Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “You’re just in time to prepare yourself for the winter ball,” the dowager said. “Higgins is upstairs.”

  Right. He rubbed his hand through mussed locks. “How thoughtful of him.”

  “You’re to look your best,” she said sternly.

  “Fortunately the man looks handsome,” the duchess interjected.

  Percival strove to garner enthusiasm. Instead he sighed. “Forgive me. I’m tired. The long coach journey. Perhaps it is best if I do not come tonight.”

  His aunt chuckled, though the sound seemed strained. “Ah, my darling nephew is amusing. The things he says. Of course you will attend, my dear. You mustn’t think you can fool me.” She turned to the other duchess. “The man does like to jest. As if he wasn’t able to sleep in the coach. Why, my nephew cannot wait to meet your daughter!”

  “Yes,” Percival said finally. “My aunt knows me too well.”

  A tightness in the duchess’s jaw eased. “Good.”

  “It will be a pleasure.” Percival bowed and headed up the stairs, grateful for the banister as he pulled himself up the marble staircase, as pain still shot through his leg and heart.

  Higgins, his valet, waited for him at the top of the steps, and he succumbed to the man’s ministrations.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The ball resembled all the other London balls, and Percival steeled his jaw as he wound his way through sumptuously attired people, their faces enhanced by the soft candlelight and the previous toil of their valets and ladies’ maids.

  Laughter from the dance floor wafted toward him. Men and women swirled, and their fingers touched as they formed intricate patterns to the sound of the up-tempo violins. This time he did not regret the loss of his leg. He’d never had less of a desire to dance.

  “You haven’t forgotten the jewels?” The dowager lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “No.”

  She’d asked him when they’d entered the coach, and when they’d departed. He still hadn’t left the gems anywhere.

  “You must propose at once,” she declared. “No time for contemplation.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “And then you’ll be able to devote the whole evening to celebration. Quite in the Christmas spirit.”

  “I should speak with Lady Cordelia.” He would grant his aunt that much. It was ridiculous to find themselves on the verge of marrying without actually having met.

  The dowager’s shoulders relaxed, and he scoured the ballroom, searching for some doe-eyed beauty.

  Balls in London were a rarity at this time of year. Most of the ton had escaped to sprawling country estates they deemed cozy, and anyone left seemed to be at this one. Christmas Day had passed, but garlands dangled from every ceiling, and the aroma of mulled wine still wafted through the room. No one would stop celebrating the season until Twelfth Night.

  A few people directed curious looks at him, and their gazes lingered on his cane and wooden leg. He glowered and did his best impression of a haughty duke, satisfied only when the cheeks of the nosiest guests pinkened in what he hoped was a result of guilt and not just from the culmination of copious imbibing of alcohol.

  He felt someone’s gaze on him, and he turned his head. Likely the elusive Lady Cordelia. Instead his heart tumbled.

  Lord Somerville scowled. Beside him stood a couple gentlemen whom Percival did not recognize, though they seemed to have decided that abhorrence was the favored emotion to direct at him. Their dark coloring and lanky figures resembled Somerville’s. These must be the man’s brothers.

  Percival tightened his grip on his cane, conscious of his deformity under the scrutiny of the Worthings. “One moment.”

  “You desire to speak with them?” The dowager sniffed. “At least they’re titled. But you mustn’t forget—”

  “I won’t.” The ring burned in his pocket.

  Percival wound his way through the clusters of finely attired guests, wondering at the swiftness at which the gossip must have traveled, until he stood before the man who’d once called him a brother.

  Somerville’s frown had not lessened, and the earl lowered his torso in an exaggerated bow. “Your Grace.”

  Percival flinched at the man’s obvious sarcasm.

  “May I present my brothers, Your Grace?” He turned to the swarthiest man. “This is the Marquess of Highgate.”

  “I have heard much about you, Your Grace.”

  Percival gave the marquess a tight, unreturned smile.

  “And this,” Somerville continued, “Is our youngest brother, Sir Miles.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Percival said.

  Somerville nodded. “You might find it extraordinary, but those are actually their true names. Quite unusual.”

  Percival sighed. “I am sorry—”

  Somerville raised his hand. “No need to apologize. I’m a mere earl, after all. Not prone to understanding the ways of the greater aristocrats. I’ll only say that you gave no indication of being under duress. Instead you seemed content in the company of my wife’s sister.”

  “I was happy,” Percival croaked. “Believe me.”

  “You smeared her reputation.”

  Percival’s shoulders slumped. The man was right. Percival had only hurt Fiona. He swallowed hard. “I don’t see the countess.”

  Somerville frowned. “She’s supervising the packing. We’re departing for Yorkshire in the morning. I’m only here now to socialize with my brothers.”

  “Right.” Percival stiffened. He knew when he’d been dismissed. “If you see Miss Amberly, please assure her of my utmost condolences.”

  “How polite,” Somerville said. “To be frank though, she needs rather more than that. And Your Grace, you’re not the person to bestow it.”

  Percival steeled his jaw. He wanted to smooth things over, not worsen them. But clearly the thought was ridiculous. He couldn’t help Fiona. He’d only harmed her.

  He scanned the ballroom.

  “Are you searching for Lady Cordelia?” The marquess tilted his head.

  “Perhaps.”

  “That’s all her mother has spoken about.”

  “Right.” Percival tightened his grasp on his cane, conscious of three pairs of glaring eyes on him.

  “She’s over there.” The marquess extended his hand. “The woman in the gold dress. Not that you would have any difficulty finding her, since she considers herself the most desirable woman in England.”

  “You disagree.” Percival raised his eyebrows, for a moment puzzled by the vehemence of the man’s dislike of her.

  The marquess shrugged. “From what my brother has told me, you will be well suited.”

  “Indeed.” Percival didn’t want to hear any more sarcasm, no matter how much he deserved it. He gave a curt bow and headed in the direction of his fate.

  He observed with a bizarre impartiality that Lady Cordelia was beautiful. No one had exaggerated this woman’s appearance. Her face was as symmetrical as any statue’s, and her eyes appeared as cool.

  “Allow me to introduce you.” The marquess strode to the woman, who gave him a stiff bow from her shoulders. The marquess winked at Percival, and his heart ratcheted as he made his way to them.

  “Lady Cordelia, this is His Grace, the Duke of Alfriston. You might find him most entertaining. He’s in the habit of adopting new names at a whim.”

  “I am sure I will find him enchanting,” Lady Cordelia murmured. Her voice was low, almost sultry, and irritation flashed over the marquess’s face.

  “Splendid,” the marquess said, before disappearing into the throng of finely clad guests.

  “Your Grace.” Lady Cordelia glided toward Percival, every bit the goddess, and when she reached him she curtsied deeply. A diamond necklace sparkled on her chest, and he wondered at the necessity of fetching the jewels for a woman who clearly already possessed priceless ones.

  Her voice was perfect. Calm and contained, and it didn’t shake. Her cheeks were no pinker in his prese
nce. Her gait was poised, her expression serene. She was unperturbed at meeting the man who would become her future husband. She couldn’t be more different from Fiona.

  Good. All the better to forget her.

  He bowed. “I am no longer one for dancing, but perhaps we might find a quiet alcove.”

  Her eyes gleamed, and she nodded her head. His heart heavied as she steered him to a corner of the ballroom. Some wallflowers sat nearby, their gazes focused on the eligible men who ignored them. Lady Cordelia did not acknowledge them.

  “So.” She sat down and smoothed the folds of her elaborate, silky dress. “I heard you had some adventures these past few days. You must regale me.”

  His smile tightened.

  From across the ballroom the dowager gestured to him. She pointed her peacock-feathered fan in a manner she probably considered discreet, even though the green and purple feathers could not be more ostentatious.

  The gold ring burned in his pocket, and he moved his hand there. Lady Cordelia’s lengthy black eyelashes swooped up, and a smile flickered on her perfect rosebud lips.

  The chit likely thought he was about to propose. His heart dropped, an unpleasant sensation, since his stomach also seemed to want to rise. He stiffened his fingers and forced his breath to keep a steady beat.

  Lady Cordelia ran her fingers over a sapphire bracelet. The stones seemed cold, despite their beauty.

  He searched for something, anything to say.

  “I’ve always wondered what a London garden looks like,” Lady Cordelia chirped.

  “Indeed?” He pressed his handkerchief to his lips. The woman might be from Hampshire, but he considered it highly unlikely that Lady Cordelia had never seen a garden in London before.

  She peered at the French windows near them. It would be easy to stroll there, despite the cold. He tilted his head. Did Lady Cordelia think him shy?

  His aunt glanced in his direction with frequency, and he shifted his position on the bench and tried to ignore meeting the gaze of the dowager.

  “Have you had a pleasant time in London?”

  She laughed. “It was dreadful waiting for you to arrive for so long. No one is in London during Christmas. The Serpentine is frozen, Hyde Park is muddy, and even the horses seem unwilling to venture far.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But surely you must know that.”

  “I am familiar.”

  “But there are many wonderful house parties at this time. If one can’t go outside, one wants to at least have an enormous manor house in which to wander.” She hesitated. “My mother mentioned to you that you are welcome in Hampshire.”

  “Ah, yes. That is very gracious of your family.”

  Lady Cordelia beamed. “Splendid.”

  “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to join.”

  “Your Grace?” Lady Cordelia’s voice squeaked.

  “Please forgive me. But I have many duties—”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “I understand. Completely. I am the daughter of a duke.”

  He nodded, and the ring prickled his tightly clutched fist.

  He was supposed to invite Lady Cordelia to stroll around the garden with him, not that his injury would permit him to do anything that conventional. He was supposed to offer her flattery. He was supposed to confess to having promptly fallen in love with her, even though they’d only just met, and he was supposed to slide his family’s ancestral ring over her finger, as if he just happened to carry it with him.

  Except—even though Fiona’s rejection had been adamant, even though he didn’t deserve her anyway, the thought of dropping to one knee before Lady Cordelia and joining their lives forever seemed like betrayal.

  He sighed.

  “Most men are quicker to shower me with compliments,” Lady Cordelia said, her expression rueful.

  “Then you are a fortunate woman.”

  “Yes.” She lifted her nose, and he had the distinct impression she thought him unfamiliar with the practice of conversing.

  Bernard would have proposed to her by now. Even if Fiona had captured him, he would have found a way to escape, whether in Harrogate or even sooner.

  Were he alive, Bernard would be showering her with compliments with the force of a March storm. He would have understood that she would make the perfect duchess. She was the daughter of a duke, and would be the perfect mother for future ones. Her family’s pedigree was even older than the Carmichaels. Her aptitude in French, watercolor and singing already made her ideal.

  “Lady Cordelia...”

  She fixed him with a serene smile, and his heart hammered.

  He was about to say the words which would change everything. Nothing could be the same after this. He sucked in a deep breath of air. “I am afraid I must tell you that I am in no position to marry you.”

  She blinked, and her gaze fell to his wooden leg. “Your wealth and pedigree show you are in the perfect position to marry.”

  He cleared his throat, clear he’d broken all protocol. “Not that you would marry me, if I . . . er . . . asked.”

  “But you’re not going to ask.” Lady Cordelia frowned, but her voice remained unflappable, and her fingers did not tremble.

  “No.” He heaved a sigh. “Please know that I hold you in the highest esteem. You are a beautiful and accomplished woman.”

  The room seemed silent as she appraised him. Her gaze scrutinized his features as if she thought she might uncover some secret about him from the slope of his jaw. She tilted her head. “Is this about your leg?”

  “I fear I would not be able to devote my attentions to you with the consideration you deserve.”

  “I would find it odd if you were to sit here beside me and proclaim your love to me, given that we have only just met.”

  Percival’s shoulders slumped a fraction.

  “I might be able to assist you through society,” Lady Cordelia continued. “The Duchess of Alfriston practically begged my parents for the match to take place. She said you were quite in love with me.”

  “Without ever having met you?” A bitter taste burned Percival’s throat. He thought of the Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlet Sir Seymour had shown him.

  “I hope this does not come from some misguided sense of honor.” She frowned. “I’m rather accustomed to looking the other way.”

  He tilted his head. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Simply that I know that men are hard-working beings. It is understandable and perhaps even to be encouraged if they decide to indulge themselves from time to time.”

  Percival stiffened. The woman was practically his sister’s age. She shouldn’t be speaking such.

  Lady Cordelia smiled, perhaps taking his silence as approval. “I am also an accomplished pianist.”

  “So you can pound keys while I pound whores?”

  “Your Grace!” Lady Cordelia widened the distance between them. Her tranquility was finally ruffled, and she glanced around the room.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  After a pause she shrugged. “I suppose you conform to your roguish reputation. You needn’t apologize for that.”

  “No?”

  She laughed. “Virility is an admirable trait. Everyone says so. They also say that with your looks and mine, our children would not lack in beauty.”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose it’s too much exertion to have a child with unsymmetrical features.”

  “You tease me. Just know that that there were rumors you were at a ball with the daughter of some dead country squire.” She sniffed, as if the fact that Fiona’s father was dead heightened Fiona’s negative reputation.

  “I am sorry you had to hear from someone else.” He sipped his hot drink, and the faint hints of clove and nutmeg reminded him of Fiona. “The rumors are true.”

  “Your behavior indicated that.”

  They were silent, and the cheery sounds of the violin quartet sounded jarring, an improper background to the stilted conversation between Lady Cordelia
and himself.

  “I heard you were kidnapped.”

  “That was a misunderstanding. Why, the woman’s family even lives in a castle.”

  “Indeed? How terribly quaint. I suppose the north is filled with all sorts of curiosities.” Lady Cordelia laughed, though Percival didn’t bother to join her this time.

  Feigning joy was difficult in any situation, but his chest had never felt so hollow. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them, nothing had changed. He didn’t love her, he didn’t think he ever could, and he wouldn’t settle for anything else. Not after he’d met Fiona.

  Percival was not going to propose. Hades himself couldn’t force him to. Not after spending the past few days with the most fascinating woman he’d ever met. It didn’t matter if that same woman had sent him away, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t deserve to beg for her forgiveness.

  He had a conscience, and by Zeus, he was going to listen to it.

  “THE DUCHESS OF BELMONTE told me that you did not propose to her daughter.” The dowager’s voice was firm.

  “Sternness doesn’t suit you, Aunt Georgiana. You should try being happy for a change.”

  “Simply being happy?” The dowager sucked in a deep breath of air and then exhaled loudly. She waved her hand in a frantic motion before her chest and was about to repeat the process when he sighed.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  “So you can rest?” Her gaze swung to the void where his leg should be, and he stiffened. “No. You don’t get to rest. I chose the perfect woman for you, one willing to overlook your flaws.”

  “I don’t want a woman who will overlook my flaws.”

  “Then you don’t want any woman at all.”

  His fists tightened. “I want a woman who will embrace my strengths.”

  She sighed. “My son would never have—”

  Percival’s chest constricted. The wrong Carmichael had died. He knew that. Not that he could do anything about it.

  He raised his eyebrows, and his aunt’s voice wobbled. “On a purely theoretical level though, your cousin was more trained to take on the responsibilities of the dukedom. That’s all I mean.”