Cynthiahadexchanged one set of rules for another. She’d nurtured her “naughty scamp” reputation as armor against a Polite Society that had been anything but polite to a shy young woman yearning for acceptance.
Being “bad” felt good. It gave her power. It let her believe that she didn’t need them, just like they didn’t need her. It made her think she was free.
When, in fact, everything she did wasstilldictated by how it would look to the people who had ignored her.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Gertie said. “Being Cynthia Louise is enough.”
It had never been enough.
Not for Society.
Not for Alexander.
Not even for Cynthia herself.
Some people just weren’t meant to be chosen for themselves.
“Come along,” she said briskly. “It’s almost eight o’clock, and the handsome prince awaits.”
Gertie hesitated. “Are you going to wear... that?”
Cynthia glanced down at her comfortable, if wrinkled, day dress and shrugged.
“No one will see me,” she reminded Gertie. “I’ll be behind the pianoforte the entire time.”
Gertie frowned. “What about your stitches?”
“They’re healed enough. I don’t even need the gauze anymore. Besides, do you think I’ll allow some other spinster to play the betrothal waltz for my baby cousin?”
The ballroom was packed with people.
Word had already spread that tonight was the night the Duke of Nottingvale would choose his future duchess from the crowd of primped and perfect debutantes, each of them blushing prettily with excitement.
Despite her bravado, Cynthiadidregret her wrinkled gown. Even at her best, she could not compare with these sparkling diamonds. Just the sight of them was enough to reduce her back to the naïve, hopeful wallflower she’d once been.
She tugged at her skirts and seated herself at the pianoforte before too many eyes could turn in her direction. Gertie hovered protectively at her side.
A hush fell over the room.
The Duke of Nottingvale had entered.
Cynthia could tell where he was by the turning of heads and the feminine gasps of swooning approval.
And then there he was.
Spotless black boots, breeches that showed his strong legs to perfection, gorgeous waistcoat the orange-red of autumn leaves, perfectly tailored coat of coal black superfine, a boyish tumble of wavy brown hair above warm brown eyes and all-too-kissable lips…
It was time.
Gertie was going to be a bride.
“Cynthia Louise?” he said.
“Without delay,” she said quickly. Cynthia nudged Gertie toward the dance floor and positioned her fingers over the keys.
“Your cousin is a lovely, charming woman,” began the Duke of Nottingvale.
Cynthia nodded without looking up. She could play this waltz. Shecould.
