Chapter 9
Cynthia Louise stood atop the snow-covered peak behind Marlowe Castle and flung her arms open wide.
This was the panorama she’d been craving. Snow in every direction. Rolling fields of evergreens to the left, red-roofed cottages of Cressmouth to the right, and directly in front of her... the perfect spot to slide down the mountain on skis.
Blast it all, she should have brought them along, just in case her scouting adventure bore fruit.
Although the slightly less steep section just beside it was often used for sledding, that wasn’t the only criteria for a ski hill.
She’d needed to ascertain the depth and consistency of the snow, and ensure it stretched over the entire area.
Luckily for her, a snowstorm earlier that month had set things up nicely.
The difficult part was going to be convincing Gertie to come with her.
Every time the earl took the extended family on holiday to Norway, Gertie had stayed resolutely indoors drinking chocolate rather than strap on what she referred to as “death sticks.”
Seeing Cynthia bed-bound in leg traction twice over the years hadn’t helped matters. No matter how much Cynthia tried to explain that the danger didn’t come from the skis, but rather the riskiness of the tricks attempted by the rider.
Tricks were optional! Gertie could just coast! Cynthia would be right there!
Such arguments hadn’t swayed Gertie in the least.
Indeed, it was a comment by Gertie’s father that wrought the magic. Once he’d married the last chit off, said the earl, he was ridding the manor of all their paraphernalia—from the pianoforte to the skis.
Nothing made a prospect more enticing than the daunting realization one might never have such an opportunity again.
Tomorrow, Cynthia decided. Tomorrow, she would convince Gertie.
Today was for Cynthia’s freedom.
She flung her arms out wide.
It wasn’t just that she treasured these unstructured moments above all else. “Gadding about,” as her uncle called it, allowed her to bump into old friends or wander into new adventures.
And now, it also allowed her to avoid the Duke of Nottingvale.
Alexander.
Her cheeks heated.
Sneaking off to explore the village’s festivities alone allowed her to avoid Alexander.
His kisses were exquisite.
No woman in her right mind would wish to avoid a moment’s pleasure in his embrace.
But the obvious spark between them wasn’t the problem.
The fact that he was going to marry someone else was the problem.
She’d known that before she came. She hadn’t cared back then.
Very well, yes, she had cared deeply, but she’d thought he was going to marry Gertie, who was Cynthia’s favorite person. Since the duke never looked twice at Cynthia anyway, why not have him rescue her cousin?
But Gertie didn’t want the duke.
Cynthia did.
And Alexander wanted someone—anyone—but Cynthia Louise.
The only way to avoid being hurt when he made his final duchess selection, was to avoid him. The less time they spent together, the lower the probability of her exceedingly foolish tendre developing into something deeper.
After all, Cynthia had a long history of falling in things.
What she had to avoid falling into was love.
She turned from the gorgeous, perfect-for-skis, unblemished, snow-covered slope and stepped... right into the Duke of Nottingvale’s chest.
“Good heavens!” He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her toward the castle ramparts. “You were standing on the edge of a cliff. You could have slid right off!”
“I plan to,” she informed him. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be entertaining guests at your party?”
“You’re a guest at my party,” he reminded her. “And you’re not there. I came to... chastise you.”
“You’re not there, either,” she pointed out. “Consider your chastisement rebutted.”
Alexander glowered at her. “Very well. I confess. I came to see what you were doing.”
He also hadn’t let go of her yet. If anything, he was holding her closer.
She felt in danger of losing her balance over a different type of cliff.
With skis, Cynthia hadn’t minded getting hurt, because she knew she could win in the end.
With Nottingvale, the game was already over.
She swallowed. “How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Fortunately, people tend to notice when you pass by, which provided subtle clues to follow.”
“Was it the chestnut cart?” she asked. “Children love it when I eat chestnuts from the air whilst juggling them.”
“It was the archery targets,” he informed her. “The competition apparently isn’t until tomorrow, but a certain hoyden paid five quid to practice shooting today... and didn’t hit a single hay mound.”
“My hands were sticky,” she protested. “That was after the chestnuts.”
He still hadn’t let go of her.
She was suddenly aware how protected their position was behind the castle. Ramparts to one side, a forest to the other… They were out-of-doors yet completely hidden from view.
Anything could happen.
“Well.” He tilted his head, his voice a low, seductive purr. “Now that I’m here, what shall we do with ourselves?”
Cynthia knew what she was going to do.
She was going to show him how incompatible they were.
Once she proved they didn’t suit, he would see their flirtation was as pointless as it was temporary.
She respected her heart too much to be nothing more than a man’s passing fancy.
If the duke wished to procrastinate, he could take up a hobby.
Juggling chestnuts was nice. So was picking a blasted bride, so as to put the rest of the party out of their misery.
“We’ll begin,” she said briskly, “in the counting house.” Cynthia lifted her arm to point up high at the tallest tower. “It’s in the room at the top.”
He gulped. “Let me guess... It’s countless uneven flights up a narrow, winding, windowless staircase?”
“Oh, you’ve already seen it?” she said brightly. “If the idea bores you, go on back to the party.”
“I’ll go,” he said quickly. “Lead the way.”
Marvelous.
But they’d no sooner stepped beneath the castle archway and in through the open entrance doors when the duke stopped stock-still and gazed about in childlike wonder.
“It’s incredible.” His voice was hushed, his expression filled with awe. “The interior looks new.”
“Mr. Marlowe renovated the castle a decade ago.” Cynthia stared at the duke in befuddlement. “Have you never been inside the castle before?”
He shook his head. “I heard there were free refreshments for villagers, but I don’t require charity. I have a French chef and a well-stocked kitchen.”
“People don’t come to the castle for charity,” she began, then corrected herself.
“I concede that free food and entertainment is one of the reasons I came the first time. But it’s far from the only reason.
Wealthy tourists pay the same to rent a suite with a view for a fortnight as they would renting a room for an entire year in London.
People come because it’s Christmastide here, all year round.
This village is a family anyone can drop into whenever they please.
Fellow strangers are just future friends.
And yes, the free cakes are nice.” She frowned at him. “Why do you come?”
“For Christmas,” he assured her. “But I put it on myself. I’m in London most of the year for Parliament, then at my country estate the rest of the year, making up for lost time.
I tend to arrive here toward the beginning of December, a week or so before my guests, so that I have time to prepare.
I must be present during the party because I am the host. After the grand Twelfth Night farewell ball, the house clears on Epiphany, and I head back to London myself the following day to retake my seat in the House of Lords. ”
“Wait,” she said. “This isn’t just your first time inside the castle. You’re saying you own a holiday home at a famous perpetual Yuletide tourist destination... that you’ve never actually seen?”
“I can see the castle from my windows,” he told her. “Well, parts of it. I can see the towers and the wall.”
“Come with me.”
She hooked her elbow around his and dragged him past the lavish reception area to a dining hall as large as any palace ballroom. Tables filled every inch of space. Villagers and tourists alike filled the tables.
“Look,” the duke said in surprise. “They’re eating—”
“The same sort of meals your French chef prepares?” Cynthia said dryly. “This may come as a shock, but Marlowe Castle also has French chefs. As well as not-French chefs. The menu is extensive and changes fortnightly.”
“Fortnightly?” Alexander’s brows shot up. “How can an extensive menu change fortnightly during the winter? Nothing but evergreens grows for miles around.”
She took him out through a side door and into an enormous glasshouse.
“Behold,” she said. “The conservatory, half of which is dedicated to fruits, vegetables, and spices. Where do you think your French chef obtains the items he cooks for you in your kitchen?”
The duke gazed about in wonder. “This indoor ‘garden’ is as big as a park!”
“Wait until you hear about all of the activities at Marlowe Castle in addition to eating,” she said. “The ballroom hosts assemblies every week. Guests come from all corners to enjoy the orchestras and the dancing. I’m sure you passed the amphitheatre on your journey in?”
“I did know about the theatre,” he assured her. “I just haven’t had a chance to—”
“Unless it’s raining, there are performances every day of the week. Plays, musicals, choirs, operas, acrobats... It’s not Drury Lane, but it’s fabulously entertaining. Many of the villagers act on stage or play an instrument.”
He grinned. “I’m surprised you haven’t done so.”
She stared at him.
He closed his eyes. “Of course you’ve done so.”
“I played Maria in Twelfth Night three years running.” She swept him out of the conservatory and into the brisk winter air. “Through these trees is a path leading down to the lake, which is currently frozen over and will remain so through March, making it the perfect spot for ice-skating.”
His face briefly twisted.