I’m spoken for.
A small part of him told him he wasn’t spoken for yet, he wasn’t actually committed, he’d simply told the dowager he would agree with what she deemed best.
She’d lost her son. He couldn’t crush her further.
“I’ll return inside.” Fiona swiveled, and her auburn locks fluttered in the wind. Large snowflakes had fallen on her hair, sparkling and shimmering as if she were ensconced in a snow globe.
“Wait.” Percival stretched out a hand to her, and then hastily dropped it, because by Zeus, it wasn’t appropriate to even speak to her like this, much less act like the thought of her leaving pained him.
After all, he was counting the hours to his departure. This had been the most inconvenient incident of the year. And that included six months of battling the French. No way would he stand here in the blasted cold and ponder her beauty.
That would be ridiculous. He shifted on the snowy surface of the balcony. The thought of not spending every moment of the rest of their short time together seemed even more absurd.
He sucked in a breath of air. “I would like to see your archaeological finds.”
Fiona blinked. “Are you sure? No one else—”
“I’m not no one else.”
Fiona’s long eyelashes swooped down, and her cheeks pinkened.
Percival cursed his intensity, and he laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. “After all, I’m your fiancé.”
Fiona’s lips turned up as he expected, but no joy sparkled in her emerald eyes. His heart hammered. When he said things like that, it was all too easy to contemplate what it would be like if his words were real.
She wasn’t really his fiancée, and after tonight, she would no longer even be an acquaintance. He would divide his time between London and the ducal residence in Sussex. His heart clenched.
“Besides, archaeology interests me. You interest me.” Heat pricked the back of his neck, as if he weren’t able to cope with the presence of his robe and her presence at the same time. He’d said too much, but he refused to withdraw the words.
The slow smile that spread over her face halted, and her jaw tightened. She placed her hands on her waist. “You should stop that.”
“Excuse me?”
She strode near him, not seeming to care that the bottom of her robe trailed in the snow. “You must do a better job of displaying your faults. Because right now you seem perfect, and Lord, I’m going to miss you.”
“Fiona—”
It wasn’t the first time he’d used her given name in his thoughts, but it was the first time he’d said it to her. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around and returned to her bedroom.
He followed her, dragging his wooden leg on the unevenly packed snow, before she might close the door.
He might be losing all sense—very likely he was—but the thought of never having another moment alone with her seemed horrific.
Much more horrific than it should have been.
His heart hammered, and he poked his head through the door. He scanned the room, taking in her still unmade bed and the long, dark canopies that hung from the bed posts. Not that there was anything drab about the bed—the place seemed filled with significance.
He forced his mind from dwelling on the fact that even the smallest pillow was likely imbued with Fiona’s scent, and he definitely refused to ponder what sort of uses a bed might fulfil. He was still in a robe himself, and the long nightshirt underneath scarcely made him decent. Not if his mind was going to ponder—that.
He didn’t need to think about a womanly body pressed against soft sheets. He gritted his teeth. “May I enter?”
Fiona paused. “Yes.”
He wavered, teetering on the threshold of duty and desire, responsibility and bliss, all that was honorable and all that was Fiona and delightful.
It was almost as if . . . He shook his head.
Love was something confined to fairy tales for little girls. Love was something that grew slowly, if at all, after a lifetime of attending the same balls and sitting across from one another at the same dining room table. Love was something he might experience with Lady Cordelia in a few years if he were lucky, but most likely not. And that wasn’t supposed to matter. That’s why everyone kept separate bedrooms, that’s why brothels thrived.
But it was clear: he adored Fiona Amberly. He was in love with her, blast it. And it didn’t seem to matter in the slightest that the fact was bloody inconvenient.
He’d been happy when the dowager suggested he marry Lady Cordelia and that his future would be settled. Perhaps he’d been more sensitive about his leg than he’d let on. The prospect of courting women, seeing which ones didn’t mind he couldn’t dance with them, and seeing which ones didn’t use his interest to catapult proposals for better, two-legged men, failed to appeal.
At one time he’d loved London, embraced the order of its grand buildings and the chaotic frenzy near St. Paul’s and Covent Garden. He’d always considered the countryside dull and grumbled at the prospect of spending any time there. Its advantages had seemed limited to the possibilities of pall mall and lawn chess, both games he had little interest in, and its disadvantages had seemed endless.
And yet now—now nothing seemed duller than the prospect of another season, with trained debutantes sneaking glances at him, assessing whether his vast estates and tolerable good looks were worth his present state of less than wholeness.
No, he hadn’t wanted to go through that before he’d met Fiona. That’s why he’d rushed into assenting to the dowager’s pleas.
But now he’d met Fiona, and life was more vivid. She’d cared so much for her grandmother that she’d gone to enormous extents to reassure her. She cherished history and the past. She wasn’t the only person he’d met interested in the Romans, but she was the very first who expressed such passion.
Love-sick sonnets suddenly made sense. He had a wild urge to throw her on the bed and to ask her to be his wife. It seemed ridiculous he would declare himself her fiancé in public and not in private.
The world had changed these past few days. Fiona had dragged him from his steadfast life, and he couldn’t be more thankful. It was all he could do now to not recite the poetry his tutors had forced him to memorize. It was all he could do to not fall at her feet. His heart thrummed in his chest.
Fiona flashed him a wobbly smile. “Unless perhaps you’ve reconsidered. That would be fine. Most people find archaeology tiresome.”
He squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. “I haven’t reconsidered.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but she soon swerved around and headed toward a small door in the room.
“This way,” she chirped, and he smiled.
Her hands trembled somewhat, and he fought the desire to wrap them in his and reassure her. He brushed some of the snow and ice off and followed her.
She picked up a torch, sucked in a breath of air and flung the door open.
Dim light from her torch flickered over the small room. She lit another lantern, engulfing the room in a warm, cozy light.
He blinked. Pottery sat on thick shelves beside coins and helmets. A mosaic of a woman lay on a large desk beside thick tomes of Roman history in Britain. Gold letters glimmered from the large leather books.
She followed his gaze. “They’re my vice.”
He smiled. “I’m sure they don’t count as one.”
Other ladies of the ton were prone to drinking, smearing slabs of lead paste on their faces so their skin would not betray their enthusiasm for gin. If Fiona’s guilty pleasure lay in reading, he could only praise her.
He scanned the room and gazed at the rows of impeccably cleaned and labeled finds. “This is—amazing.”
“You think?” Fiona’s cheeks pinkened, and he nodded.
“You really found these on the estate?”
“Yes, near the apple orchard. I suppose the castle has been around for centuries, and even if the current building s
tems from the middle ages, the site was inhabited well before then.”
“And I suppose the estate always belonged to people of importance, so it is understandable why the finds would be here.”
She stared at him. “Exactly. Though I would say that every person is of importance; but yes, families with wealth have always lived here.”
“Fascinating.”
“Please—sit.” She pointed at a chair and settled onto a more uncomfortable looking bench.
He sat. His gaze flickered to Fiona, and he imagined her working here, consumed by her dedication to her finds. Her brow would be furrowed and her nose would crinkle in that adorable way.
“I’ve only excavated a portion of the apple orchard. I didn’t want to dig up the trees. One of the older servants told me about some Roman coins someone had discovered there once, and it made me curious whether there was more underneath.” Fiona shrugged, as if her actions were the most natural thing in the world, even though he’d never met another person who’d done anything similar.
“What made you want to discover the finds?”
“I was curious.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s reassuring in a way to know that millions of people have come before me, and that others have been living in this area for generations. And there’s—there’s something magical about touching these objects that no one else has handled for centuries. I like imagining the people they belonged to. And I don’t want their lives to be forgotten. They created this rich, vibrant, beautiful world.”
He nodded and flicked his gaze back to the art and pottery on the shelves. He pondered whether their lives would be considered interesting by the people who would come centuries after them, or whether any items they had would remain in the ground, with no one spurred to examine them more closely.
“There were multiple military defenses in the area. The Romans were in York, and they also had fortresses on Hadrian’s Wall. Everyone said any people there were just soldiers, but they had their families, with their dreams.” Her eyes shone as she spoke, sparkling as if they were visiting another land, inhabited by people in togas who looked different, but perhaps weren’t really all that dissimilar.
His mind wandered to the ton, and to the men and women eager to assert their favorable characteristics by contrasting them with others. They spoke negatively of the people who grabbed the wrong fork at dinner or tilted their soup bowls in the improper direction, but there was more to life than conforming to a pre-established ideal.
Fiona was everything he always should have dreamed of, but never had.
“You’re amazing,” he blurted, and he slammed his teeth onto his tongue before he could also proclaim his love for her.
The woman seemed sufficiently overwhelmed by his previous statement. Her eyelashes swooped up, and her mouth parted.
She gave a nervous laugh and bent her head, so her luscious red curls hung over one of her eyes. A rosy flush grew on her cheeks, and she shook her head.
“I mean it.” Heat prickled the back of his neck, but he continued on. Some things needed to be said, no matter how much they caused his heart to gallop, as if wild horses had taken charge of it. He stumbled from his chair and strode toward her.
Her eyes were wide. They sparkled and shimmered like emeralds, and he settled onto the bench beside her. Only a narrow width separated them, and the space between their faces lessened. He took her hands in his. A flurry of warmth jolted through him at the contact, and he smiled. Everything about her was wonderful. “Fiona Amberly, you are the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.”
“I—”
He smiled. She had no idea how marvelous she was. He stroked her hands and then leaned toward her. Soft lips touched his, and a sweet sigh escaped.
Chapter Seventeen
She was being kissed.
It was ridiculous. Men didn’t go around kissing Fiona. And not handsome men like Percival. Their eyes weren’t supposed to cloud over in something that mirrored desire, and they weren’t supposed to gaze at her in reverence.
Firm lips caressed hers, exploring the shape of her lips with his own. Just as she was getting used to the tender game of sucking and caressing, even as she debated whether she had the courage to stop this blissful sensation, Percival’s tongue stroked her own in a manner so intimate that warmth catapulted through her body, tightening at her most intimate portion.
They’d kissed before, but that had been at the tavern, before a group of strangers. This was real. No one was questioning Percival’s masculinity. If he was kissing her, it was because he wanted to. Her heartbeat raced, and she felt like one of the audacious heroines in the Loretta van Lochen novels. She smiled. The fact was not unpleasant.
Percival drew her nearer to him. No, things were decidedly pleasant. More pleasant than anything she’d ever experienced, and her eyes flickered shut.
She swore she could feel every muscle in his body. She certainly felt his warmth spread over her, even through his robe. Wide shoulders that extended past hers gave her a sense of stability she’d never known she craved, but which she was unwilling to let go.
His morning stubble brushed against her cheeks. The rough texture reminded her that this was not a dream—not some wild fantasy she shouldn’t be having, but completely real. Her breath quickened, and she tightened her grip around him. Percival moaned, a low, deep sound that stirred every portion of her body. Her blood sizzled.
Her whole life centered around the ecstatic sensation of Percival’s lips, Percival’s touch, Percival’s scent. There was nothing more. This was it. This was life. This was what brought havoc and scandal to some of the ton, this is why even the most matronly members had expressed surprise when she had said she had no desire to marry.
They all knew about this. They all adored it.
“Fiona—” Percival’s deep voice was hoarse, and his long fingers gripped her gown. The adjourning door was still open, and it was still winter, but she swore she’d never been so warm in her life.
“One moment.” She staggered to her feet, and he blinked back up at her.
She took unsteady steps toward the door and stared at the opening. It would be easy to escape from it, easy to make Percival leave, but instead she kicked it shut.
They were alone. Her heart crescendoed, and Percival yanked her back to him. Her long dress swished against the chair, and he pulled her into his arms. She was sitting on a man’s lap. She, Fiona Amberly, had abandoned all propriety.
“Is this fine?” He brushed his hands over her back. His scent filled the small space, and she closed her eyes, allowing the smell of pine needles and cotton to waft over her. He stroked her cheek bone, finding fascination in her face that she did not believe possible, and his hands moved toward her hair. “I’ve dreamed about submerging myself in these locks.”
He peered at her. His eyes were wide, their gaze soft, and she stared at the flecks of gold that danced with the deep blue color. He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his burly arms around her. She pressed her body against his, her heart relaxing its frantic pace as it became soothed by the man’s presence. Warmth emanated from him. Perhaps she’d never been in such a position before, and perhaps being alone with a man like this was everything her former governesses would have warned her against, but right now all she could concentrate on was the delicious manner in which he held her.
His hand cupped her jaw, and his thumb rubbed against her cheek. His eyes didn’t waver from her face, and his lips parted in something that resembled awe. “I wanted to do this yesterday.”
His voice was hoarse, and she blinked back at him. Words vanished, and all she concentrated on was the sweetness of his presence. She’d never expected to find herself on a man’s lap. Grandmother was down the hall, and the servants were working, oblivious to the fact everything in her life had changed.
His head tilted, and she barely had time to gasp before they were once again kissing.
“You’re astonishing.” The words flew from him, and Fiona w
aited for him to withdraw them. She waited for his cheeks to tinge pink, and she waited for him to avert his eyes. She waited for him to inhale his breath, and she waited for him to quickly add a “but.”
Yet no rebuttal, no modification ever came. Instead he continued to fix his gaze on her, and when a small giggle escaped her, because Lord, what else could she do in the face of so much seriousness, his lips rose.
“I mean it!” he said.
“But—” She paused. He was supposed to give the rebuttal, not her.
He smiled again and stroked her hair. “No more speaking.”
Happiness spread through her, starting slowly, but then leaping on to an ever quicker pace, until she was practically grinning at him. She must look a fright, but he only returned her grin, mirth shining through his deep blue eyes.
“You could have anyone.”
“You have a good impression of my masculine charms.” Percival leaned toward her, and his hot breath brushed against the lobe of her ear.
She tried to smile back. His eyes were soft, almost in wonder, and she exhaled. Maybe she could believe him. Maybe this was indeed all real.
Though didn’t a man compliment a woman in any seduction? Wasn’t that what made it a seduction? Reality would come this evening, after the ball, when he returned to London. To marry the woman he was supposed to be with.
Guilt ratcheted through her, and she clung to his arms. She told herself that this was fine. He hadn’t met the woman yet, they weren’t formally engaged, and goodness, he was a man, and wasn’t this just what they did?
She should be forcing him out, telling the servants, or just leaving herself. And yet—perhaps this would be her only experience with a man? Perhaps this was it?
He stroked her cheek, and her eyes flickered shut. She couldn’t leave.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and her heartbeat ratcheted up.
His hands glided against her, stroking her firmly. She looped her arm around him. Her fingers explored his hair, and then she moved downward to the solid planes of his muscular back. Like her, he’d only worn a robe, and the thin material left little to her imagination.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 44