Only Nottingvale and the naughtier of the gentlemen had recognized the ribald tune before the familiar melody ofMr. Beveridge’s Maggotfilled the ballroom.
Pairs were made and patterns formed as the company squared off into the dance.
Luckily for Nottingvale, Cynthia knew more than enough reels and quadrilles to keep the party dancing from now until Twelfth Night.
Unluckily for Cynthia, the raised dais was a perfect vantage point from which to watch Nottingvale dance with pretty young lady after pretty young lady after pretty young lady.
The debutantes were right.
This was a terrible view.
She tried to concentrate on the keys, rather than the duke whirling other women about the dance floor.
Cynthia didn’t want or need to know what it might feel like to dance in the duke’s arms in front of all and sundry. Proximity to Nottingvale addled her brain. Their hands had touched on no less than three separate occasions, and the memory still caused palpitations.
A proper dance would kill her.
And a kiss...
Shedidwant one, damn him.
Even though he wasn’t courting her, a kiss would allow her to live the fantasy, just for a moment.
And only a moment.
If the thought of being a duchess terrified Gertie, to Cynthia the prospect was positively laughable.
She could follow rules if she wanted to, but shedidn’twant to.
Cynthia didn’t give a flying fig about fitting in with the world that had shunned her, year after year, no matter how slavishly she’d followed its arbitrary conventions.
She’d rather be single forever than wade back into that cesspool.
Even for a duke.
Gertie was the more pressing concern.
Cynthia didn’t wish to alarm her cousin, but she would not be at all surprised to learn the earl had a marriage contract drafted and ready, in case Cynthia failed to match Gertie with the duke.
Her heart ached.
Cynthia was well past the age of majority, but for Gertie it was still years away. If they didn’t find someone reasonably respectable to pair her off with, the earl would have her in front of the altar by January.
This would be Gertie’s final fortnight of freedom before beginning an entire lifetime of misery.
Cynthia could not allow that to happen.
She wanted Gertie to be happy. If that meant marrying a tavern-keeper’s son or a footman, Cynthia didn’t care in the least.
The earl, on the other hand, would have no scruple breaking an unadvantageous contract in order to pack Gertie off to a roué willing to pay for the privilege of possessing her.
There had to be someone in this ballroom capable of mollifying the earlandbeing a good husband to Gertie.
Cynthia prayed Gertie found the lad quickly.
Three in the morning tolled by the time Cynthia played the finalboulanger.
The crowd had dwindled down to the last dozen or two dancers. If the other guests were like Cynthia, they had their eyes on the morning balloon ascent advertised in the Cressmouth Gazette.
