” he told his sister. “Cynthia can be and do anything she pleases.”
Belle nodded. “Like marry a man who appreciates her just as she is.”
Jealousy roared through Alexander’s veins, hot and thick and itchy. He could not stand the thought of some other man with Cynthia Louise. Juggling chestnuts with her, sliding down mountains with her, loving her.
It was Alexander who—
“Oh, bollocks,” he muttered.
He loved her.
That was the reason he’d gone sliding down a mountain, the first time as well as the second.
It wasn’t the skis.
It was Cynthia.
Belle brightened considerably. “Something wrong, dear brother?”
He closed his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the wall. “The doctor’s diagnosis was right.”
Alexander had fallen in love.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
“If I could be so bold,” Belle began.
“Please don’t,” he growled.
“You’ve probably been an absolute muttonhead,” she continued.
He glared at her. “Dukes aren’t muttonheads.”
“Perhaps not all dukes,” she said meaningfully.
Sisters were the worst.
“It’s all right not to be perfect,” she said.
“It’s literally my duty to be as perfect as possible.”
“And it’s all right to admit when you haven’t been perfect. Not to me,” she added quickly. “To the person who most needs to hear it.”
“What good would it do?”
“It would show her who you are,” Belle said softly. “Isn’t that who you really wanted her to accept?”
A marriage was between husband and wife, Cynthia had said.
Not duke and duchess.
Those were the posts they would hold, not the people they were inside.
“Follow your heart,” Belle said. “Not the ‘rules.’”
“Society—” he began.
“—will not be standing at the altar,” Belle finished.
He sighed. “Our mother—”
“—is also not the one choosing a bride.” Belle touched his arm. “You are. Who you marry is up to you.”
Except it wasn’t.
He had asked.<
br />
Cynthia said no.
Alexander glared at the merry revelers in his ballroom.
He’d had enough of the party. Making it through tonight’s dancing would be trial enough. He couldn’t stand another minute of joyful festivities.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured to his sister.
He managed to take three entire strides out of the ballroom before he ran into the next person likely to be brimming with unsolicited advice on how best to live his life.
“Mother,” he said politely.
“Where are you going? The party is in there,” she hissed. “You haven’t an assignation with that Finch creature, do you?”
“She has a name,” he replied coolly. “You’re to call her ‘Miss Finch’ unless she gives you leave to do otherwise.”
“Oh, for the love of...” The duchess pinched her lips. “Be glad she refused you. Can you imagine what a lifetime of marriage to her would be like?”
“I’ve been imagining it without cease for the past three days,” he replied. “I think I have a fairly clear idea.”
“Good,” his mother snapped, though her brow was furrowed. “You were raised to do the right thing, Vale.”
He inclined his head. “And I shall do it.”
Before his mother could waylay him with more reminders of endless responsibilities, he bowed and strode off down the corridor in the direction of the guest chambers.
As he and Cynthia had climbed back up the incline after their first trip down the mountain, she had confessed the untenable future awaiting Lady Gertrude.
He knew just how to remedy the situation.
It would involve dancing.
He knocked on their door.
After a brief pause, Lady Gertrude answered it.
Cynthia Louise was in an armchair before the window, her back to him.
She did not turn around.
“You recall my intention to select my bride by inviting her to be the first to dance at the farewell Twelfth Night ball?”
Lady Gertrude stared up at him in wide-eyed silence.
“There’s no need to tarry. I’ve made my decision. I request your company at tonight’s ball. Both of you. Please be present by eight o’clock.”
Cynthia’s back was still to him.
Lady Gertrude’s eyes had only gone wider.
“Wear your dancing slippers,” he ordered, and shut the door before either woman could do so for him.