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