the shout from all corners of the ballroom.
Cynthia opened her eyes and tilted her head on the wooden floor toward the duke.
He was watching her, a slight smile playing on his lips and an unreadable expression in his eyes.
She smiled back shyly.
Shy. Her.
Cynthia Louise Finch.
He leapt up and pulled her to her feet, keeping one hand clasped in his. He made an exaggerated bow. She dipped in a magnificent curtsey.
“I believe they won,” someone called out. “That means it’s time for wine and cakes!”
The clumps of straw-drawn teammates burst into motion like the explosion of white seeds from a late-summer dandelion.
“I should go,” she told Nottingvale. “Who knows what Max has done to the guest room.”
He dropped her hand but didn’t step away. “I’ll walk with you. In case I need to authorize the complete replacement of every stick of furniture in that chamber.”
“Don’t order until the end of the party,” she suggested. “Then you’ll only have to do it once.”
As they exited the ballroom and entered the corridor, they ran into Nottingvale’s business partner Mr. MacLean carrying a life-size, extremely well dressed, wicker doll.
“That thing is as big as you are!” Cynthia exclaimed.
“It ought to be,” said Mr. MacLean. “It’s modeled in Nottingvale’s image.”
“Why are you carrying it through my house?” asked the duke. “For a second time.”
“Angelica told me to give it back,” he explained, though it explained nothing.
“Why do you have a well-dressed wicker doll modeled after your proportions?” Cynthia asked Nottingvale as his business partner disappeared around the corner.
“It’s a new venture,” he said hesitantly, as if uncertain what she’d make of it. “We’re selling inexpensive men’s apparel via catalogue, in order to offer high fashion to those who would not otherwise be able to afford it.”
“That’s... marvelous.” She stared at him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know what I thought your explanation was going to be, but ‘bringing men’s fashion to the masses’ was not on the list. I think your venture sounds lovely.”
“I hope everyone else feels the same. We hope to begin next month. We’ve an entire stack of fashion plates, all illustrated by Mr. MacLean with aquatints designed by my sister Belle. The next step is arranging the printing. My man of business wrote this morning to say—” Nottingvale scrunched up his nose and glanced away. “I’m blathering on.”
“I didn’t know you could blather on” she admitted. “I find I like it.”
Worse, she found she liked him even more than she had feared.
As if it weren’t enough to merely be titled and filthy rich and mind-bogglingly handsome, Nottingvale had to also be a good sport and compassionate and friendly.
It was unfair.
Cynthia admiring his pretty trappings was bad enough, but developing a soft spot for the man he was inside...
Unacceptable comportment.
She increased her pace, reaching her closed bedchamber door in less than a dozen brisk strides.
“Thank you for seeing me safe to my door,” she said. “Goodbye.”
He didn’t leave.
She didn’t flee into the safety of her chamber.
Her heart beat faster.
“I should have kissed you,” he murmured.
She stared up at him, which wasn’t nearly far enough away. If she’d been of average height, she’d have an exceptional view of his cravat at the moment. Instead, her eyes were level with his lips. Which were at a temptingly close kissing distance.
“I would have kissed you,” he amended, “but I wasn’t certain if our audience would recall the staging for that scene as written.”
Oh, yes. By all means.
Faithless interpretation of Shakespeare’s theatrical wishes was the major conflict they ought to be discussing.
“You shouldn’t kiss me,” she forced herself to say. “You should marry my cousin.”
Even she wasn’t convinced by the emptiness of her words.
Her make-believe poison bottle had more substance than Cynthia’s desire not to kiss Nottingvale.
He was right.
He should definitely have kissed her whilst they’d had the chance.
And the excuse.
Her pulse fluttered. She pretended not to be affected.
“I’m not married yet,” he said. “Or betrothed, or promised, or anything of the kind.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the problem your guests have been summoned to solve.”
But it wasn’t what he was talking about at the moment, and she knew it.
His lips were so close.
He lowered his head slightly. “What if—”
Loud yaps sounded from the other side of the door.
“Max,” she stammered. “He’s going to scratch through your expensive door and maul me through my stockings.”
Mayhap she shouldn’t have mentioned her stockings.
“Ah.” Nottingvale took a half-step back. “I would never put you in danger.”
“I put myself in danger all of