“—caroling,” the Duke of Nottingvale was saying, “followed by additional refreshments and dancing when we return.”
A cheer rose up all around him.
Despite the crowded parlor, Cynthia could make Nottingvale out perfectly. She was tall and he was tall, which meant their startled eyes could meet over the tops of the heads of most of the guests.
She tried to glance away, but could not.
It had always been like that with Nottingvale. Or Vale, as his friends called him—which did not include Cynthia Louise Finch. She was tolerated at his Christmastide parties for the same reason her calendar hadn’t been completely bare during her six failed London seasons.
She had just enough social connections not to be given the cut direct.
And not enough of anything else to bother inviting to the dance floor.
Cynthia wondered if her come-out had set a nationwide record. Six years of nightly fêtes, soirées, dinner parties, and grand galas... with nary a single dance.
It had been interminable.
The subsequent six years were much better. Not because aristocrats like Nottingvale suddenly deigned to dance with her—Ha!—but because Cynthia had stopped trying to impress people who had already decided they weren’t interested.
Cressmouth’s celebrated Marlowe Castle hosted open balls all year long. Cynthia danced until her feet hurt with the local blacksmith, the local baker, the local dairy farmer, the local solicitor, the local wine smuggler, the local parson...
They’d all married different women, but they hadn’t looked through her as though she were less substantial than fog. They werefriends, which was more than she’d had in London.
Here in Cressmouth, she now had three godchildren, all of whom called her “Aunt Cynthia Louise” with varying abilities to pronounce the complicated letters, making it the cutest thing any spinster had ever heard.
Who cared if she was still invisible to the beau monde? She had her own world. One in which she mattered, and was seen.
Kind of like the way the Duke of Nottingvale was staring at her at this moment.
His warm brown eyes sent a glow of heat over her skin, as though she’d wandered too near the fireplace.
The duke hadn’t had a moment to himself since the morning began, which somehow made him all the more attractive. His rumpled brown hair looked touchably soft, his jawline just as touchably rough. The hint of shadow instead of his usual close-shaved perfection made him seem... approachable. More real. Less regal.
He would be horrified if he knew.
“What is he looking at?” came a whisper from behind.
“Get up there,” hissed another woman. “Fall into step with him while he’s distracted, and don’t leave his side until he’s forced to ask you to tonight’s first dance.”
“But the dancing isn’t for hours, Mama,” came a panicked whisper that reminded Cynthia of Gertie. “What am I supposed to talk about?”
Eighteen years was far too young to make decisions that would impact one’s future forevermore. Cynthia wished all of these desperate debutantes had a few years to find out who they were before they were forced to find a husband.
“Dukes don’t want wives whotalk,” snapped the mother. “Sing the carols and look pretty. You don’t want to end up a thirty-year-old spinster with no prospects, do you?”
Cynthia blinked.
Athirty-year-old spinster with no prospects. That was oddly specific.
“Your Hortense is nothing like Miss Finch,” scolded another mother. “Our daughters are well-behaved andpretty.”
Gertie stiffened and slowly lifted Max away from her bodice.
“Do not throw your puppy in her face,” Cynthia whispered. “Even if she deserves it.”
“We’reright here,” Gertie whispered back. “We’re not invisible.”
Ah. This was her first time.
