Her cousin looked like she was going to be ill. “No.”
The carriage door swung open. A pair of gorgeously liveried footmen Cynthia recognized as Horace and Morris appeared at the opening to hand her and her cousin out of the coach.
“Pluck up, darling.” She dug her elbow into Gertie’s side. “You’re the swan following the ugly duckling into the water. There’s no need for speeches. You smile and curtsey and say ‘How do you do?’ just like we practiced.”
“Can we practice some more?” Gertie whispered. “Maybe we should come back next year.”
“He’s picking a bride this year,” Cynthia reminded her. “This is the only opportunity. If you’re not inside that house when the Duke of Nottingvale…”
There he was.
Right there in the doorway.
He’d only been visible for a brief moment. Half in shadow behind his stoic butler Oswald, a shaft of sunlight had fallen onto the Duke of Nottingvale’s absurdly handsome face and touchably tousled soft brown hair whilst he passed from one side of the entryway to another.
A second or two. The space of a heartbeat.
Cynthia’s breath froze solid in her lungs. She had become as stiff and silent as an icicle, teetering precipitously before a fall.
“All right.” Gertie’s voice was brave as she looped her arm trustingly through Cynthia’s. “I can survive it with you at my side.”
“Wonderful,” Cynthia croaked. Absolutely marvelous. The moment they’d both been waiting for.
It was time to matchmake Nottingvale to her cousin.
Chapter 2
His Grace Alexander Borland, seventh Duke of Nottingvale, stalked from room to room, ensuring everything was in order. The month-long Christmastide party was an annual tradition, and this year it had to be perfect.
It was already a disaster.
A sudden snowstorm had halted all travel for the past fortnight, reducing Alexander’s party from four weeks to two. He himself had only arrived that morning, just in time to have a hurried meeting with business partners for a project they’d intended to completelastweek, only for—
“Guests are arriving,” announced Oswald, the butler.
There was no need to adjust postures. Oswald was perpetually stoic and ramrod-straight. Respectable and proper at all times, just as Alexander liked.
The butler opened the door and the first team of liveried footmen rushed out into the cold, ready to bring in heavy trunks and hand guests down from carriages with all of the elegance and efficiency they deserved.
But they weren’t the first to arrive.
Alexander’s new business partners, Calvin and Jonathan, were staying through the grand Twelfth Night gala. Alexander had no idea where they were at this moment, which was just as well, because he did not have time to make dozens of introductions on top of ensuring the perfection of every detail of his party.
Thealmostperfection.
As a consequence of the inconvenient snowstorm, the arrival of Alexander’s mother, the Duchess of Nottingvale, was also delayed.
No gentleman could host a house party on his own. A hostess must always play the lead role. As an impeccably dignified matriarch, his mother was perfect for the part.
In the meantime, Alexander’s younger sister Lady Isabelle would have to do.
Belle was... no longer completely respectable.
While Alexander had spent the past fortnight burrowing north from London to distant Cressmouth, his sister Belle had apparently spent the past weeks in the arms of Alexander’s business partner Calvin, resulting in their betrothal.
Alexander’s surprise at his sister’s impending marriage to a tailor would be nothing compared to the duchess’s reaction once Mother arrived.
Belle had fallen in love, not that romance would sway the matriarch’s opinion.
