Chapter 5
Christmas Day was an enormous celebration, second only to the grand Twelfth Night farewell ball the eve before Epiphany, upon which guests would return home carrying the news that the Duke of Nottingvale was betrothed to a future duchess.
Shortly after the sideboard was laid for breakfast, Alexander’s halls were positively brimming with merrymakers and well-wishers.
Each Christmas, his house was open to everyone in the village—and everyone in the village took him up on the offer.
All of the parlors and drawing rooms were stocked with food and drink. He had not planned specific activities this afternoon due to the sheer number of people flowing in and out of the house. Villagers came to mingle with aristocracy. Party guests might slip away to attend church in the castle...
Or, in the case of his business partner Jonathan, sneak off to win the heart of the local jeweler.
It was lovely that some people could afford to let their hearts decide marital matters, truly it was, but Alexander had neither the time nor the freedom for nonsense.
Which was the only reason why he and Miss Finch hadn’t left each other’s sides all day.
The only reason.
She was his lieutenant in the battle to win a duchessy bride, and so far the operation was unfolding flawlessly.
“—in the cerulean dress,” Miss Finch was murmuring into his ear.
“She’s nineteen, so not properly a debutante, but her first Season was superlative by any standard.
She turned down no less than five proposals.
Two from minor peers, one from an eye-wateringly wealthy textiles heir, and the others from heart-wrenchingly lovesick swains.
Like you, she is not motivated by love or money, but rather—”
Miss Finch was the perfect height for murmuring into Alexander’s ear. He could not help but admire this trait every time she did so. Modern fashions might consider her appallingly tall for a lady. But for a lieutenant, her height was absolutely perfect.
He was especially glad her blond tresses had been carelessly twisted into another plain, unadorned bun high above her nape.
If Miss Finch had taken the time to curl a few face-framing ringlets, as a lady ought, those soft tendrils might tickle against Alexander’s shoulder every time she murmured into his ear, thus distracting him from the surprisingly detailed intelligence she had amassed on everyone she had ever met.
He was definitely not distracted.
He was paying very close attention.
To... what was she saying? Daughter of a marquess, cousin to the Speaker of the House of Commons, mm-hm, intriguing.
What was that light scent he caught whenever Miss Finch inclined ever so slightly in his direction? Was it a perfume? A soap? It was not-quite-flowery, which shouldn’t surprise him in the least.
If Miss Finch went on a botany expedition for eau de toilette, she’d likely return with stinging nettles, a Venus Flytrap, and a stack of sticky honeycomb she’d nicked from beehives with her bare hands.
That was how she smelled. Chaotic and sweet and dangerous.
“—if she hadn’t selected the wrong spoon in front of one of the patronesses of Almack’s,” Miss Finch concluded, apparently no longer singing the praises of the young lady in blue, but rather recounting the worst known scandal of an otherwise unobjectionable young lady in green.
“You seem to know Society’s rules to the letter,” he murmured to Miss Finch.
See? Another reason to be glad she hadn’t curled ringlets into her hair.
One soft tendril might have brushed against his mouth as he bent his head to hers, causing his mind to deviate from finding his future bride.
Miss Finch’s plainness had a purpose. It was practical.
She was helping him to concentrate on his aims. Just as she’d promised to do.
“Of course I know society’s rules.” Her low, earthy chuckle tickled his skin beneath his clothes. “How else would I know how to break them?”
Was it too hot in here? Too cold? The fireplace was crackling, the windows ajar to allow in fresh air—surely that was the explanation for this strange sensation of not knowing how to feel in his own skin.
He wasn’t attracted to her.
Here, he would prove how much they did not suit.
“Is it true you ran through the cascade fountains of Chatsworth House during a garden party?”
“I didn’t run. I luxuriated in them.”
She burst out laughing at his flinch of shock.
“In my defense,” she said, “it was a hot day. We had been playing Pall Mall on the lawn. I’d tried to balance a lemonade whilst taking a swing at my ball, and ended up splashing half of it down my bodice.
Changing clothes would’ve taken an hour, and we were winning.
I was the only person in my group who knew what to do with a mallet, and my team depended on me.
Whilst the others took their turn, I nipped over to the fountain to wipe the stickiness from my bosom as best I could.
I might’ve been soaking wet, but I won the game. ”
See? Not an attractive picture at all.
He was definitely not imagining her hair clinging to her face in damp tendrils as she dabbed a wet handkerchief to her water-misted bodice.
So glad he’d asked for clarification on the idle gossip.
Brilliant move. Now that he had the true mental image to picture, he’d... he’d...
Never sleep soundly again from dreams of Miss Finch glistening with water like a siren from the sea as she swung her mallet to victory.
“Why are you invited anywhere?” he blurted out.
“Oh, I wasn’t invited back,” she said with a laugh. “But that was mostly due to the gentlemen being poor sports about losing a game of Pall Mall to a team of ladies. It seems men aren’t as superior as they like to claim.”
Or they were distracted.
By Miss Finch, who wasn’t plain at all.
Which, Alexander supposed, only proved her point as to men’s inferiority.
She was standing before him perfectly dry, and he still had no hope in heaven of hitting a ball in a straight line in his current state. All he could think about was holding the next party at his West Midlands manor, which had plenty of garden for installing cascading fountains.
“Ooh,” she said. “I almost forgot about that one.”
“What one?” he stammered. “What are we talking about?”
She touched his arm, either to hush him or to get his attention.
It hushed him and got his attention.
It was the briefest touch. Practically accidental. Just a brushing of knuckles against his forearm. A playful little nudge, as if he were the naughty imp, and she the stern matron tasked with keeping him in line.
Wonderful. Another fine image for his growing collection.
Miss Finch was singing the virtues of a different young lady. Alexander was paying close attention. Or would be, if he hadn’t just now noticed that her extraordinary height wasn’t only advantageous for murmuring into one another’s ears, but also for kissing.
Not that he would kiss her.
He would never.
It was just that, for some other gentleman who happened to be as tall as Alexander, if he happened to be standing next to Miss Finch—their kiss would be a comfortable fit, was all. Just an observation. Nothing he intended to put into practice.
She sucked in a breath. “Damnable puppy! I’ll return in a moment. Max appears to be sneaking cakes from plates left too low on side tables.”
There.
Irrefutable proof—not that there had been any doubt—that Miss Finch was the opposite of acceptable.
Respectable ladies did not curse.
Respectable ladies did not bring their unleashed dogs to other people’s parties uninvited and allow them to wreak havoc on the party’s guests by stealing their tea cakes.
No matter how winsome the puppy was.
The cloying scent of his mother’s perfume tickled Alexander’s nose. “Please tell me you aren’t entertaining the notion of Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
Alexander clenched his jaw. He and his mother had already had one dreadful row, in which she railed that he’d “allowed” Belle to throw away her good blood at the expense of the family. If it were up to Mother, she’d put a stop to the union at once.
Luckily for Belle, who she wed was not up to their mother.
Unluckily for Alexander, he was now being scrutinized even closer than before. There was no room for error. Or for scandal.
“No,” he said. “I am not courting Miss Finch. The idea is absurd. She and a dukedom are completely incompatible in every way.”
He watched.
At this moment, she was cuddling a puppy and consoling her cousin, who appeared mortified to the point of apoplexy to discover a tea cake had been stolen.
And now Miss Finch was personally replacing the surrounding guests’ repasts, presenting each with tiny plates piled high with cakes and biscuits.
And now she was saying something witty that involved so many expansive comical gestures that the poor puppy nearly tumbled off her bosom and into the closest tea cup.
And now the guests were howling with laughter, any earlier pique forgotten as they fought amongst themselves to be next in line to snuggle the adorable wiggly puppy.
“Ghastly behavior,” said the Duchess of Nottingvale. “It’s a wonder they didn’t toss their tea into her face.”
Alexander did not point out that the guests appeared merrier after Miss Finch’s intervention than they had before it.
Or his suspicion that any tea dashed in her direction would soon be followed by a wet frolic through a public fountain.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The primary requirement of any duchess is flawless comportment. I know my duty, and my duchess will perform hers.”
“How goes the bride hunt?” his mother enquired. “Are you any closer?”
“It’s been two days,” he reminded her. “I have until Twelfth Night.”
“Do you need twelve days? Belle assures me all of the debutantes present are so respectable, you could select the next one to walk by and not go astray. Then again, I cannot put stock in her judgment anymore.”
He tensed. “She’s happy, Mother. That’s all that matters.”
“To her, perhaps.” The duchess sniffed.