“No,” Cynthia answered honestly. “But I promise you will survive it. I’ll be there, too. And we can take Max.”
Gertie brightened. “All right. I’ll go if Max goes.”
“That’s the right outlook, darling.”
Wasit a good outlook? Cynthia had her doubts. But at this point, she’d be willing to strap antlers to Max’s head and pretend he was a reindeer if that was what it took to coax Gertie back to the party.
The plan had seemed simple enough on the carriage ride up.
The duke was in search of a bride.
Point him toward Lady Gertrude.
This plan presupposed that Gertie and the duke would occasionally occupy the same room at the same time. Worse, while Gertie burrowed her head in a burlap sack, the rest of the debutantes threw themselves at Nottingvale.
Even worse, every single one of them was... a true delight.
As near as Cynthia could tell, Nottingvale could close his eyes and pick a bride at random, and end up with a pretty, well mannered, respectable young lady worthy of the title of duchess, no matter which contender he chose.
The key was to have Gertie within sight when Nottingvale pointed his finger.
“Come along,” Cynthia said briskly. “Shall we choose an unwrinkled gown?”
“Why?” Gertie asked suspiciously. “Won’t we be bundled in coats and capes?”
Cynthia unfolded a fresh gown. “We’ll be meeting in the parlor for biscuits and wassail prior to heading out in the cold.”
Gertie looked as though she’d rather hide under the bed with Max.
“Youlikebiscuits and wassail,” Cynthia reminded her.
“I could ring for it,” Gertie said hopefully. “We could consume ours in here.”
Cynthia held out the new dress.
With a resigned huff, Gertie slid out of the tall bed and trudged over to don the fresh gown.
“I’m going to drink all of the wassail,” she warned. “They’ll have to refill the bowl five times, because I’m going to drink until I warble carols like an opera singer on opening night.”
“At least Nottingvale would notice you.” Cynthia arched a brow. “If you’re waiting for me to talk you out of a hilariously muttonheaded idea, you’re speaking to the wrong cousin. I could come up with a lively dance to accompany your rousing choruses.”
“Then he’d noticeyou,” Gertie muttered. Her eyes widened. “Can you pretend to be me? Maybe we can switch at the altar if I wear a heavy enough veil.”
Gooseflesh danced along Cynthia’s arms at the remembrance of that brief moment the night before when the Duke of Nottingvalehadseemed to notice her.
She still wasn’t certain what to make of it. Or how to forget it.
“No switching at the altar,” she said firmly. “His Grace knows who I am. More importantly, you need to come to know each other. I won’t have you frightened of him on your wedding day. What will the guests think of you gasping into a burlap bag beneath your pretty veil?”
“I won’t know,” Gertie said. “I won’t be able to see the witnesses because my face will be buried inside a burlap bag. Can we take it caroling with us?”
“Max comes. The bag stays.” Cynthia hauled her cousin to the doorway.
“Come on, Max,” Gertie cooed. “Here, boy.”
The little brown puppy crawled out from under the bed and leapt into Gertie’s arms.
Cynthia tapped her heavy reticule to ensure Max’s coiled leash was inside, then steered her cousin down the corridor toward the sounds of laughter and revelry.
