Chapter 4 #2
Lady Gertrude’s eyes were almost pitying. “Everyone needs someone. The people who think they don’t are the ones who need someone the most.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be shy?” he muttered.
“I usually am,” she agreed, “but you asked me about Cynthia Louise, who is my favorite person in the world. I can’t wait to tell her you think she’s a flower.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “Don’t tell her.”
Miss Finch had orchestrated this waltz for Alexander to come to know her cousin, and instead he’d turned the topic to Miss Finch.
“Tell me about you,” he said to Lady Gertrude.
Her expression shuttered and she stared over his shoulder without speaking.
“Your cousin wants us to talk,” he reminded her. “About you.”
She dragged her gaze back to his and visibly sucked in a restorative breath.
“Five feet tall, eight stone, youngest of three daughters to Lord and Lady Eddlestone, fluent in French, middling at mathematics, well versed in the running of a household, skilled at the pianoforte, reasonably talented with a needle, shockingly bad at watercolor, excellent at memorizing timetables and lists, and unapologetically partial to tragic operas with sad tenor solos.”
He blinked. “It sounds like you memorized a spy’s intelligence report... on yourself.”
She nodded. “Cynthia Louise’s idea. She said if I ever didn’t know what to say, I could always use one of those things. Since this is an interview, I decided to use them all at once.”
“It’s not an interview,” he said. “It’s a waltz.”
“It’s an interview whilst waltzing,” she amended. “How efficient of you! It must help with the hunt. You can quiz our brains while inspecting our looks up close and making certain we shan’t embarrass you on the dance floor.”
“That’s not what I...”
Very well, fair enough.
Though such cold-bloodedness did not paint Alexander in the most favorable light.
“It’s like any given Wednesday at Almack’s,” he tried to explain. “But smaller.”
She nodded. “I appreciate that. It’s much more relaxing. We’ve only to be terrified of you, rather than of a hundred gentlemen and half a dozen patronesses.”
He glimpsed Miss Finch out of the corner of his eye. It was impossible to imagine her terrified of anything.
She was not dancing. That would have limited her to one swain.
Instead, she held court between the biscuit table and the mulled wine.
She was surrounded by a dozen locals who hung onto her every word, all of them snort-laughing together at some jest that involved comical facial expressions and wild gestures.
It was not at all the manner in which a lady was supposed to comport herself.
Yet there was no denying her allure.
The debutantes under this roof might have come here in hopes of a dukedom, but the local gentlemen were in this ballroom to be near the effervescent Miss Finch.
“Do you want to dance with her?” Lady Gertrude asked.
“Not at all,” Alexander fibbed.
He could not dance with her. To do so would spark gossip, which was something he assiduously avoided. Alexander had spent his life striving to live up to societal expectations. Miss Finch didn’t bother pretending for a single moment.
Dancing with her was completely out of the question.
Completely.
“This year, I’ll only dance with young ladies I’m considering as potential brides,” he explained.
“Did you dance with her last year?” Lady Gertrude asked. “Or ever?”
No, he had not.
Even when not actively pursuing a bride, Alexander was mindful of his reputation. Cynthia playing at “lieutenant” for a fortnight skirted respectability closely enough.
He was not the sort of gentleman who told loud jests with big gestures and comical expressions, or snort-laughed with pretty spinsters next to the refreshment table.
But he suspected Lady Gertrude knew all of that.
She was remarkably astute.
“How old are you?” he grumbled.
“Eighteen years, one month, three days,” she answered. “I’ll add ‘exact age’ to the list for the next time I’m interviewed by a bride-hunting bachelor.”
“If I choose you, there won’t be a next time,” he pointed out.
“It’s still a good list. Cynthia Louise has one for everyone at the party.”
He blinked. “She does?”
“Cynthia Louise knows everything,” Lady Gertrude said. “She’s the one who taught me to create mental lists. She says it helps with counting cards when gambling.”
“Counting cards,” Alexander said faintly. “When gambling.”
“We practiced vingt-et-un during the carriage journey.” Lady Gertrude frowned. “I’m dreadful at gambling. I should add that to the list.”
“Don’t add it to the list,” he said quickly. “Leave some mystery.”
Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re just as clever as Cynthia Louise.”
Two days ago, Alexander might have believed that to be true. “She says she’ll help me select my perfect match before the Twelfth Night ball.”
“Of course she did.” Lady Gertrude beamed at him. “That’s what she said she was going to do.”
“Are her claims always true?”
Lady Gertrude nodded. “But never how you think. If she says, ‘Shall we go out for ices?’” it won’t be Gunter’s.
She probably means to hike a fjord with a knapsack full of lemons in order to grate the virgin ice herself and make her own batch of lemon ice whilst sliding down a snow-covered mountain on skis. ”
The idea was preposterous.
Alexander could absolutely imagine Miss Finch doing it.
It was probably the story she’d been telling the locals over by his biscuit table.
“You do realize,” he said, “the effect having her as a cousin has on your reputation.”
Lady Gertrude nodded. “Everyone wishes they were me. Or Cynthia Louise.”
Alexander blinked. As far as a not-so-veiled reproof went, his rebuke had failed spectacularly.
“No,” he said. “The young ladies are here because they want to be a duchess.”
“Or,” said Lady Gertrude. “They want to be a duchess because they can’t be Cynthia Louise.”
The music stopped.
“Thank you for the waltz.” She dipped an exquisite curtsey. “I’m going to drink three glasses of wine and spend the rest of the night playing ball with my puppy.”
She was gone before Alexander could fathom a reply.
His sister Belle intercepted him on the edge of the dance floor. “Are you bored with your plan yet?”
“Not even a little bit,” he said. “I’m not even certain what just happened.”
He watched Miss Finch welcome her cousin into her circle with obvious delight and affection.
“Is that the one you’re after?” Belle asked.
Alexander cut his gaze to her in horror. “A duke would never.”
“I think Lady Gertrude is perfectly nice,” Belle said. “Even Mother likes her.”
Lady Gertrude.
Right.
“Did you know she weighs eight stone and is middling at mathematics?” he enquired.
“Eight stone,” Belle murmured. “She should eat more biscuits.”
“She also adores tragic operas.”
“You hate tragic operas,” his sister replied. “And now you’ve made one. You should call the whole thing off, Vale. This Christmastide bride hunt is a farce.”
“A Duchess Derby, according to Miss Finch,” he muttered.
“She’s not wrong.” Belle placed a hand on her chest. “What if... No, hear me out. What if... you looked for love instead of societal perfection?”
“There’s no more foolish way to make a decision as important as marriage than to base it on one’s heart,” he snapped, then wished he hadn’t. “No offense meant.”
“All offense taken,” she assured him. “You’re disinvited to the wedding.”
“Then who will give you away?”
“Very well, you can attend. But I will be miffed at you the entire time for having suggested love is foolish.”
“Not for you,” he allowed. “You’re not a duke. I am.”
And now he had to make an even better match to counteract her choice.
The perceived quality of his bride would affect the entire family—Belle, whether she liked it or not, their mother, the next generation of children… He did not take such heavy responsibility lightly.
“But a duke is not all you are, is it?” Belle patted his shoulder a bit too hard to be accidental. “What if you let these ladies come to know you? You’ve assembled the finest collection of duchessy debutantes in the country. Why not let love whittle it down from here?”
“Nobody needs to know me,” he said. “The fact that they’re here means they’ve already decided in my favor.”
“Nobody does know you,” Belle corrected. “You don’t let them. All they have to go on is Debrett’s Peerage and the unending references in gossip columns to a certain handsome, wealthy Duke of N— who remains stubbornly single.”
“What else is there to know?” he asked. “My voting record in the House of Lords? Whether I have any skill at embroidery or watercolor?”
“You’ve no skill at watercolor,” his sister replied softly, “or any idea what it would feel like to have someone choose you for you.” This time, her touch to his arm was gentle. “I wish you knew what you were missing.”
“I’m not missing anything,” he assured her. “I even have a lieutenant.”