the time,” she babbled. “Like the time I invited the bachelor host of a Christmastide party to follow me unaccompanied down an empty corridor because I secretly wished he would kiss me even though it’s a dreadful idea from all angles and—why am I telling you this?”
His eyes darkened and he reached for her.
“Cynthia Louise!” came a sunny voice from down the hall. “I should’ve known you’d attend to Max. Shall I return to the ballroom?”
“Gertie. What wonderful timing! Do come save me from myself, if you wouldn’t mind, darling.” Cynthia fumbled for the door handle, scarcely registering the feel of Max’s little paws climbing her legs. “Lovely chat, Nottingvale. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your party. All those future duchesses under one roof.”
“That was rude,” Gertie said when Cynthia all but slammed the door in their host’s handsome face.
“It wasn’t rude,” Cynthia told her. “It was self-preservation.”
Gertie drew herself up straight, eyes flashing. “If that blackguard—”
“Not him, darling. Me. I’m supposed to be matchmaking him to you, not kissing him in the corridor.”
Gertie squealed and clapped her hands. “You kissed him?”
“I did not,” Cynthia said quickly, grateful it was true. “But... I wanted to.”
“You should have,” Gertie said. “We all thought he was going to up there on the stage.”
“He was acting,” Cynthia reminded her.
Gertie shrugged. “It didn’t look like it.”
“You’re not listening to me.” Cynthia scooped up the bouncing puppy and tried again. “I’m failing you. I’m supposed to be driving his attention in your direction, and instead he looks at me like... like...”
“Like he’s not pretending when he says he wants to kiss you?”
“Yes,” she burst out desperately. “Exactly like that! I am a horrid chaperone and an even worse matchmaker.”
“But you’re a wonderful cousin,” Gertie said. “Only an idiot would fail to see your charms, and Nottingvale is clearly a clever man.”
“You’re not helping,” Cynthia muttered.
“I’m not trying to help,” Gertie said. “I don’t want to marry Nottingvale. I never did. He scares me, but he doesn’t scare you. I’d be a wretched match for him, and you know it.”
Cynthia closed her eyes. She did know it. That didn’t change the facts.
“If I return you home without a betrothal—”
“Who said without a betrothal?” Gertie took Max from Cynthia. “I said not a duke. I didn’t say no one. The tavern-keeper’s son—”
“—is the son of a tavern-keeper. Your father would send me to Newgate before he’d allow that union to happen.”
“Then you’ll find the right suitor.” Gertie beamed at her with complete confidence. “You’re a wonderful matchmaker, Cynthia Louise. You’ve matched yourself to the Duke of Nottingvale—”
“He wants to kiss me, not court me.”
“—and if there’s a gentleman out there for me, you’ll find him.” Gertie snuggled her face between Max’s floppy ears. “I wish I didn’t have to marry anyone at all, but I trust you.” Her smile wobbled. “If you say you’ve found someone who will please Father and me, I promise not to say no.”
“Oh, Gertie.” Cynthia pulled her cousin and the puppy into her embrace. “I wish you didn’t have to marry until you were ready either. I wish all of the debutantes at this party had time to be themselves before they’re forced to become someone else.”
But they didn’t have time.
They had five days.
Chapter 7
By the following evening, the ballroom had devolved into mutiny.
It was time to dance. The famous musicians from London had not arrived. Might never arrive.
As much as the debutantes wished to impress Nottingvale with how accomplished they were at the pianoforte, none of them wanted to miss their opportunity to dance with the duke.
“I’ll do it,” said Gertie. “I’ll play for the rest of the party.”
Cynthia swung out an arm to block her cousin’s forward movement. “No. I shan’t make you marry anyone who doesn’t suit, including the duke, but there are dozens of other gentlemen in this ballroom. If you’re not going to entertain the thought of Nottingvale, then you must promise every dance with a new gentleman until you find someone you like.”
“Every dance?” Gertie repeated doubtfully. “What if I played the pianoforte for eight out of ten dances? I like the pianoforte. I would marry the pianoforte. The pianoforte and I are an excellent match.”
“Tell that to your father,” Cynthia said, then wished she hadn’t.
Gertie had told her father. It had been the only occasion in Cynthia’s knowledge of Gertie standing up for herself to the earl.
It had been a disaster.
A “professional” pianist? bellowed the earl, his face livid. No daughter of