Chapter 6
Cynthia Louise stared down at the straw she’d drawn.
After spending last night and all morning keeping every subsequent interaction with Nottingvale as formal and lieutenant-ish as possible, of course they’d been randomly assigned to the same team for the evening game of charades.
Each group of performers was spread out in pockets throughout the ballroom, leaving the raised wooden dais open for the pantomimes.
Cynthia’s team consisted of the Duke of Nottingvale, three debutantes, said debutantes’ mothers and chaperones—who had not been assigned to the group, but hovered over their charges’ shoulders protectively—as well as the duke’s tailor and future brother-in-law, Mr. McAlistair.
Gertie’s group consisted of both local blacksmiths, the local dairy farmer, the local baker, the castle solicitor, and Lady Isabelle, the duke’s sister. Gertie’s group was on the opposite side of the ballroom.
It was going to be impossible to matchmake from here.
“I could switch places with Lady Gertrude,” Cynthia said.
“You can’t switch places,” snapped one of the mothers, who hadn’t been assigned to this group at all. “Straws were drawn for a reason.”
“I’m surprised you’re here at all,” said one of the other mothers. “I thought I saw you leaving the party after breakfast.”
“Uncivilized,” sniffed another.
“I had to leave after breakfast,” Cynthia said. “Don’t you read the Cressmouth Gazette? Today was the final ice carving demonstration in the castle park.”
“You were gone for hours. How long can it take to look at ice sculptures?”
“I’ve no idea,” Cynthia said with a shrug. “I can tell you it took two hours and thirty-six minutes to attempt to carve a completely unrecognizable frozen facsimile of a partridge.”
“You were in the ice-carving competition?” Nottingvale closed his eyes. “Of course you were.”
“I finished in last place,” she said cheerfully. “It was glorious. Let me know if you’d like to decorate your garden with frozen blobs that in no way resemble bird-like creatures.”
“Lady Gertrude is such a treasure,” whispered one of the mothers. “How can she be related to... her?”
“Gossip is far more gauche than ice-sculpting,” Cynthia informed her haughtily. “Although I suppose at least you didn’t wait to do it behind my back.”
“She also does it behind your back,” the daughter whispered.
“I know,” Cynthia whispered back.
Twelve years ago, when bright-eyed Cynthia Louise Finch was a brand-new debutante, the gossip had crushed her soul.
She was a lump of clay. No, not a lump of clay—clay could be molded into something serviceable.
She was just a lump. No one with any brains would wander into a patch of wallflowers with her in it, they said.
Six years of that balderdash later, she’d had enough. If she was to be gossiped sorrowfully about for achieving nothing, then she might as well be gossiped about for achieving something.
Her circle of friends increased exponentially. Oh, there were no more vouchers to Almack’s and the like, but those stultifying evenings were replaced by poetry readings and battledore tournaments and political debates and learning how to fence.
It was leagues better than being a wallflower. And, if these matrons were paragons of their class, apparently better than being wife to a lord, as well.
Who cared if no one had ever asked Cynthia for her hand?
She was too busy for a husband. She could barely squeeze in an hour or two of matchmaking between all of the ice carving and sled races.
She might have once dreamt of love, but enjoying life on her own terms was much better than failing to live up to someone else’s.
“So,” murmured the Duke of Nottingvale. “Not these girls?”
“The young ladies themselves are perfectly charming,” she murmured back. “It’s their mothers who have forgotten their manners. Just watch the performance.”
Indeed, the other teams were darling at charades, many of them quite talented.
Soon enough, all eyes turned to their corner.
“It’s our turn?” gasped one of Cynthia’s teammates, as if they were all to be shot by firing squad.
Another clutched a scrap of foolscap with their assigned subject printed inside.
Cynthia plucked the trembling paper from her hand. “It says ‘Mail Coach.’ That’s simple enough. Go on, then. Nottingvale, you can be the driver—”
“Me?”
“Then you two can be horses, which leaves the others to be passengers and... you to try and purchase a ticket to ride on top.” She handed the paper back.
“On top?” the debutante squeaked. “I would never travel by mail coach.”
“It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures,” Cynthia informed her. “And also this is charades. Your friends have never been horses. You’re to pantomime.”
She shooed them all toward the dais, whilst staying behind with the mothers and chaperones to watch.
“I wish it was my Hortense deciding amongst a sea of suitors,” said one of the mothers wistfully.
Cynthia couldn’t fathom hosting an entire soirée of aristocratic suitors. She imagined deciding between dozens of men would cause just as much anxiety as not having any interest at all.
As much as she loved Gertie, playing duenna to a pretty young marriageable thing was an exercise in walking around with constant evidence of one’s unsuitability.
She pressed her lips together.
At thirty years old, Nottingvale could barely fit all of the eager young ladies under one roof.
At thirty years old, Cynthia Louise Finch was considered a dusty, dried-up relic.
In that sense, the mothers were right to caution their daughters not to end up like her. For women who wished to marry well, there was a short window of desirability.
Debutantes were like young tomatoes. A little green, a little unripe, and in danger of being sent back to the scullery the moment blemishes appeared.
“They guessed it!” the young ladies crowed as they skipped back to the group. “We’re to go one more time.”
“You do it.” One of the pink-cheeked debutantes shoved a paper into Cynthia’s hand. “After playing a horse, I cannot show my face again.”
Cynthia unfolded the paper.
“‘Romeo and Juliet.’” She cast a dry look toward Nottingvale. “Forbidden love. Who could possibly believe that your family would disapprove of you making a match with me?”
“It practically writes itself,” he murmured. “Shall we attempt the balcony scene?”
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon...
Cynthia shook the wistful image from her head. “Too romantic. It’ll confuse everyone. Let’s skip to the poison and the stabbings.”
She took her place on one side of the dais and motioned him to the other.
As dramatically as possible, she pantomimed unstoppering a bottle and drinking the poison within, making certain to stagger drunkenly for a few steps before crumpling to the floor like a corpse.
Only then did she remember how Romeo died.
He entered Juliet’s tomb and kissed her lips before consuming the poison himself.
After which, Juliet awoke, and kissed Romeo’s lips, before resorting to the dagger.
Her heart clattered.
In this version, there would be no kissing.
Would there?
No, definitely not. She just had to lie there with her eyes shut, corpse-like, whilst Nottingvale pretended to break into her tomb and become overset at the sight of her death, causing him to swallow what remained of the poison.
She held her breath.
Was he in her invisible tomb?
Had he drunk the poison yet?
The trouble with charades was the lack of dialogue to let one follow along with one’s lover’s path to self-destruction.
There was no way to know if it was time to wake up unless she peeked.
Cynthia cracked open one eye.
Nottingvale’s face was inches from hers.
A tiny, un-corpse-like gasp escaped from between her parted lips.
He wasn’t really going to kiss her... was he?
If he did, she would have to play her role, and kiss him back when it was her turn. Here, on the dais. In front of three dozen hopeful debutantes and their gimlet-eyed chaperones.
She hoped he would.
She prayed he wouldn’t.
His face retreated from hers, and her heart lurched in... Relief? Sorrow?
She squeezed her eyes shut.
He lifted her hand, which was not in the script at all.
He drew her fingers to his lips, which was definitely not in the script.
He pressed her palm to his chest, beneath which, his heart beat as erratically as her own. Her entire body seemed to pulse in syncopation with his. Wanting. Waiting. Wondering.
She couldn’t look.
She daren’t look.
Her hand was placed gently back on her midsection, followed by a poignant pause in which Nottingvale was presumably consuming the last of her poison.
An ungainly thump shook the dais as he fell lifeless to the wooden floor beside her.
The ballroom was unearthly silent.
Surely by now, someone should have guessed the play, making it completely unnecessary for Cynthia to “awaken” and pretend to kiss Nottingvale’s lips.
Not a whisper sounded in the still chamber.
Very well.
Cynthia shot upright with a loud gasp.
Several of the debutantes squeaked in terror.
Cynthia cast wild-eyed glances about her “tomb” before noticing her lifeless Romeo lying still beside her.
With exaggerated expressions of panic and horror, she scooped up both of Nottingvale’s hands and pressed the bare knuckles to her bosom—take that, you scoundrel—before bending down as though she intended to kiss his lips.
She didn’t move.
No one moved.
Nottingvale’s hands were still clutched to her breasts.
The duke cracked open one warm brown eye. He flinched to discover her face floating mere inches above his and immediately squeezed his eyes back shut.
He deserved it.
She cradled his fingers to her bosom for a moment longer before tossing his hands to his chest, drawing an imaginary dagger from his hip, and plunging the invisible blade into her gut for a slow, dramatic death, culminating in her lifeless body slumped against his side.
A beat of silence.
Another beat of silence.