“A cousin of yours did something impractical?” Alexander murmured. “I am agog with shock.”
She grinned at him. “He launched himself ten feet into the air, flying over the dumbfounded gazes of his fellow soldiers. He was instantly infamous, and only became more talented and daring after that. He’s the one who taught me everything I know.”
“Wonderful,” said the duke. “I feel so much safer. Didn’t you break your leg? Twice?”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “And I won a two-hundred-pound wager.”
“Two... hundred...”
She adjusted her poles. “Ready?”
“I am not ready. I will never be ready.” He took a deep breath. “But here we go.”
He turned away from her and braced his poles.
She grabbed his arm and hauled him back to her side.
“Not that direction. The village is down there. I aimed our skis over here for a reason.” She gestured down with her gloved hand. “This section runs parallel to the sledding path. There are no obstructions, and people already know to keep a safe distance at the bottom.”
He looked shaken. “I almost skated into the village?”
“You probably would have slid face-first into a haystack and had straw falling out of your hair for days.”
“What if I veer too far the other direction?”
“Just point your skis straight down. You won’t have to steer. Honestly, this section is so wide, you can’t possibly run into anything. Except me, I suppose. But I skate well enough on skis to steer clear of danger.”
“Except for two broken legs.”
“Those were my first two attempts!”
“Your first two attempts to ski involved jumping from one cliff to another?” he said in disbelief. “No. Don’t tell me. I have just learned an important lesson about never again volunteering to ‘do anything’ with Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
“You’ll adore it,” she promised him. “It feels like flying. It’s my favorite thing, and I’ve never had anyone in England to share it with.” She gave him a shy smile. “I’m glad it’s with you.”
“Oh, very good,” he said. “Now my brain is full of kissing you, instead of imagining all of the ghastly ways this plan could go horribly awry.”
She grinned at him. “I’ll let you kiss me at the bottom.”
Before he could reply, she pushed with her poles and sailed down the side of the mountain.
It was glorious.
The sun dazzled her eyes and the wind whipped tendrils of hair from her chignon. Her skis were fast and smooth. Cynthia had waxed them that morning, just as Olaf had taught her.
All too soon, she reached the plateau. She twisted her legs sharply, turning to watch the Duke of Nottingvale’s progress down the mountain.
He was... not smooth.
His skis went every direction but straight, sometimes touching in the front, sometimes touching in the back.
Rather than guide the poles, his arms windmilled for balance, tipping him precariously one direction, then another.
The expression on his face was alternately terrified and exhilarated, as if every moment he remained upright was a victory in its own right.
He looked absolutely magnificent.
And he was headed in her direction.
