Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “No.” Percival shook his head, but Sir Seymour merely chuckled. The baronet curled his lips upward, revealing teeth tainted by likely frequent consumption of sweets.

  “The other method is by ignoring them. Clearly she didn’t do that. Otherwise she would have let you be in the coach.” Sir Seymour chuckled.

  Percival stilled. The horde of elegantly attired people seemed to arch toward him, and he was conscious of the faint fluttering of ladies’ fans. The decorative items’ proclivity toward feathers and dramatic colors did not mask their owners’ open interest in the conversation.

  Sir Seymour turned to his wife. “Now what were the other tricks? It was all most clever. Most clever indeed. Ah ha!” He steepled his fingers. “The other trick was mystifying them—well, there may have been a bit of that. But you know what I truly think she did, the clever minx?”

  Sir Seymour’s wife tugged the man’s arm. “Do you truly think you should be telling him all that?”

  Sir Seymour grinned. “My niece is married. She won’t mind if I reveal all her insights.”

  “But His Grace might not appreciate—”

  “His Grace will appreciate not being married to a calculating madwoman. I think His Grace should be ever so thankful to me.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Percival said.

  Sir Seymour tilted his head. “And still you stand here before me, even though your leg must hurt ever so much.”

  Percival stiffened. The throbbing intensified under the baronet’s fixed stare.

  “The last rule is simple. Capture them! Keep them alone.” Sir Seymour chuckled. “I thought it was a joke myself. I thought surely no one would do that. But didn’t Rosamund give the list to her sister? And didn’t Fiona capture you? And force you to be in her company? Taking you in that tiny sleigh to Harrogate? Only to turn around? The magistrate said she even insisted on spending the night with you.”

  “You shouldn’t speak about your niece like that.” Percival whitened and leaned forward. “I am afraid we are of great risk of being overheard.”

  People tittered behind him. Percival didn’t recognize the people, but he knew they were important gentry in Yorkshire. It wouldn’t be long before word would spread to London, haunting him, haunting Fiona.

  “She’s not here to defend herself,” Percival said. “Don’t speak of family in that way.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call her family.” Sir Seymour shook his head. “Relation perhaps, but I’m going to hope that the relationship remains ever so distant.”

  “I am sure she feels similarly toward you,” Percival said, though he did not put much force in his words. Perhaps Fiona had calculated everything, learned of his trip by some deceitful method, and waylaid the course. Perhaps all the emotion he felt toward her was completely false.

  “It’s a foolish man who does not heed warnings.”

  “She doesn’t desire marriage. She’s not some fresh debutante eager to connect herself with a titled man. She’s content with her work. She’s amazing.” Percival smiled now, eager to distract himself with thoughts of Fiona. Pondering her easily led to smiling.

  “On the contrary, she’s in desperate need of a husband. Once her grandmother dies, she might not have the opportunity to live at Cloudbridge Castle anymore.”

  “Surely you would not force her out! She adores the castle.”

  Sir Seymour sighed. “And yet she is not my daughter, merely my niece, and one who thinks I do not notice when she rolls her eyes at me. I adore my wife. Very much. I’ve no desire to taint the time we have together by having a niece whom neither of us are fond of live with us so she might tear up the beautiful apple orchard.”

  “I am quite fond of apples,” Sir Seymour’s wife added.

  “You see?” Sir Seymour asked. “My hands are tied.”

  “Thank you for informing us. We are most appreciative,” Arthur said. “You can be assured that my brother will have nothing else to do with her.”

  Sir Seymour nodded. “You are quite welcome.” He paused. “My wife is quite fond of Sussex, should you ever see fit to invite—”

  “I doubt we will see you again,” Percival said. “Unless we are at a ball, in which case I would hope that we can put sufficient space between us.”

  “Ah . . . This is most unpleasant business,” Sir Seymour said.

  “Indeed.” Arthur gave a curt bow and dragged Percival toward the exit. Bows had become a more difficult thing in recent months, and Percival did not deign to attempt one before the baron.

  Lead seemed to have replaced his heart, and he strained against the pressing weight constricting his chest. He attempted to force Sir Seymour’s words from his mind, but they kept on returning. The baronet believed them. That much was evident. He believed Percival had been woefully manipulated and that it was his aristocratic duty to warn him about her. And perhaps the man was indeed correct.

  Percival’s shoulders sagged. Perhaps Percival had been too eager to be flattered, too eager to believe a woman existed who might admire him for his own merits, even when that included a leg count that ended in one, and even when that consisted of a woman not knowing, or not believing he was truly a duke.

  He shook his head. He’d been warned there were women everywhere who would be eager to join themselves to his money.

  Perhaps Percival was simply naïve, unsuited for the role of duke. Perhaps it would be unwise for Percival to completely ignore their opinions.

  Even if Sir Seymour lacked gallantry toward his niece, the man was likely held with more than a modicum of respect in his own circles. His own wife seemed pleased with him, which was more than Percival could say for many aristocratic marriages. More than he’d hoped for in his own marriage with Lady Cordelia.

  His brother turned to him. “Let’s go.”

  Percival followed him through the crowd of men and women, their satins and silks gleaming in the flickering light of the eight-hour candles. His wooden leg clicked against the unfamiliar black and white marble floor, and his leg ached as he pushed through the swarm of guests. The faces ranged from sympathetic to curious, but he didn’t want either emotion from these people.

  His hands tightened around his cane. This wasn’t supposed to be his role. He wasn’t supposed to become a duke. He was supposed to live a simpler life, and perhaps the dowager was correct in her ill-masked worry about the fate of the dukedom under his surveillance.

  He’d been so close to giving the ring to Fiona. So close to divulging that he wanted nothing more than to join their lives together, to have her spark and her empathy always by his side.

  His shoulders sagged. He’d been a fool. He should have learned at Waterloo that it was wrong to hope for anything more. He should have learned then that his life should only be focused on fulfilling the dreams of his cousin. Bernard had sacrificed himself for him, and he should not repay that sacrifice a mere six months later by tying himself to a chit who had found herself hauled off to the magistrate’s prison.

  Arthur held the door open for him, and they exited the ballroom. They pulled on their great coats and top hats in silence. The servants eyed them, curiosity visible. He wondered what story they would spread to the downstairs workers.

  Fiona was right to be frightened of the ton. Unless she wasn’t frightened and only wanted to isolate him . . .

  He shook his head. He needed to speak with her. Even now, that’s all he wanted to do.

  “Soon you’ll be with Lady Cordelia, and this will all be in the past. It’s a good thing you wrote,” Arthur said. “Seems like you got yourself embroiled in something quite nasty.”

  “I—”

  Arthur sighed. “Look. You’re my brother. Of course I’m bound to worry about you. But I don’t like the manner in which your eyes soften whenever anyone mentions the woman’s name. And I don’t like how argumentative you were with the baronet.”

  “Is that what you took from the encounter? That I was argumentative?”

  “Weren’t you?” />
  “But he was insulting his own niece.”

  “And you defended her like she really was your lover.”

  Percival stiffened, and Arthur groaned. “By Hades, I was right. She’s your harlot.”

  “Not harlot. I told you.”

  “Only because for some absurd reason you still manage to claim all sorts of respect for the woman, even when she blatantly kidnapped you and proved herself utterly unworthy of any trust.”

  Perhaps Arthur and Sir Seymour were right. Perhaps Fiona was simply a woman who displayed criminal behavior that he was too eager to excuse because something in her appearance appealed to his baser instincts.

  But perhaps again she was more. Perhaps she was everything he longed for, the companion he dreamed that she could be.

  Either way, he was going after her. He was not going to leave her in Yorkshire all alone while he gallivanted off to London to propose to another woman. He knew her too well, and she did not deserve that. He did not deserve that.

  He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life pondering her. The fresh breeze brushed against him. It was chilly, but he didn’t mind.

  A minuet streamed from the manor house. The party-goers were probably once again merrily bouncing up and down to music, as if his life and Fiona’s had never been shattered.

  A horse and rider thundered toward the house.

  “Perhaps the rider is sorry to have missed all the gossip!” Arthur joked.

  “He’s certainly a late arriver.”

  The man leaped from his horse and hastily tied it.

  “Ah, Captain Knightley.” The man waved.

  “Have you got yourself a new name?” Arthur murmured.

  “He must be from Cloudbridge Castle,” Percival said. “What is it?”

  “Is Miss Amberly with you?” the man said.

  “No.” Percival didn’t want to explain that Fiona was at the magistrate’s. He was more eager than ever to get to her. What would her poor grandmother think?

  “Inside?” The man dashed up the stairs.

  “No,” Percival called, and a chill descended on him. “Can I be of assistance?”

  The man halted. “It’s Mrs. Amberly. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  Percival’s shoulders fell. He liked Fiona’s grandmother. “Miss Amberly is in the magistrate’s coach. Can you recognize it?”

  Shock flickered over the man’s face, but he refrained from questioning Percival on the reason for Fiona’s unusual location. “I passed it on the way up here...”

  Percival nodded. “Then see if you can catch up with it again. Explain things to him. And . . . er . . . tell him that the Duke of Alfriston absolutely does not press charges.”

  The man blinked, and Percival shifted. His leg throbbed, and he longed to sit down again. Instead he said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “But—” Arthur was quick to protest, but Percival shook his head solemnly.

  “Do you think she’ll make it?” Percival asked.

  The servant’s face tightened, and Percival did not press the man further.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She was dead.

  Grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. It was impossible. Grandmother had been there Fiona’s whole life, and it wasn’t supposed to end. Not like this. Not without Fiona being there. Not without the doctors giving plenty of warning.

  The magistrate had hauled her from the coach. She’d hoped for a reason to avoid prison, but it hadn’t been this.

  Her back was rigid and her jaw was steady as steel, for she thought if for one second she considered what had happened, that Grandmother would never ever wake up, then she’d collapse completely.

  They’d told her Grandmother was sick, but when she returned to the castle, the servants were sober-faced. They directed her to the drawing room to wait for the doctor, as if she were a guest.

  She’d known then.

  Grandmother lay on her bed, her sheet pulled to her chin, as if she were simply sleeping.

  Fiona plodded her boots over the hardwood floor, and she slowed as she neared the bed, as if the noise might wake her. But that was another thing she need never worry about again.

  Grandmother looked just as she always did.

  This must be a mistake. She turned to a maid. “Are you sure?”

  The maid nodded, and her voice trembled. “Yes, m’lady.”

  Any last hope that had ridiculously hovered in Fiona’s chest was extinguished.

  This wasn’t like the time when Grandmother had declared the silverware lost, and Fiona had found it, right where it had always been. This was final, forever.

  I should have been here.

  She hastened over to the bed. But it didn’t matter how swiftly she was by Grandmother’s side now. When it had counted, when Grandmother had swallowed her last breaths, she hadn’t been there. Rosamund was with her husband’s family, and Fiona, who was supposed to be taking care of Grandmother, had attended the ball of a cousin she didn’t even like, when she didn’t even like balls.

  She’d paraded her supposed fiancé before all the highest society of the region, but for nothing. What did it matter if a few approving glances were cast in Percival’s direction? Her engagement with him was false. She’d been so consumed with trying to impress people that she hadn’t been there for her grandmother’s last moments.

  The only reason she wasn’t in prison now was because her grandmother had died. Any hope of social credibility had vanished, and her name would now be linked with more disparaging laughter and remarks than it ever had been before.

  She stared at Grandmother. Grandmother’s body, she reminded herself. Or even—corpse. The tears that she’d managed to restrain over the long, jostling coach ride finally flooded.

  Even though they’d talked about Grandmother’s impending death, joked about it even, nothing had prepared Fiona for this.

  Grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. She was supposed to live on, sitting in her favorite chair, worrying about Fiona and her sister, and not fussing about herself at all.

  Footsteps sounded from the hallway outside. The door handle turned, and Sir Seymour stepped into the room. He cast a glance at the pale body in the bed, and his face whitened.

  “My poor mother,” he murmured, and the wrench in Fiona’s heart tightened. The man had lost his parent. He’d known she was dying, and Fiona had not made his time visiting pleasant.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He gave her a curt nod. No kindness was in his gaze, and the memory of the evening engulfed her again.

  “We’ll have to talk about your future,” he said, and she stiffened. “I think after tonight it’s clear you can’t live with us.”

  She blinked.

  “You understand?” He scowled.

  “Grandmother isn’t even in the ground...”

  An expression flitted over his face, but he soon firmed his features. “I would like to be alone with her.”

  Sir Seymour’s mother had just died, and Fiona wasn’t permitting him to grieve in peace. Her pain was incomparable to his. “N-naturally.”

  She pushed open the thick door, and this time hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked furiously. Some servants scurried from the hallway when she exited the room, and their thick black frocks disappeared behind a corner.

  She sighed. She didn’t know what she would say to herself either.

  For it wouldn’t be alright. Grandmother was dead, and nothing would return her to her peaceful life. Percival had betrayed her, for a reason which indicated more her lack of morals than his, and her dream of whiling away the rest of her life doing archaeology on the estate was exposed as the fantasy it was.

  Fiona’s throat had evidently malfunctioned, for all attempts to frantically swallow, to dislodge the clay that seemed to have stuck there, failed.

  She glanced around the hallway. Now every object was familiar: the cast-iron doorknobs adorned with stiff, black, molded grapes that seemed poor replicas of the actual fruit, th
e caramel-colored paneling, and the black sconces from which candles perched, dripping wax onto the floor, the color depending on the season.

  Soon it would all be a dream, the vividness fading. She’d struggle to remember the shape of the stiff grapes, if she remembered them at all, and her onetime home would be demoted to vague recollections. She might visit, were she ever to return to Sir Seymour’s good graces, but Aunt Lavinia, who had never lived in the castle before, would be free to make all the changes she desired.

  And Grandmother—dear, sweet Grandmother, was dead. Her chest constricted further, and her legs wobbled as she attempted to walk. She sucked in a deep breath, but the air was thick and stale. The doctor had ordered the curtains shut, and the maids had kept the sooty fireplace going.

  Voices murmured from downstairs. Someone was calling on them. She longed for bed, on the off chance that she might wake from her nightmare.

  Footsteps padded below, and she recognized the characteristic thump of Percival’s wooden leg. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair, but that couldn’t halt the sobs surging from her.

  She didn’t want to see him. The man had gotten her arrested and dragged from the Christmas Ball before everyone. Soon word of her misdeeds would spread throughout the ton. Because of him, she would never live at Cloudbridge Castle again. Because of him, she would never be able to pursue her beloved archaeological project again.

  The very worst of everything was that he’d made her adore him—love him, and nothing could subdue the burning surge of pain.

  Percival’s grim face peeked from the stairs, and rage racketed through her. The man didn’t have the right to act mournful. Not after he’d ruined Fiona’s world. She hurried away.

  Her dress swished against the furniture, and startled servants rushed from her path. She tightened her fingers into sharp fists and strode down the corridor. Once in her room she pulled her arms around herself and begged her body to calm.

  PERCIVAL’S LEG ACHED. The ball had been tiring, and he’d spent the past hour on horseback in the frigid winter air, chasing the magistrate, and then finally convincing the man to release Fiona.