Irrefutable proof—not that there had been any doubt—that Miss Finch was the opposite of acceptable.
Respectable ladies did not curse.
Respectable ladies did not bring their unleashed dogs to other people’s parties uninvited and allow them to wreak havoc on the party’s guests by stealing their tea cakes.
No matter how winsome the puppy was.
The cloying scent of his mother’s perfume tickled Alexander’s nose. “Pleasetell me you aren’t entertaining the notion of Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
Alexander clenched his jaw. He and his mother had already had one dreadful row, in which she railed that he’d “allowed” Belle to throw away her good blood at the expense of the family. If it were up to Mother, she’d put a stop to the union at once.
Luckily for Belle, who she wed wasnotup to their mother.
Unluckily for Alexander,hewas now being scrutinized even closer than before. There was no room for error. Or for scandal.
“No,” he said. “I am not courting Miss Finch. The idea is absurd. She and a dukedom are completely incompatible in every way.”
He watched.
At this moment, she was cuddling a puppy and consoling her cousin, who appeared mortified to the point of apoplexy to discover a tea cake had been stolen.
And now Miss Finch was personally replacing the surrounding guests’ repasts, presenting each with tiny plates piled high with cakes and biscuits.
And now she was saying something witty that involved so many expansive comical gestures that the poor puppy nearly tumbled off her bosom and into the closest tea cup.
And now the guests were howling with laughter, any earlier pique forgotten as they fought amongst themselves to be next in line to snuggle the adorable wiggly puppy.
“Ghastly behavior,” said the Duchess of Nottingvale. “It’s a wonder they didn’t toss their tea into her face.”
Alexander did not point out that the guests appeared merrierafterMiss Finch’s intervention than they had before it.
Or his suspicion that any tea dashed in her direction would soon be followed by a wet frolic through a public fountain.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The primary requirement of any duchess is flawless comportment. I know my duty, and my duchess will perform hers.”
“How goes the bride hunt?” his mother enquired. “Are you any closer?”
“It’s been two days,” he reminded her. “I have until Twelfth Night.”
“Do you need twelve days? Belle assures me all of the debutantes present are so respectable, you could select the next one to walk by and not go astray. Then again, I cannot put stock inherjudgment anymore.”
He tensed. “She’s happy, Mother. That’s all that matters.”
“To her, perhaps.” The duchess sniffed.
Alexander was not used to being the Good One in the family. He and his sister had always both been Good Ones.
Belle had followed the rules just as carefully as he had.
Almost as carefully.
Very well, it appeared that what his sister had carefully accomplished was to hide her rule-breaking from others.
He’d always known Belle was a gifted artist, but he hadnotknown she’d taken a post as an advertisement illustrator under a male pseudonym.
Mother still did not know.
Belle wasn’t drawing announcements for Kew Gardens anymore. She was now the artist responsible for painting the fashion plates that would become aquatints in Alexander’s new venture. “Fit for a Duke” was a collection of men’s apparel, to be sold via catalogue.
