Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “You’re correct.”

  “Then you will marry Lady Cordelia?”

  He turned his head toward the ballroom and then shook his head. “No.”

  The dowager stiffened. “This is a simple task, Percival. If you can’t do even this, how are you supposed to accomplish any of the tasks of the dukedom? Running an estate is not something you should abandon to your estate manager. The incomes of many people depend on you. And with your leg—” She pointed her fan toward it, flashing the item with as much derision as any schoolmaster. “You’ll be under more scrutiny than ever before. It won’t be easy to find another woman for you. You’ve already proved yourself untrustworthy, breaking the understanding—”

  He swiveled, and his heart pattered an unsteady rhythm in his chest. He tightened his grip on his cane. The dainty silver head was more suitable for show than for practicality, and his fingers slid over the rounded dome.

  Losing a leg meant more stress on the other portions of his body, and even standing seemed a challenge now. The candles continued their relentless gleam, dazzling his eyes, and the fire leaped and lurched in the stone fireplace. The heat continued to brush against him, and sweat continued to prickle his clothes.

  The dowager glanced at his cane. “Perhaps you should sit.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shrugged. “Just as long as you resist any urge to fall. You’ve rather disgraced us enough already, and I’m sure Her Grace’s footmen are sufficiently occupied managing this marvelous ball without having to haul you from the floor.”

  In the past he would have suggested they continue their conversation in the courtyard, and in a few moments they might be enjoying the crisp air and remarking on the winter garden and the beauty of the bare branches. He had no desire now to hobble before everyone, and he would endure the heat and the curious glances from the other party-goers.

  Exhaustion struck him. The journey to London had been rough, the coach jostling as it sped over poorly maintained roads. He longed to close his eyes. “There was no understanding.”

  “You were fetching the family jewels. Why you wouldn’t just let a servant do it...” She shook her head. “It’s not like you could be any help to protect them. As evidenced by what happened.”

  He stiffened. Perhaps he had used the jewels as an excuse to escape London. He was tired of the false sympathy from the other members of the ton. Their condolences seemed often mixed with the glee of seeing the man who had soared to a position of prominence so suddenly with so few qualifications to redeem him.

  “You’re tired,” the dowager said, her voice lowered to a mollifying note. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll go to Her Grace and explain the misunderstanding. I’m sure you really meant to propose, but you were simply overwhelmed by Lady Cordelia’s undeniable beauty and charm and overly conscious of your lack of a second leg.”

  “I—”

  The dowager’s lips spread into a smile, one he recognized from his childhood. “It will be fine. You can go home and rest. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring you here in your position.”

  “You mustn’t speak with her. My mind is determined. Let us depart.”

  “But—”

  This time he smiled. “The Duchess of Belmonte might find our presence unwelcome.”

  The dowager slammed her fan shut, and her hand tightened around the grandiose material. “Very well. But do not believe me to be the least bit content.”

  “No.” He sighed. “You’re right. I will depart now, and if you choose to remain here, you may naturally do so. But I am not going to marry Lady Cordelia, and you need not arrange any other wife.”

  “Are you saying you have someone else in mind?” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “Because a wife is of the utmost importance if you desire to be a good duke, as you claim. I’m sure I needn’t explain the usefulness of a wife in procuring legitimate children. Your cousin did not die in order to see the estate divided or given to a person even less lacking in merits than you.”

  The image of Fiona flitted before his mind. The woman was warm and amusing and of more intelligence than even the much-lauded Lady Cordelia.

  But she’d never sought to be a wife. She’d stated the fact to him, and well, he had to believe that. Fiona struggled to attend one provincial ball. She wouldn’t have any desire to manage a household and host her own balls. She’d pretended to be a highwaywoman, for goodness’ sake. She was suited for a life that consisted of digging up old ruins and avoiding high society.

  He bowed his head. “I have no one in mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Fiona had pushed her colored dresses further into her wardrobe and shifted her attire to black. The servants removed the Christmas adornments, and bare walls surrounded her. The period reminded her of when her parents had died, except now Grandmother could not console her.

  Grandmother’s body was buried. Fiona hadn’t been permitted to attend the funeral, but she’d heard servants muse of the blessing that Grandmother’s death had preceded any possibility of her learning of Fiona’s disgrace.

  Perhaps the gossips were justified, though Fiona would have gladly accepted any discomfit or embarrassment, were Grandmother only to have lived a little while longer.

  The magistrate never imprisoned her. She’d received a stern warning instead.

  She deserved to be punished. Had her family not had a reasonably good name, she would have experienced a harsher penalty.

  Graeme did appear, telling her it was a crime she was allowed to roam the countryside still. He did return Ned to her though he didn’t explain what had compelled him to return the animal.

  Fiona did not press him.

  She reminded herself that Percival was a distant memory, an aberration in her life. Yet even though five months had passed since Grandmother’s death, even though more snow had fallen, only to now melt, she could not forget him in the least. The crisp white snow of winter, followed by the pummeling of rain and hail in spring, had finally lulled. Bluebells pushed from the ground and cheerfully spread their vibrant blossoms.

  In vain she reminded herself those three days in his company should not feel longer and more real than anything else in her lifetime.

  Percival had been a fantasy. She’d told him, and he’d left, and that was that.

  She stared at her rows of trunks. Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia were moving in tomorrow. Their current manor house was pleasant, but not a castle, and Uncle Seymour had said he’d postponed his inheritance long enough.

  “I’ll send a footman to help you with your cases, Miss Amberly,” Evans said. “It will be strange without you.”

  She gave the butler a tight smile.

  She’d miss him. She’d miss everyone. Soon she would move in with Rosamund. She pressed her lips together. Living in the midst of her sister’s marital bliss was not Fiona’s vision of happiness. Not when a similar happiness would always be denied her.

  “Everyone’s dying,” Evans said, uncharacteristically talkative, perhaps moved by the fact they would rarely see each other again. “So tragic.”

  “Someone else died?”

  Instantly she thought of Percival, and she struggled to remind herself that it would be highly unlikely for her butler to be musing about a man he hadn’t seen in months. Her heart hammered.

  “Lord Mulbourne is dead. I would have thought you would have—” He paused and shifted his feet, and his cheeks darkened. “Forgive me. I don’t believe there’s been a formal announcement yet. Word spread through the servants.”

  The man didn’t need to say that he thought Madeline would have informed Fiona herself. Her shoulders shrank together. She hated this conflict between her and her cousin. “How horrible. He wasn’t even that old.”

  “Ah, yes. There was something sordid about the whole business. Rumors are swirling about. But who’s to say? He wasn’t young either.” Evans shook his head in a somber motion suited to his profession. “His wife is so pretty and never had a child.”


  A hollow pit formed in her stomach. Madeline was a widow. They hadn’t always gotten along, but Madeline didn’t deserve to have her husband snatched from her. No one deserved that.

  Fiona couldn’t imagine the anguish she’d feel if Percival died. And he wasn’t even... She drew in a sharp breath. “Thank you. You were right to tell me.”

  She’d been a fool these past few years. An absolute fool.

  She headed outside and trudged through the thick grass that swayed under the slight breeze. She lifted her skirts and proceeded into the ever denser area. Lambs leaped and played in the adjoining field, and birds chirped from trees. The sun shone in full force, and she slid her head up to bask in the warmth.

  Madeline’s manor house adjoined the property. She’d avoided seeing her for months, too humiliated after the ball. Madeline had called on her after Grandmother’s death, but their exchange had been limited to platitudes.

  Now she needed to speak to her cousin. Fiona had spent so long decrying the ton. But she’d been as narrow-minded and quick to judge as everyone else. Fiona was tired of keeping to herself and assuming the worst of people.

  The Dales were at their finest now. The once-white, once-brown hills were green, and lavender and blue flowers dotted the steep slopes. A blue sky spread over the arching hills and smatterings of trees; no clouds marred the horizon, though athletic birds dipped and swirled above.

  It was late afternoon, and some children shouted with glee, apparently amused by the prospect of rolling down the hill, something which they were already putting into practice. Fiona hesitated for a moment, and then pushed further over the trail, until, five miles later, she reached the elaborate manor house.

  She sucked in a deep breath. The last time she’d approached these steps, Percival had been at her side. She could almost feel the coarse wool of his great coat beneath her fingers. Her chest tightened, but she continued up the steps.

  Madeline’s butler widened his eyes when he saw her, and he led her to the drawing room.

  The manor house was impeccable. More paintings than ever lined the rich garnet walls, their gold frames sparkling.

  Elegance soared through the manor house. Roses arched from opulent vases. At one time Fiona might have been intimidated, but instead she waited for Madeline to arrive.

  Her cousin’s face was tight, and Madeline’s golden hair was arranged in a rigid knot. The vibrant frocks her cousin favored, oft-embellished with lace and satin ruffles, were replaced with a dull ebony dress that drained her face of color.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Fiona said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Madeline nodded. “Thank you.”

  The words were trite, and Fiona flickered her gaze to Madeline’s strained face.

  A maid arrived with tea, and Madeline’s shoulders remained rigid as the maid placed the gleaming silver cake stand on the lace table cloth.

  “I only just learned,” Fiona said.

  Madeline shrugged. “He died two days ago. The paper hasn’t printed anything yet.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Madeline tensed, but her voice was calm when she spoke. “He was in London.”

  Had they possessed more semblance of a family relationship, Fiona would have learned right away. Yet Madeline hadn’t sought Fiona for comfort, and for the first time, Fiona despised this. They were cousins and neighbors. They should share more.

  Perhaps she might never see Percival again, but he’d taught her not to make quick judgments. Just because a man was handsome did not mean that he took advantage of it, nor that he’d always lived a comfortable life.

  Madeline should not be seen as less worthy because she interested herself in fashion. Perhaps some of her snide comments might be excused. Fiona had been so willing to see signs of Madeline’s untrustworthiness, she should not be surprised when that was what she’d found.

  Madeline had never truly harmed her, only contributed to the gossip of the other girls during their season, leaving her betrayed when Madeline laughed with others about Fiona’s failure to grasp whether something was fashionable or not or when she spoke too long about the Romans.

  Perhaps in her own way Fiona had acted as childishly as her cousin. She was determined to apologize. She inhaled. “I haven’t been a good cousin.”

  Madeline fixed her perfect blue eyes on her. Fiona stiffened, the motion automatic, but her cousin simply shook her head.

  “I fear I haven’t been either.”

  “I lied about Captain Knightley,” Fiona said. “He didn’t exist.”

  “I never thought he did.”

  Fiona tensed.

  “Until you arrived at the ball,” Madeline said. “Then he seemed rather alive. Not quite a figment of your imagination.”

  “I’m sorry for ruining your ball.”

  “Oh, I think you made it quite memorable for people.” Madeline smiled. “That’s a good thing, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  Madeline tilted her head. “So I’ve been so curious—how did you manage to find a duke willing to masquerade as your fiancé?”

  Fiona shrugged. “He was scared of my knife.”

  Madeline giggled, and Fiona joined in.

  “So all that time he was saying nice things, he was forced to say them.” Madeline’s eyes were round.

  “But he seemed so genuinely caring,” Fiona said. “After a while. I mean after he stopped escaping. I even offered to release him at one point, and he didn’t go.”

  Madeline laughed. “Definitely a foundation for love.”

  Fiona smoothed her fingers over the folds of her dress, hoping her cousin would neglect to notice the tremble of her fingers. “You mean because he pretended to be my fiancé?”

  “Because of how he looked at you. I could tell. All the way on the other side of the ballroom, it was obvious.”

  Fiona shifted her legs. Her heart pattered uncomfortably in her chest. “He was acting.”

  “I don’t think so,” Madeline said. “And he was so desperate, so devastated when you were hauled away.”

  “But he didn’t stop them.” Fiona picked up her cup.

  “He tried to. And if he hadn’t argued so passionately for you . . . Well, Barnaby would like an excuse to prosecute a member of the ton. It would give him the illusion of fairness when he is overly vigilant with all the peasants.”

  Fiona’s hand shook, and she set the cup back on the table.

  “Didn’t you wonder why you never went to prison?”

  “Grandmother died...”

  “If a death in the family was all it took to be released from prison, the cells would be much less full. You’re fortunate the magistrate had a sufficient appreciation for aristocratic order to not contradict the duke’s wishes.”

  “Oh.” She flickered her eyes down.

  “He seemed quite devoted,” Madeline said. “What did he say after?”

  “Many things. But at the end—that he wanted to be there for me. To comfort me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That I never wanted to see him again.” Fiona’s voice was miserable.

  Madeline’s eyelashes flickered up. “And that’s what you wanted?”

  “No.” Fiona wrapped her arms around her chest.

  “Then why—”

  “I thought he was being polite.” Anguish racketed through her, and the words resembled a howl.

  Madeline leapt to her side and wrapped her arms around her. The contact was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. Even if they’d stopped being close, they were still cousins.

  “And now he’s married.” Fiona sniffed and tears spilled from her eyes.

  “He’s not married.”

  “He is! He had the ring. I saw it. He was going to propose to Lady Cordelia.”

  “I very much doubt that,” Madeline said. “No engagement has been announced.”

  “Oh.” Fiona ceased her sniffling. She stared at her cousin. Finally, she shook her head. “It doesn’t mat
ter. I ruined things for us.”

  Madeline scrutinized her. “Then you need to stop thinking of him.”

  Fiona nodded, even though the advice was absurd. She’d long ago realized that her thoughts would always include Percival.

  “So I heard that Rosamund is taking you in.,” Madeline said.

  Fiona nodded. “But I want more from life.”

  Madeline tilted her head. “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” The word tumbled out.

  “And what does this more consist of?”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life reading books on how a great civilization lived, when I could be exploring how great my own civilization is. I want to still do archaeology.”

  “Hmph.” Madeline took a long sip of tea. “My dream is to visit Italy.”

  “Truly?” Fiona leaned forward. “I love that dream.”

  “You wish you could still speak with the baron?” Madeline’s smile wobbled.

  Fiona hesitated, but she shook her head. She remembered her cousin’s interest in her project during the ball. “I have an idea.”

  UNCLE SEYMOUR SQUINTED at Fiona as the footmen hauled in trunks, and Aunt Lavinia fluttered her arms around, directing the servants where to place everything. “I expect you are going to beg to stay here.”

  “I’m not.”

  Uncle Seymour’s eyebrows rose, but he then shook his head. “I expect you are going to beg to still dig up the apple orchard.”

  Fiona sighed. This part was more difficult, and she fought to resist her natural inclination. “I’m not.”

  “Oh.” The baronet’s face darkened, as if she’d halted a speech he’d practiced giving. “It doesn’t matter. You still won’t be in our good graces. Not after the way you behaved at the Christmas Ball. You’re mad if you think my dear wife and I will ever forget.”

  “You’ve made that fact clear on other occasions.”

  “Always good to repeat things, that’s what I say,” her uncle mused. “Doesn’t do any harm and always drives the point through. You don’t use a hammer and nail without banging the nail multiple times, no matter how thick and obvious the hammer should be.”