Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “Cloudbridge Castle.” The woman tucked a strand of loose hair over her ear. “I live here.”

  “As a—maid?”

  “Only the unmarried kind.”

  He tilted his head, and her cheeks pinkened.

  “I’m an ordinary spinster.”

  “Not a criminal.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not quite as exciting. My name is Miss Fiona Amberly. Perhaps you’ve heard of my brother-in-law Lord Somerville?”

  Percival coughed. “The earl?”

  She nodded. “From the Worthing family. His older brother is the Marquess of Highgate.”

  Percival rubbed his hand in his hair. “So when you said you wanted to kidnap me and bring me somewhere—”

  “I wanted to bring you here.” The woman spoke matter-of-factly, as if what she was doing was completely obvious and self-explanatory, as if loads of women were in the habit of capturing men and dragging them to their castles.

  Percival scratched his head and rather feared that all the intelligence his teachers had praised him for at Harrow and Edinburgh had vanished. Because this—this didn’t make sense.

  “So this has nothing to do with my position?” Percival spoke slowly.

  “Of course it does.”

  His head swiveled to her.

  “You’re a gentleman. You’ll be very suitable.”

  He relaxed his shoulders.

  “I would be most appreciative if you could tell them that we are betrothed—”

  “You want me to pretend to adore you?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Percival scowled. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  “Please though? Could you pretend you didn’t despise me?” Fiona thrust her eyes down, and the pink on her cheeks transformed to a definite red shade. “The story is that we met in London four years ago, two weeks into my season, and you proposed. We decided to keep the engagement secret because you were going to fight Napoleon, and that’s the reason I abandoned my season. I called my fiancé Captain Knightley.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Like a medieval knight?”

  She stiffened. “I suppose.”

  “Do they expect me to appear on a white horse as well? Just who do you think is good enough to be your impostor fiancé? Are you only after princes? Kings?”

  “Please?”

  “Find another pretend husband,” Percival growled.

  He could have escaped, he could have protested, and he’d been too fearful to do so. She wasn’t a criminal. She was just a spinster, one too meek to find a husband for herself. And Zeus, she’d barged her way into his most private musings. “I’m not going along with your preposterous plans.”

  “You won’t do it unless I give you a reason?”

  “I will never agree!”

  She sighed. “I have your jewels.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The packet... The one you kept touching.”

  His breath stopped.

  “I took them while you were sleeping,” Fiona continued.

  “So you are a thief.”

  “I’ll give them back to you. After.”

  Percival’s hands twisted with the urge to destroy something. Stomping both feet would feel wonderful right about now. He’d met women intent on having him for their fiancés before, but never a woman who wanted him to pretend to be someone else. He wondered whether this was some elaborate scheme for an actual marriage, but the woman seemed completely unaware he was a duke and far more worthy of romantic idealizations than some captain with an absurdly heroic name.

  “Please?” Fiona’s face took on a mournful expression he abhorred. “It need not be for long. I only want to introduce my Grandmother to you.”

  “And why didn’t you ask me this when you met me?”

  “Would you have helped me?”

  He sighed. He wouldn’t have. He would have laughed and waved her away, leaving her standing on the side of the road. “But pretending to be a highwaywoman—”

  “It was an accident.” Fiona’s thick eyelashes swung down. “The driver assumed I was one, because of my dirty clothes, but really, I was just trying to warn about the tree. I didn’t put it there.”

  “You sure?”

  Her voice quieted. “Naturally.”

  “But I heard gunshots.”

  “Peasants. Shooting for Christmas dinner.”

  With effort, Percival swallowed the anger surging through him. He relaxed his shoulders and strove to emulate the nonchalance of a man approaching a country party, and not that of a man discovering some spinster had kidnapped him.

  The solution to not having a fiancé was not to kidnap an innocent passerby.

  Percival crossed his arms. He’d been outwitted. He’d have to face the dowager, have to apologize for arriving late. He’d have to listen to her tell him that her son, the man who would be Duke if he hadn’t saved Percival in a moment of insanity, would never have been late like this.

  And she would be correct.

  Percival exhaled. Loudly. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Fiona shook her head. “The main thing is to keep Grandmother happy. You can speak in moon-like tones about gardening or about setting up some parish somewhere. You needn’t mention anything glamorous, and if Lady Mulbourne is here, I’m sure she won’t be particularly impressed, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “It seems like just the fact you have a fiancé will be sufficient cause of rejoicing for them,” Percival said.

  Fiona stiffened.

  “And just who is Lady Mulbourne? And what absurd standards does she possess?” Percival normally prided himself on his calm, but normally he wasn’t faced with maniac women of means in want of fiancés.

  “Oh, she’s very important.” Fiona nodded. “She’s my cousin and she thinks she’s in charge of this district, though that’s not entirely incorrect. But she’s married to a baron. He’s of great importance. He’s one of the greatest art critics England has ever had. You should read the reflective, thoughtful articles he composes on a range of subjects that would astound you.”

  Percival scowled. “I see nothing worthy of laudation in a person who devotes himself to the study of inanimate objects.”

  “Even important objects of cultural significance? Possibly historical significance?”

  “There’s nothing important about art.”

  Fiona stiffened. “One favor. A few minutes. Please? And then I’ll tell the groom to prepare the coach for you and give you back the jewels. You’ll be able to travel to London in far greater style than that mail coach.”

  “One day later,” Percival grumbled.

  “Please. If you could be so kind.”

  Percival raised his eyebrows.

  Fiona’s face fell. “Forgive me, I was absurd to link ‘kind’ and ‘you’ in a single sentence.”

  “Yes.” Percival smiled tightly. “Rather unfortunate for you that I’m not more suitable for your needs. You don’t know what kind of uncultured louts lacking gallantry you find in carriages these days. Damned shame.”

  “Please?”

  “I won’t be subjected to some strange child’s play.”

  “I’m not a child!” Fiona’s voice was outraged.

  Good.

  “You are worse than a child!” Percival declared. “A child contents herself to demand pretty dresses.” He paused to scan her ragged cloak. “You haven’t even the sense to ask for the latter.”

  Percival laughed, or at least attempted to. “So I’d . . . er . . . better get going then. I’ll just drive this sleigh back to the inn and get a horse from there to go to London. I don’t need your coach.”

  “But just a few minutes—” A pink tinge lined the woman’s cheekbones. “Please.”

  Her voice quivered, and Percival tightened his fists, as if that gesture alone would be sufficient to tighten his resolve. “You cannot force me. I’ll go back to London and—”

  “Propose? Won’t you n
eed a ring?” Fiona’s voice was all innocence.

  “I—”

  Blast. His shoulders sank. She was right. He needed to do this.

  “You bloody bastard,” Percival swore, not caring that he was breaching all rules of propriety. “Where the hell is it?”

  Fiona blinked. “I hope you don’t mean to speak like that in front of my Grandmother.”

  Percival stiffened and scrunched his fists together. His heart thundered against his chest. He’d begun to care for her; his gaze pulled to hers with too much frequency, as if she were the bloody sun.

  But she was not a highwaywoman, not desperate in the traditional sense, not in the least. The manor house enlarged as the horses trotted on, oblivious to the tumult in the sleigh. The façade was more intricate and the statues more sophisticated than even his family’s original estate, had dear old Bernard not died and left him a whole dukedom.

  She was a wallflower. Even after they’d kissed, after the world had tilted and swirled and it took everything in him to pretend that nothing between them had actually changed after their lips touched, she hadn’t confided in him. She’d stayed up in the night instead and stolen his jewels, proving that the dowager was right, and he wasn’t a man anymore. He couldn’t protect a tiny packet from a chit.

  “Look.” Fiona swallowed hard. “You pose as my fiancé, and I’ll give you your ring and those other jewels back. Just introduce yourself to my grandmother as Captain Knightley and say you’ve been away at war and that you’re looking forward to our impending marriage.”

  “I hope you haven’t arranged that already, too,” Percival grumbled.

  “Of course not,” Fiona exclaimed. “But if she asks, say we’ll need to delay our wedding. Maybe you can make another excuse?” She tilted her head. “I suppose you don’t think it’s likely that Bonaparte will make his escape from St. Helena?”

  Percival narrowed his eyes. “No.”

  She sighed, and he tapped his fingers against the edge of the sleigh. Finally, he smiled. He was practiced at smiling after all. He excelled at turning his lips up when greeting pompous people, and on feigning a pleasant demeanor even when his leg ached from standing. When one smiled long enough, eventually one was even prone to believing the veracity of one’s joyous demeanor. “Very well.”

  Fiona exhaled in obvious relief. The sleigh neared the manor house. She glanced to him, her forehead crinkling. Clearly the woman was more discerning than he’d given her credit for. “Most people would be complimenting the stone facade and the fountains now.”

  Fiona pulled the horses before the entrance, and Percival staggered from the sleigh and offered his hand to her. In the old days he might have given her a bow, but at the moment he felt sufficiently courteous. His other arm rested firmly on the side of the sleigh. “Let me escort you, my betrothed.”

  She hurried from the sleigh, decidedly not grasping his hand. “I’m not asking you to be my fiancé for any personal reasons.”

  Of course she wouldn’t really want him. His leg was ruined. He forced his mind from lingering on searing lips, a gentle touch, and soft, luscious curves.

  He abhorred her. Utterly and completely.

  He followed her gaze to the manor house. A stout, stone fish with well-defined carved scales and speckled with spots of green discoloration squatted in the center of an icy sheet. His head—Percival didn’t want to ascribe such an unattractive appearance to a female fish—was directed upward to the grey, cloudy sky. One could almost imagine water spurting from the thick lips of the statue’s mouth.

  “It is perhaps more stunning in the summer,” Fiona said.

  “It’s divine.” A house like that was sure to be filled with people.

  Chapter Twelve

  Servants peeked from the windows with their heads tilted and their eyebrows raised, and Fiona’s heart sped. Sweat prickled the back of her neck, and though she’d kidnapped him for just this moment, fear spread through her.

  Percival stumbled beside her, and a strange gleam shone in his eyes, seeming to grow stronger with each step toward Cloudbridge Castle.

  Goodness. What in heaven’s name had she done?

  “Don’t attempt anything,” she murmured through gritted teeth.

  He answered her with a laugh, a low relaxed rumble the man was probably accustomed to emitting in smoky clubs filled with copious supplies of brandy.

  Drat.

  She needed to speak to Grandmother before this man entered. She hurried forward. Or as fast as one could dash while still attempting to maintain a portion of one’s dignity, conscious of various curtains being drawn back in the house. The maids were cleaning, and clearly her late appearance was of greater interest than poking about sooty fireplaces.

  She hitched her dress up an inch and proceeded faster. Her cloak billowed in the wind, and strands of hair were flung against her face. Her boots crunched against the sheets of snow that sparkled from the dim sunlight. The servants had attempted to shovel some of the lane, but it was a large job, and she skidded and swerved over icy patches.

  Until she fell.

  The world veered downward, and her nose squashed against the snowy surface. She pushed her hands against the snow and forced herself up, striving to maintain some semblance of dignity as the wind whirled about her coat and dress.

  “I trust you’re uninjured?” Percival shot her a cocky grin. His steady pace, even hampered by his injury, placed him at the entrance to the manor house.

  The man grasped the cast-iron door knocker and pounded on the bright red door that never quite matched the mourning Grandmother had thrown herself into.

  He was not going to speak with the servants before her.

  Who knew what story he would tell them.

  Like the right one. The pit in her stomach hollowed, and she was only a few paces behind him when the door opened.

  Not to a servant.

  Grandmother.

  Her knees quivered, and it was only focusing on the door that kept her moving forward, because certainly Fiona’s natural inclination was to topple forward and pray for the earth to swallow her.

  Grandmother peeked her grey head out, and Fiona knew without a doubt that she had seen everything. Fiona was with a man, all alone. Fiona had traveled with him by herself. If she were the type of woman who believed in being ruined, Fiona would have been devastated, though right now she only desired Grandmother to believe her story.

  “You must be Captain Knightley.” Grandmother extended her hand toward him.

  Percival paused.

  “You can take her hand, my dear!” Fiona forced a laugh. “He’s a bit shy, Grandmother. I should have said.”

  “I—” Percival swung his head around and glared at her.

  “Oh, that’s quite alright.” Grandmother tilted her head. “My Fiona is very shy too. As you no doubt know well.”

  A vein throbbed from Percival’s temple. “I would not have used that term to describe her.”

  “My dear, you must come in. It won’t do to have you shiver in the English winter, as nonexistent as some people claim it to be.”

  Percival brushed past Fiona’s grandmother. “England isn’t supposed to have a winter. It’s supposed to be blustery and sometimes damp. That’s all.”

  “My dear Captain Knightley.” Grandmother smiled fondly at the man. “How much shock it must be for you now to return to your home country after so many years of fighting.”

  “You mustn’t call me that. I’m just a man who—”

  “Adores my niece.” Grandmother’s smile widened. “You are much too humble, my dear. I can call you that, can’t I? I feel you are like family to me. I have heard so much about you.”

  “I have not heard anything about you—”

  “—that has not been pleasant.” Fiona hastened to the man’s side and then halted. It felt too natural to stand beside him, and she had a strange urge to stand even closer to him, as if her body missed his. She frowned. The sleigh had been too tight.


  Percival opened his mouth. “I am afraid that this woman captured me!”

  Fiona froze. She steeled herself for Grandmother’s reaction, and Percival gave her a smug look, not befitting a man whose jewels she had stolen.

  “She held me up at gunpoint and demanded I be her fiancé.”

  Grandmother tilted her head and smiled. “True love is rather like that. I do envy you both.”

  “She captured me! Completely against my will!”

  Grandmother laughed, though Fiona did not join her.

  “One doesn’t know when love will strike.” Grandmother leaned closer. “But when it strikes hard, when it is so strong, it bodes well for your future. Too many people settle for simple, mutual non-hatred. Even hatred can be more of an indication of true passion.”

  “But—” Percival’s face reddened, not as if the extra color could decrease from the man’s handsomeness. He glanced at the butler, and Fiona hastened to slip her hand underneath his arm. Blast convention.

  “My fiancé finds amusement in jesting about the force of our passion. I’m sure he was about to demand you call the magistrate and notify the local gentry.” Fiona tilted her head up at Percival’s ever more bemused countenance.

  “You take the words out of my mouth,” Percival said stiffly.

  “My darling.” Fiona allowed herself to rest her face against Percival’s chest. The woolen fabric of his great coat scratched against her cheek, but her cursed heartbeat still quickened.

  Percival tensed against her, but thank goodness, the man didn’t push her away. She ignored the sudden warmth that soared through her with inexplicable force.

  Though that was absurd. It was Grandmother’s scrutiny that brought on her excitement. Nothing else.

  Obviously.

  Evans’ countenance appeared less stern than normal, and she remembered that the butler was himself married to the housekeeper in a match so well-suited that it had produced seven children, despite the discouragement of household staff to create families.