Chapter 8
Alexander was spoilt for choice.
He had met all of his potential brides, spoken with all of his potential brides, dined with all of his potential brides, danced with all of his potential brides...
And he was no closer to betrothing himself with any of them.
The Yuletide party was performing its function splendidly. It was Alexander who was dragging his feet.
In order to allow his guests time to sleep, he had planned no morning activities other than breakfast, which was laid out on the dining room sideboard at dawn and kept fresh until luncheon.
Afternoon activities were many and varied, most of them arranged by his mother. Society rules dictated that a female hostess preside over house parties, and Alexander’s mother was happy to fill that role until her son could produce a wife.
Alexander was happy, too. Those same rules kept his guests entertained and his mother busy, leaving him free to moon out of a side window unobserved.
Where had Miss Finch gone at eight o’clock in the morning?
Why had she been awake at eight o’clock in the morning?
Was she ever coming back to the party?
For years, it had been her habit to slip away for an hour or two, usually in the mornings before the day’s engagements began.
But last night, she had been up late playing the pianoforte. And kissing Alexander. Who had barely slept as a consequence, except to dream of kissing her again.
Nuncheon had come and gone with no sign of Miss Finch.
Guests were playing Commerce in the blue drawing room, dicing in the red parlor, performing a pantomime in the ballroom, taking chocolate and chatting in the dining room...
Not Miss Finch.
She had things to do.
He wondered what they were. And if, whilst doing them, she occasionally recalled certain kisses she’d shared with the Duke of Nottingvale.
Whose Yuletide party she was supposed to be attending.
A knock on the front door sounded down the corridor.
Alexander strode to investigate. He arrived just as his butler Oswald opened the door to reveal Miss Olive Harper, heiress to and manager of the famous Harper stud farm at the entrance to Cressmouth.
“Happy Christmas, Olive,” said Alexander.
“It’s a dreadful Christmas,” she replied. “I’m going to murder my father. My sworn enemy is here to court me and he didn’t bring any attire suitable for the weather. Is your business partner here? Mayhap he’ll let me borrow the clothes from his manikin. They seem about the right size.”
“If it’s for your sworn enemy,” Alexander said politely, “why not let him suffer his own poor choices?”
Olive let out an aggrieved sigh. “It’s complicated.”
He understood complicated.
“I have entire wardrobes full of prototypes we’ve developed,” he informed her. “I can send over a trunk in no time. How long is your enemy staying?”
“Too long,” Olive answered. “Ten days.”
“Does he need anything else?”
She bit her lip. “Riding boots. If you have them. And he’s rather wide in the shoulders, with thick biceps and defined thigh muscles, if you could ask your tailor to adjust the seams. He’s a large man. Large and... very well shaped.”
Ah. So it was complicated.
“I’ll have it sent over at once,” he assured her.
“Thank you.” She looked simultaneously relieved and panicked, as if she suspected this new development might cause her undoing.
Alexander could understand that, too.
She left before he could ask any further questions.
He knew where to find his business partner, Calvin. Alexander’s yellow parlor had been converted into a makeshift workroom, due to its exceptional light. Tailoring projects were piled on every surface.
He sent a pair of footmen to collect the most wintery prototypes from the dressing room, then explained what Olive needed to Calvin.
“Large,” Calvin repeated. “And very well shaped.”
“I believe she mentioned wide shoulders... thick biceps and thigh muscles...”
“‘Sworn enemy,’ she said.” Calvin glanced about at all of the fashions filling the room. “To be clad in the finest men’s apparel ever designed.”
“‘Complicated,’ she said,” Alexander reminded him. “How long do you need?”
“To let out a few seams?” Calvin shrugged. “An hour or two.”
“Thank you. Let me know when you’re finished. I’ll have a footman deliver the trunk.”
At least, that had been the plan.
But two hours later, the clothes were hemmed, the trunk was packed, and there was still no sign of Miss Finch at the party. One shouldn’t have anything to do with the other, but...
“I’ll deliver the trunk,” Alexander announced to his footmen, who looked appropriately aghast.
“I’ll summon a coach,” said the butler.
And Alexander would stare out of the carriage window looking for signs of Miss Finch.
He put on his hat and coat and was halfway to the door when his mother stepped around the corner.
“Vale,” she said in obvious surprise. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I have to pay a quick call to the Harpers. Can you manage things here for the next twenty or thirty minutes?”
She looked amused. “I ‘manage’ them for the entire fortnight. That’s why you must choose the perfect duchess.
Your presence at parties is practically superfluous, because it is your hostess to whom all eyes will be constantly fixed.
I am happy to take her under my wing, but she must have the appropriate potential. ”
“Yes, Mother,” he said gently. “I’m aware of the qualifications for the perfect bride.”
“Of course you are.” She gave a sharp nod. “I won’t keep you from your errand. Supper will be at half past eight. I’ve arranged the seating so that you are between two of the likeliest contenders, and right across from another.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “You do think of everything.”
She looked pleased at this, and continued down the corridor without another word.
Alexander dashed to the coach before anyone else could waylay him.
The Harper farm was on the outskirts of the village. Alexander’s home was nestled at the heart, a stone’s throw from Marlowe Castle. Because there was only one road leading out of the village, one might think it likely for one to glimpse Miss Finch out of the window as one’s carriage rolled by.
One would be wrong.
There was no sign of her anywhere.
Alexander delivered the trunk without incident, then paused at the side of the road before climbing back into his carriage.
“I’ll walk,” he told his startled driver. “It’s a beautiful day.”
It was a ridiculously cold day. If it weren’t for warm leather gloves and thick winter layers, he would have frozen into a ducal icicle the moment he’d stepped outside.
But mayhap a bit of fresh air would be good for him.
Alexander spent every Christmas here in Cressmouth, but never left his cottage. There was no time to. He was the host of a fortnight-long Yuletide party filled with activities that ran until three o’clock in the morning. Perhaps none of which required his presence after all.
Practically superfluous, his mother had said.
The two-mile hike back to the cottage uphill through the snow could take an hour. An hour in which he might enjoy his surroundings.
A snow-covered vista stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see.
Marlowe Castle stood on the highest point, its towers and ramparts glistening where sunlight sparkled against snow and ice.
Fields of evergreens rolled in every direction behind the castle, their spiky green needles shimmering beneath ice droplets that looked like crystals.
Once his carriage pulled away without him, Alexander stepped onto the pavement leading up toward the castle. The walking path was kept clear on both sides of the road, for the convenience of tourists.
Alexander had kept a country home here for years, and never properly considered himself a tourist.
The blacksmith shop across the street bustled with business. Sleighs, carriages, and carts lined the road.
He was friends with the le Duc brothers who ran the shop. Sébastien, Lucien, and family attended Alexander’s Christmas Day open house every year.
He had never been inside the blacksmith shop.
Was this his opportunity to change that?
Or was Alexander courting scandal by risking being glimpsed so far away from the party he was meant to be hosting?
He was already walking home, he reasoned. Pausing to greet a neighbor wouldn’t be seen as a crime. Especially not in a village as friendly as Cressmouth.
Alexander picked his way across the road to the shop.
The le Duc brothers’ Uncle Jasper greeted him with a smile. “Happy Christmas, Your Grace. Where’s your carriage? We can’t mend it if you don’t bring it.”
“My carriage is fine,” Alexander assured him. “Happy Christmas to you, too.”
“Well, if you’re looking for the lads, they’re inside playing billiards with their sister and Miss Finch. Difficult to say which team’s winning the tournament.”
Alexander stared at him.
Miss Finch was inside the blacksmiths’ house.
Playing billiards.
“Go on back,” said Jasper. “The door’s unlocked. Billiard room is second on the right.”
Which was how the Duke of Nottingvale found himself straightening his cravat and brushing snow from his lapels on the le Ducs’ front step, before opening the door himself, since there was no servant to do it for him.
The loud thwack of colliding balls greeted him, followed by hoots of laughter. Even without Jasper’s instructions, finding the billiard room would have been obvious.
Alexander placed his hat on a wooden rack, and after a moment’s indecision added his coat as well.
He wasn’t going to stay, but it would be rude to drip melting snow all over the house.
After taking an extra moment to stomp his boots onto a conveniently located rug, he raked his fingers through his hat-crushed hair and strode down the short corridor to the open doorway of the billiard room.
Miss Finch was bent over the table to take a shot, which gave Alexander a splendid view down her bodice at the soft bosom she’d pressed his hands into during his completely ill-thought-out game of charades.
She glanced up and smiled at him just as she took her shot.