“Don’t order until the end of the party,” she suggested. “Then you’ll only have to do it once.”
As they exited the ballroom and entered the corridor, they ran into Nottingvale’s business partner Mr. MacLean carrying a life-size, extremely well dressed, wicker doll.
“That thing is as big as you are!” Cynthia exclaimed.
“It ought to be,” said Mr. MacLean. “It’s modeled in Nottingvale’s image.”
“Why are you carrying it through my house?” asked the duke. “For asecondtime.”
“Angelica told me to give it back,” he explained, though it explained nothing.
“Why do you have a well-dressed wicker doll modeled after your proportions?” Cynthia asked Nottingvale as his business partner disappeared around the corner.
“It’s a new venture,” he said hesitantly, as if uncertain what she’d make of it. “We’re selling inexpensive men’s apparel via catalogue, in order to offer high fashion to those who would not otherwise be able to afford it.”
“That’s... marvelous.” She stared at him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know what I thought your explanation was going to be, but ‘bringing men’s fashion to the masses’ was not on the list. I think your venture sounds lovely.”
“I hope everyone else feels the same. We hope to begin next month. We’ve an entire stack of fashion plates, all illustrated by Mr. MacLean with aquatints designed by my sister Belle. The next step is arranging the printing. My man of business wrote this morning to say—” Nottingvale scrunched up his nose and glanced away. “I’m blathering on.”
“I didn’t know youcouldblather on” she admitted. “I find I like it.”
Worse, she found she likedhimeven more than she had feared.
As if it weren’t enough to merely be titled and filthy rich and mind-bogglingly handsome, Nottingvale had to also be a good sport and compassionate and friendly.
It was unfair.
Cynthia admiring his pretty trappings was bad enough, but developing a soft spot for the man he was inside...
Unacceptable comportment.
She increased her pace, reaching her closed bedchamber door in less than a dozen brisk strides.
“Thank you for seeing me safe to my door,” she said. “Goodbye.”
He didn’t leave.
She didn’t flee into the safety of her chamber.
Her heart beat faster.
“I should have kissed you,” he murmured.
She stared up at him, which wasn’t nearly far enough away. If she’d been of average height, she’d have an exceptional view of his cravat at the moment. Instead, her eyes were level with his lips. Which were at a temptingly close kissing distance.
“Iwouldhave kissed you,” he amended, “but I wasn’t certain if our audience would recall the staging for that scene as written.”
Oh, yes. By all means.
Faithless interpretation of Shakespeare’s theatrical wishes was the major conflict they ought to be discussing.
“You shouldn’t kiss me,” she forced herself to say. “You should marry my cousin.”
Evenshewasn’t convinced by the emptiness of her words.
Her make-believe poison bottle had more substance than Cynthia’s desire not to kiss Nottingvale.
He was right.
