Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

She acceded to Maggie’s attentions, as the servant struggled to summon up how best to arrange Fiona’s hair.

  “Now your sister used to prefer to sweep her hair up, but with your lovely locks, I think it might be nice to display your hair more.”

  Fiona scrunched her eyebrows together. Her locks weren’t lovely.

  Maggie pursed her lips, twisting and pinning her hair.

  “Can I see?”

  “When you’re dressed.” The maid picked up the vibrant dress and assisted Fiona into it, fussing over the clasps and folds, and then painting Fiona’s face.

  Finally, Maggie beamed. “All set.”

  Firm hands guided Fiona to the gilded mirror, and she prepared herself for the worst. She would look absurd. A crow forced to adorn itself with the feathers of a peacock. Outrageous.

  And yet—

  She didn’t appear outlandish. There was nothing ludicrous about her appearance. In fact, it even appeared . . . appealing.

  The emerald fabric of the dress enhanced the green of her eyes and complemented her auburn hair. Her normal grey clothes had cast a sickly pallor over her face, and her freckled skin had seemed garish against her somber outfit. But now her freckles only magnified her brilliant coloring. She lifted a hand to her hair, brushing her finger against a carefully arranged curl.

  “I didn’t think I could look like this.”

  “You never tried,” Maggie said. “You look lovely.”

  Fiona dropped her gaze to her dress. The glossy fabric gleamed in the mirror, and curves that she had thought made her body appear bulky looked elegant.

  “Thank you.” Fiona smiled at the mirror, still awe-struck by her appearance.

  “Now go see your young, handsome captain.”

  Fiona hurried downstairs.

  No good risking leaving Percival wandering the castle. When she reached the drawing room, Percival was reclining in an armchair.

  Goodness, he was handsome. He was everything anybody had ever dreamed of. He’d looked nicer than she cared to dwell on before, but now that he was not swathed in a great coat, nor displaying his stained cravat and clothes, the man was magnificent. Evans had evidently laid out clothes for him, and he was attired in silk and velvet. The clothes might be out of fashion, just like her dress, but that didn’t stop the gold in the buttons from accentuating the gold in his hair, and it didn’t stop the blue of the jacket from setting off the blue of his eyes.

  His gaze flickered over her, and for a moment a satisfactory feeling rushed through her, though the man’s eyes soon clouded, and he fixed a haughty smile she distrusted.

  “I trust the accommodations are tolerable?” Her words were stiff and overly formal, more suitable to a conversation with her uncle than to a man she’d spent the past twenty-four hours with.

  He inclined his head in a polite gesture. “Indeed.”

  The smirk did not disappear from his face, as if he knew something she did not.

  Fiona fixed a fierce stare in his direction, though her furious glaring could not remove the manner in which the attractive planes of his face had arranged themselves into a smug expression. “What are you thinking?”

  Percival’s shoulders rose and dropped in a nonchalant fashion. His lips smirked, as if he found her distress amusing. The candlelight shimmered over him, sheathing him in a golden light. “Just enjoying the castle.”

  “Good,” Fiona said uncertainly.

  She’d expected the man to tell her he wanted to leave again, but he seemed content to lounge in the armchair.

  Well. That was good, wasn’t it?

  Fiona swung her gaze, but no one was in the hallway. Grandmother was not a very vigilant chaperone.

  “My . . . er . . . family is coming for dinner tonight.”

  “Your parents?” His words were casual, and she stiffened.

  Her heart raced, and she dropped into the armchair opposite.

  The smug expression on his face vanished immediately, replaced by something resembling worry. Percival’s eyes were wide, and he leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re dead,” she said.

  “Oh.” He leaned back, and his expression sobered. “I’m sorry.”

  She forced herself to laugh. “You didn’t know. It happened a while back.”

  “Both of them?”

  She shifted her legs, tucking them under her chair, and smoothed her dress. The dark green fabric seemed fanciful, the forest color matching the greenery excessively. The satin ribbons gleamed, the bows were too festive, the cut too daring.

  She missed her predictable grey gowns that honored her parents.

  “Forgive me.” Percival’s velvety voice was deep and reassuring.

  She lifted her gaze.

  The man’s blue eyes had darkened, and she squirmed under the intensity of his expression.

  Her eyelashes fluttered down. It had happened so long ago, and it should have stopped being painful, but it wasn’t. Her parents had died, and it was all her fault. Their coach had been driving too quickly, bounding into a boulder that shouldn’t have been there, but which the driver would have seen if he hadn’t been hastening.

  She’d loved Christmas, and her parents had known it. Even though not everyone celebrated the holiday, she’d loved the scent of yule logs, loved the music of the wassailers, even when their voices were imperfect, and she’d loved the mistletoe and holly dangling from every archway in the castle.

  “It was a coach crash,” she said. “It happens all the time. A boulder was in the road, and that’s all it took.”

  She felt his eyes resting on her and looked up.

  “You said a tree was blocking the road yesterday.” Percival’s face was paler than before, not that it hampered the man’s handsomeness.

  “Yes.”

  “You really did just stop the coach to warn us,” Percival said.

  Fiona nodded. “I was surprised when your driver pointed a musket at me.”

  “I see.” Percival shifted his lanky leg and rubbed his hand along the other one.

  The thin material of his pantaloons gleamed under the flames from the red candles that sparkled from rod-iron chandeliers and sconces. The light accentuated his powerful thighs, until the material became loose at one of his knees, and a wooden leg poked from the bottom of his pantaloons.

  “I shouldn’t have pretended to be a highwaywoman,” Fiona said, keeping her voice low. “I panicked when I saw the coach-driver’s musket, and when the shots from the peasants fired, I took advantage of the situation. I wanted the driver’s help in moving the tree. I thought I could explain everything to you in the coach, but when he disappeared, I panicked.”

  “I’m sorry.” Percival’s eyes softened, but then he cleared his throat. “Who’s coming to dinner?”

  “My Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Seymour. He’s a baronet and acts like he owns the home. I suppose once Grandmother dies, he will.”

  “She’s very sick?”

  “Yes.” Fiona said, unsettled by the tenderness in Percival’s voice, and the manner in which his blue eyes rounded, as if he were concerned.

  Sometimes it was all too easy to believe he really was her fiancé. Underneath all the man’s bluster, he was sweet and gentle. She’d been willing to assign every bad quality of the ton to him. His concern for her was real. He understood her. And goodness, perhaps she understood him.

  Just because a man possessed aristocratic features did not mean he didn’t care about others. Percival had suffered. He’d lost his cousin and his leg. He could easily be wallowing at whatever apartment or estate he lived at, but instead he was independent. He traveled by himself, while Fiona, who had the advantage of excellent health, was too timid.

  He was vivacious, easily charming Grandmother. Though Fiona found his symmetrical, sturdy features more fascinating than she cared to admit, it was the man’s other qualities that most enchanted her.

  A pang of sadness thrummed through her, and she shifted in her seat, as if the action migh
t diminish the realization that Percival would never be her fiancé, and if this action was discovered, no man would ever be.

  She straightened her shoulders, and strove to smile, no matter how foreign the gesture felt on her face. “Tell me about your fiancée.”

  Percival pulled his leg back, and his demeanor grew more formal. “She has a high reputation.”

  “Marvelous,” Fiona chirped, sending him another wide smile that she didn’t feel in the slightest. “How brilliant for you.”

  “Er . . . yes.”

  “And I imagine her hair is not red and curly.”

  “It is blonde and straight.” Percival tilted his head, and she averted her eyes from his gaze.

  “Like silk!” Fiona clapped her hands. “That’s the best kind.”

  “So people say.”

  “They’re right.”

  She tried to reflect on something else besides the copious charms of Mrs. Percival-to-be.

  “I haven’t actually met her,” Percival said.

  Fiona’s eyelashes swooped up.

  Carriage wheels scraped against the snow outside, and Fiona groaned. This was too soon. Far too soon.

  Fiona’s heartbeat quickened. She jumped to her feet and smoothed her dress frantically.

  “You look beautiful,” Percival said.

  “Oh.” She dropped her hand and stared at him. A faint tinge pinkened his cheekbones, as if he’d shared rather more than he’d intended, but he did not break his gaze from hers. His jaw was steady, and he nodded. “Green suits you.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice wobbled, and her chest felt far too tight.

  Percival gripped his cane and rose to his feet. “Now tell me, what should I do if they recognize me?”

  “Why would they recognize you?”

  He looked at her strangely. “They’re members of the ton.”

  “But so are ten thousand other people. And you’re from Sussex, and they live in Yorkshire. And you’ve been fighting in the Napoleonic Wars.” She laughed. “Uncle Seymour has definitely not been doing that.”

  “Fiona...” A vein on Percival’s temple throbbed. “I am a duke.”

  “Really?”

  “I told you.” Percival threw his arms up in an exasperated gesture. “I told you last night. I’m the Duke of Alfriston.”

  “But—” Fiona swallowed hard. “I didn’t believe you. I thought that was just something you said to avoid being captured.”

  “I told you the truth.”

  “Oh.” Fiona wound her arms together, holding them in front of her stomach. The hollow pit feeling spread.

  Purposeful steps sounded outside the door.

  She whirled around. “Do you know him?”

  “I—”

  “Do you?”

  Percival’s gaze softened. “No, I don’t.”

  Fiona gave a curt nod and then scurried toward the entrance. She picked up her skirt a fraction of an inch as she sped to the entrance, slowing only when she reached the bottom.

  The front door was open. Cold air swept into the room, and dead leaves fluttered into the hallway. Percival followed her into the room. He strode toward her until her dress brushed against him.

  Her heartbeat raced. His broad shoulders provided a support she had not known she needed, and she longed to lean into him. The touch of his lips against hers was still not forgotten.

  She smiled at Grandmother when she appeared in the room and wished that the contented smile Grandmother cast at Percival and her could be a reason that shouldn’t be relegated to fantasy.

  Uncle Seymour entered the room. Snow clung to his boots, and melting ice splattered onto the floor.

  Fiona bobbed down in a deep curtsy. The man was her uncle, but it always seemed particularly trying to show the man the respect his age and supposed worldliness would expect.

  “Fiona. You appear just the same. Is that an old dress?”

  She smiled. Clearly the man hadn’t remembered she’d been in half-mourning these past years. “You look well.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s because I look after myself. Keeping up with the latest fashion and everything. The ton in London rather demand one take an interest in those things.” Uncle Seymour offered Fiona a polite smile. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you my dear?”

  The smile on Fiona’s face faltered, and she shivered. A warm hand and a scent she was already becoming way too fond of pressed against her. Fiona slammed her lips together. The temptation to lean back into sturdy muscles, to pull firm arms around her, startled her.

  For a moment Fiona imagined that Percival was traveling about the Dales with her, the temperature no longer freezing, with vibrant blossoms and butterflies to accompany them.

  The sound of Uncle Seymour clearing his throat hastened her back from the idyllic, absolutely impossible image of her and Percival enjoying life together.

  “Who is this?” Uncle Seymour raised his eyebrows even higher than they’d been previously, and his eyes narrowed more than Fiona was accustomed to.

  “That, my dear brother,” Grandmother announced, “Is Fiona’s fiancé, Captain Knightley.”

  Percival strode forward. Even in the out-of-fashion dinner attire Evans had found for him, the man was magnificent. He bowed. “I’m ever so delighted to meet you, my lord.”

  “Oh!” Uncle Seymour straightened. His hand flew to his cravat knot, and he shifted his feet, gazing anxiously in the direction of the open door. “My dear wife! Fiona has a fiancé!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aunt Lavinia and Cousin Cecil sauntered into the castle and came to an abrupt halt as they took in Fiona and the narrow distance between Percival and her.

  “My dear girl.” Aunt Lavinia blinked, and her thin hand clutched her heart. She seemed dazed as one of the servants assisted her with removing her cloak. The ruffles on her dress and jewels seemed to overwhelm her bony figure, and her gaze remained fixed on Fiona.

  Fiona curtsied.

  She’d dreamed about a moment like this, and the expressions on her relatives faces clearly showed they thought they might be living in a dream.

  Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia had hinted at a marriage with Cecil frequently, despite the fact that Cecil had never shown any interest in her.

  Cecil clutched a bouquet and lowered the bright flowers over his short, rotund body, a testament to his cook’s good skills. “I . . . er . . . brought these for you.” He glanced at his mother, whose eyes remained wide. He swung his arm to Grandmother. “I meant . . . er . . . you.”

  “That gentleman is Fiona’s fiancé,” Grandmother said happily. She pushed her nose into the flowers. “Divine.”

  Cecil gave her an awkward bow.

  “I’m so happy you managed to pull yourself from London,” Grandmother said.

  Cecil’s smile faltered, as if he did not share her happiness.

  Fiona stifled an urge to laugh. She had nothing against her cousin, but Madeline had confided in her once that Cecil had a habit of frequenting the most adventurous brothels, the kind known to cater to sodomites.

  Fiona hadn’t asked her cousin just how she’d garnered this information, but it had rather quelled any impulse to link her life with Cecil’s in anything more than the occasional family gathering.

  After the requisite small talk, each painful word lessened only by the continued startled glances her aunt, uncle and cousin flickered at Percival, the dinner bell gonged.

  They entered the dining room, and a now-familiar heat surged through Fiona when Percival offered his arm to Fiona, gathering force when she pressed her hand against the crook of the man’s arm. They strode to the dining room and settled into their seats.

  The room was silent, except for the sound of the footman pouring soup into gold-rimmed china bowls. The thick white soup sloshed inside the bowls, visible from Fiona’s chair, and a clink sounded when he placed the bowls on the silver platter.

  Candle lights flickered from cast-iron sconces, flinging long shadows over
the room. Garlands draped from the ceilings, tied with red and gold ribbons. They hung over the swords some ancestor had thought it good to display on the wood-paneled wall. Tonight it was particularly easy to imagine the destruction and terror these weapons must have called when used by some war-minded knight.

  Uncle Seymour glanced at the dark beams that crossed over the ceiling. “What this house needs is some redecorating. Less of this medieval nonsense.”

  Fiona stiffened. She adored this room and all the history within. The house would go to Uncle Seymour when Grandmother died, but that hardly meant he needed to openly discuss the changes. “I find much about the past of interest.”

  “My niece is prone to lauding the delights of rolling around in dirt.” Uncle Seymour directed his gaze toward Percival, chortling.

  The footman placed the soup before them.

  Fiona’s hands tightened over the lace tablecloth, feeling Percival’s gaze rest over her. “Archaeology is not rolling around in dirt.”

  “Why don’t you leave the things in the ground be?” Uncle Seymour clutched a spoon in hand and then dipped it into the soup. “Seems rather ghoulish to pore over the once-used pottery of dead people.”

  Percival cleared his throat, managing to make the simple sound menacing.

  Aunt Lavinia fluttered her hands and nodded to Grandmother. “This is delicious. You have a talented cook.”

  “I have a talented granddaughter as well,” Fiona’s grandmother said, raising her chin. “I find her idea that there’s a Roman palace buried under the apple orchard fascinating.”

  “Because it’s insane.” Uncle Seymour took a hearty slurp of wine.

  “There’s a rumor there’s one near Chichester as well.” Percival tore a piece of bread and slathered it in butter.

  Fiona’s eyebrows darted up, and Percival smiled. Warmth bounded through her chest, and she forced herself to avert her eyes.

  “Hmph!” Uncle Seymour muttered. “Still doesn’t change her macabre tendencies.”

  Fiona squared her shoulders. “I feel, Uncle Seymour, that there is value in learning about the world and about the past.”

  “I feel there’s value in drinking red wine.” Uncle Seymour shrugged and addressed a footman. “Please, fill the glass up.”