“But a duke is notallyou are, is it?” Belle patted his shoulder a bit too hard to be accidental. “What if you let these ladies come to know you? You’ve assembled the finest collection of duchessy debutantes in the country. Why not let love whittle it down from here?”
“Nobody needs to know me,” he said. “The fact that they’re here means they’ve already decided in my favor.”
“Nobodydoesknow you,” Belle corrected. “You don’t let them. All they have to go on is Debrett’s Peerage and the unending references in gossip columns to a certain handsome, wealthy Duke of N— who remains stubbornly single.”
“What else is there to know?” he asked. “My voting record in the House of Lords? Whether I have any skill at embroidery or watercolor?”
“You’ve no skill at watercolor,” his sister replied softly, “or any idea what it would feel like to have someone choose you foryou.” This time, her touch to his arm was gentle. “I wish you knew what you were missing.”
“I’m not missing anything,” he assured her. “I even have a lieutenant.”
Chapter 5
Christmas Day was an enormous celebration, second only to the grand Twelfth Night farewell ball the eve before Epiphany, upon which guests would return home carrying the news that the Duke of Nottingvale was betrothed to a future duchess.
Shortly after the sideboard was laid for breakfast, Alexander’s halls were positively brimming with merrymakers and well-wishers.
Each Christmas, his house was open to everyone in the village—and everyone in the village took him up on the offer.
All of the parlors and drawing rooms were stocked with food and drink. He had not planned specific activities this afternoon due to the sheer number of people flowing in and out of the house. Villagers came to mingle with aristocracy. Party guests might slip away to attend church in the castle...
Or, in the case of his business partner Jonathan, sneak off to win the heart of the local jeweler.
It was lovely that some people could afford to let their hearts decide marital matters, truly it was, but Alexander had neither the time nor the freedom for nonsense.
Which was the only reason why he and Miss Finch hadn’t left each other’s sides all day.
Theonlyreason.
She was his lieutenant in the battle to win a duchessy bride, and so far the operation was unfolding flawlessly.
“—in the cerulean dress,” Miss Finch was murmuring into his ear. “She’s nineteen, so not properly a debutante, but her first Season was superlative by any standard. She turned down no less than five proposals. Two from minor peers, one from an eye-wateringly wealthy textiles heir, and the others from heart-wrenchingly lovesick swains. Like you, she is not motivated by love or money, but rather—”
Miss Finch was the perfect height for murmuring into Alexander’s ear. He could not help but admire this trait every time she did so. Modern fashions might consider her appallingly tall for a lady. But for a lieutenant, her height was absolutely perfect.
He was especially glad her blond tresses had been carelessly twisted into another plain, unadorned bun high above her nape.
If Miss Finch had taken the time to curl a few face-framing ringlets, as a lady ought, those soft tendrils might tickle against Alexander’s shoulder every time she murmured into his ear, thus distracting him from the surprisingly detailed intelligence she had amassed on everyone she had ever met.
He was definitely not distracted.
He was paying very close attention.
To... what was she saying? Daughter of a marquess, cousin to the Speaker of the House of Commons, mm-hm, intriguing.
What was that light scent he caught whenever Miss Finch inclined ever so slightly in his direction? Was it a perfume? A soap? It was not-quite-flowery, which shouldn’t surprise him in the least.
If Miss Finch went on a botany expedition foreau de toilette, she’d likely return with stinging nettles, a Venus Flytrap, and a stack of sticky honeycomb she’d nicked from beehives with her bare hands.
That was how she smelled. Chaotic and sweet and dangerous.
“—if she hadn’t selected the wrong spoon in front of one of the patronesses of Almack’s,” Miss Finch concluded, apparently no longer singing the praises of the young lady in blue, but rather recounting the worst known scandal of an otherwise unobjectionable young lady in green.
“You seem to know Society’s rules to the letter,” he murmured to Miss Finch.
See? Another reason to be glad she hadn’t curled ringlets into her hair. One soft tendril might have brushed against his mouth as he bent his head to hers, causing his mind to deviate from finding his future bride. Miss Finch’s plainness had a purpose. It waspractical. She was helping him to concentrate on his aims. Just as she’d promised to do.
“Of course I know society’s rules.” Her low, earthy chuckle tickled his skin beneath his clothes. “How else would I know how to break them?”
