Twelve years ago, when bright-eyed Cynthia Louise Finch was a brand-new debutante, the gossip had crushed her soul. She was a lump of clay. No, not a lump of clay—clay could be molded into something serviceable. She was just a lump. No one with any brains would wander into a patch of wallflowers withherin it, they said.
Six years of that balderdash later, she’d had enough. If she was to be gossiped sorrowfully about for achieving nothing, then she might as well be gossiped about for achievingsomething.
Her circle of friends increased exponentially. Oh, there were no more vouchers to Almack’s and the like, but those stultifying evenings were replaced by poetry readings and battledore tournaments and political debates and learning how to fence.
It was leagues better than being a wallflower. And, if these matrons were paragons of their class, apparently better than being wife to a lord, as well.
Who cared if no one had ever asked Cynthia for her hand? She was too busy for a husband. She could barely squeeze in an hour or two of matchmaking between all of the ice carving and sled races. She might have once dreamt of love, but enjoying life on her own terms was much better than failing to live up to someone else’s.
“So,” murmured the Duke of Nottingvale. “Not these girls?”
“The young ladies themselves are perfectly charming,” she murmured back. “It’s their mothers who have forgotten their manners. Just watch the performance.”
Indeed, the other teams were darling at charades, many of them quite talented.
Soon enough, all eyes turned to their corner.
“It’sourturn?” gasped one of Cynthia’s teammates, as if they were all to be shot by firing squad.
Another clutched a scrap of foolscap with their assigned subject printed inside.
Cynthia plucked the trembling paper from her hand. “It says ‘Mail Coach.’ That’s simple enough. Go on, then. Nottingvale, you can be the driver—”
“Me?”
“Then you two can be horses, which leaves the others to be passengers and...youto try and purchase a ticket to ride on top.” She handed the paper back.
“On top?” the debutante squeaked. “I would never travel by mail coach.”
“It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures,” Cynthia informed her. “And also this is charades. Your friends have never been horses. You’re topantomime.”
She shooed them all toward the dais, whilst staying behind with the mothers and chaperones to watch.
“I wish it was my Hortense deciding amongst a sea of suitors,” said one of the mothers wistfully.
Cynthia couldn’t fathom hosting an entire soirée of aristocratic suitors. She imagined deciding between dozens of men would cause just as much anxiety as not having any interest at all.
As much as she loved Gertie, playing duenna to a pretty young marriageable thing was an exercise in walking around with constant evidence of one’s unsuitability.
She pressed her lips together.
At thirty years old, Nottingvale could barely fit all of the eager young ladies under one roof.
At thirty years old, Cynthia Louise Finch was considered a dusty, dried-up relic.
In that sense, the mothers were right to caution their daughters not to end up like her. For women who wished to marry well, there was a short window of desirability.
Debutantes were like young tomatoes. A little green, a little unripe, and in danger of being sent back to the scullery the moment blemishes appeared.
“They guessed it!” the young ladies crowed as they skipped back to the group. “We’re to go one more time.”
“You do it.” One of the pink-cheeked debutantes shoved a paper into Cynthia’s hand. “After playing a horse, I cannot show my face again.”
Cynthia unfolded the paper.
“‘Romeo and Juliet.’” She cast a dry look toward Nottingvale. “Forbidden love. Who could possibly believe that your family would disapprove of you making a match with me?”
“It practically writes itself,” he murmured. “Shall we attempt the balcony scene?”
