Forever Your Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #12) - Erica Ridley Page 0,1

climb trees,” Cynthia reminded her cousin. “The duke’s primary requirement is a proper young lady, and you’re the properest young lady I know. That’s your trump card.”

Gertie frowned. “What’s a trump card again?”

“Your advantage,” Cynthia explained. “The thing that makes you better than all of the other choices.”

“But I’m not better.” Gertie’s face was pale. “All of the young ladies will be well-mannered debutantes from good families, just like me. And they won’t turn into a potato with all eyes and no mouth if the duke happens to glance in their direction.”

“You’ll be the prettiest potato the duke has ever seen,” Cynthia assured her. “If you can’t think of anything to say, nod and look interested. That will get you through more conversations than you might expect. It’s how Barbara landed her husband.”

Gertie brightened. “Barbara is very happy. You did a splendid job with both of my sisters.”

Cynthia had become the de facto companion for her younger, prettier cousins after her sixth and final Season passed without a peep of interest from anyone. There hadn’t even been a bad proposal to turn down.

She was glad of it. Who needed a husband?

With a high-in-the-instep duke like Nottingvale glowering down his patrician nose at her, there would be no trees or skis or skittles.

Cynthia was much happier as a spinster. Her life had become exponentially easier the moment she decided to abandon high society’s stifling rules in favor of having none at all. Without having to worry about attracting potential suitors, she was free to live as she pleased.

She was never going back.

“Max, no!” Gertie scolded. “You’ll muss my traveling dress!”

See? Cynthia didn’t give two figs about wrinkled muslin. Being unmarriageable was so much better than trying to be presentable all of the time.

“I’ll take him.”

The puppy was already leaping from Gertie’s bodice to Cynthia’s lap before she finished the sentence.

“He’s impossible,” Gertie said fondly. “You’re certain the duke won’t mind that we’ve brought him?”

“If he does, we’ll say Max is my dog.” Scrunching up her face, Cynthia tried not to laugh as the small, wiggly brown puppy licked her face exuberantly.

See? Canine saliva glistening on one’s cheeks was no problem at all when one was an unmarriageable spinster.

“What if the duke does pick me?” Gertie said in horror. “Will I have to give up Max?”

“Of course not.” Cynthia rubbed between his ears. “I’ll ‘give’ Max back to you as an early wedding present. It would be rude of the duke not to accept a family member’s wedding present, and the Duke of Nottingvale is never rude. He’s always perfectly proper. It’s in his blood.”

“He frightens me,” Gertie whispered. “He’s so big.”

“Well, he is tall,” Cynthia admitted. “And those wide shoulders are difficult to miss. But try to concentrate on the other details. He has very long eyelashes for a duke. They’re the same deep brown as his eyes. The left side of his mouth turns up a little more than the right when he smiles. That’s a flaw, isn’t it? One can barely tear one’s gaze away. As for all of those trim muscles from boxing and swimming...”

Wait.

What was she supposed to be talking about?

Cynthia busied herself balancing Max upside-down on her lap in order to rub his soft belly and thereby avoid meeting her cousin’s eyes.

Cynthia did not fancy the Duke of Nottingvale.

She did not.

Gertie depended on Cynthia—the entire family depended upon her—and she was going to deliver. Nottingvale would be smitten with Gertie at first sight. This would be the easiest matchmaking mission of Cynthia’s life.

She just had to survive a fortnight of other people’s flirtations.

“Look!” Cynthia pointed out of the window at a bright red wooden sign rising from the snow.

* * *

Welcome to Christmas!

* * *

Gertie’s eyes widened. “Is it really Christmastide here all year round?”

Unlike Cynthia, Gertie was not from the northernmost corner of England. Gertie and her family spent half of the year in London, and the other half near Southampton, where Gertie’s father had a seaside manor.

“It really is,” Cynthia said with a grin. “Marlowe Castle sits atop the highest point, overlooking the cheerful little village. Despite its small size, Cressmouth has dozens of entertainments at any moment. What happened to this month’s timetable?”

“Here it is!” Gertie pulled a battered copy of the Cressmouth Gazette out from under Max’s basket, and turned to the long lists of December activities beginning on page four.

Cynthia didn’t need to review the newspaper to know what delights it contained. Accommodations in Cressmouth were expensive, but most of the