muttered.
Sébastien chortled with glee. “This is the best thing that could have happened to this tournament. He’s never seen carom billiards before!”
“What do I do?” Alexander whispered to Miss Finch.
She demonstrated. “With a straight rail, your cue ball hits both object balls in one strike.”
He tried.
It did not work.
“My turn.” Sébastien leapt to his feet. “Prepare for destruction.”
Miss Finch handed Alexander an empty goblet. “Red or white wine?”
He set the goblet down. “Miss Finch—”
All three le Ducs stared at him. “You call her ‘Miss Finch?’”
“As is proper,” Alexander said.
More to the point, Miss Finch hadn’t given him leave to call her anything else.
“I like it,” announced Sébastien. “His Grace is only permitted ‘Miss Finch’ whilst everyone else in the village may call her Cynthia Louise for short.”
“‘Miss Finch’ is shorter than ‘Cynthia Louise,’” Alexander pointed out defensively.
“And as a penalty for Sébastien’s impudence,” Miss Finch interrupted, “I hereby grant His Grace permission to call me ‘Cynthia,’ which is even shorter than ‘Cynthia Louise.’”
“I thought we were friends,” Sébastien muttered.
He and his siblings swiveled expectant gazes toward Alexander.
“Er,” he said.
From the moment he’d inherited the title, no one outside of the family had ever again called Alexander by his Christian name.
His spine tingled as he said, “Miss—er—Cynthia may call me ‘Alexander’ whilst the rest of you scoundrels continue to call me ‘Nottingvale.’”
“Rude,” said Sébastien. “You’re catching on.”
He then bent to the table and made several shots that inspired grunts of approval from his brother and good-natured cursing from two very unladylike ladies.
Alexander should have been appalled.
Instead, he couldn’t stop smiling.
He was having more fun than he had ever had at a Yuletide party, and all he’d done was walk into a room, fail to make his shot, and parry a few insults.
“Champagne,” he decided. Rather than red or white wine, the moment definitely called for champagne.
Sébastien widened his eyes. “But England, she is at war with la France. Surely you do not accuse humble French immigrants of smuggling contraband from foreign soil.”
“There’s champagne in your glass,” Désirée pointed out.
“So there is.” Sébastien retrieved a bottle from the sideboard behind him and held the neck out toward Alexander. “Veuve Clicquot? 1811 was a comet vintage. You shan’t be disappointed.”
Cynthia Louise held out her glass as well, which caused the others to do the same.
“To Alexander and Cynthia!” cheered Désirée.
“Er,” said Alexander.
His protest went unheard over the clinking of glasses.
Cynthia’s blue eyes sparkled at him over the top of her champagne.
“Halt the tournament,” she commanded. “Shall we at least teach Alexander the rules?”
“And some illegal shots, just for sport,” Sébastien added.
Désirée nodded sagely. “So he knows what not to do.”
The others laughed.
Alexander did not. He had always known what not to do.
Such as abandoning his own party.
Or playing drunken billiards at one o’clock in the afternoon.
Or granting a hoyden like Cynthia Louise Finch leave to abandon all propriety and refer to him as Alexander.
No, propriety had been abandoned long before he walked through the door. Alexander was merely...
Complicating matters.
“Very well,” he said. “Who wants to explain how to make a cannon?”
The next hour and a half passed in a blur of failed shots on Alexander’s part, a series of utterly impossible-to-make shots that everyone but Alexander was able to achieve on the first try, and the uncorking of a second bottle of champagne.
He’d lost track of the time.
Spending a playful, spontaneous afternoon with Cynthia was fun.
She was fun.
And unpredictable.
And terrifying.
She made him want more moments like these.
If he had missed her before when she sneaked away for a few hours, he would now be able to think of nothing else but how much he would rather be wherever she happened to be, doing whatever she wanted.
He tried to memorize every moment, but it was impossible. There were too many, and they kept coming. Teasing banter across the table. The flirtatious look in her eyes when she bent to take a shot—or leaned over to willfully distract him from his.
But like all good things, this too must end.
He handed Lucien the cue stick. “I must return to my party.”
“I’ll go with you,” Cynthia said. “I need to make certain Gertie is following orders.”
“Take him out back to meet Chef,” said Désirée.
Sébastien smirked. “Don’t let him fall in.”
“What...?” Alexander asked.
Once they were cloaked and hatted, Cynthia led him out of the house and around the side, rather than down the front walk to the street.
“They have a pet hog,” she explained. “Named Chef.”
That raised more questions than it answered.
“I don’t care about Chef,” he said.
“Oh,