Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  The servant dashed over to Uncle Seymour’s side, appearing rattled that Uncle Seymour had had to ask.

  “I mean how does one get interested in a thing like that?” Aunt Lavinia smiled, even though there was nothing delightful about the manner of her lips’ ascent. “There is much in this world to explore. One need not go searching four feet underground.”

  “Sometimes more,” Fiona murmured, and her uncle tilted his head at her.

  “I find it most enlightening,” Grandmother said.

  “I had enough of learning at Eton.” Uncle Seymour slurped down the rest of his soup.

  A footman removed Uncle Seymour’s bowl and proceeded around the table.

  Percival cleared his throat. “Tell us more about your plans for the apple orchard.”

  “I’m glad she hasn’t bored you with the plans already,” Uncle Seymour said. “But then, why bore one person, when you can bore many?”

  The footman placed the fish course before them.

  Grandmother tilted her head. “But I do not mind.”

  Uncle Seymour smiled. “Because you are a gentle woman, too forgiving of your niece’s most abhorrent inclinations.”

  “Please!” Percival sat up. “I will not permit you to refer to my fiancée in that despicable manner.”

  Uncle Seymour narrowed his eyes at Percival, who met his with the same amount of enthusiasm.

  Fiona’s lips parted. The vision of Percival defending her was everything she’d told herself not to imagine or hope for. Men like him weren’t supposed to come to her rescue. They were supposed to defend dainty damsels, so slender that a whisk of wind or even a careless word might harm them. They weren’t supposed to defend sturdy-looking women like herself whose own impulsivity brought them harm.

  Fiona read books. She knew how things worked.

  But Percival still fixed Uncle Seymour with a firm expression until finally Uncle Seymour pushed his plate away. “Young lovers. Impossible to reason with.”

  Fiona smiled, even though she knew that calling Percival and herself anything resembling lovers was misguided. A jolt of anger swept through Fiona, and her fingers clutched her napkin, tightening it into a hard ball. She’d allowed her uncle to spend too many evenings over too much wine criticizing her. Archaeology was a recent complaint; she’d kept it secret for years.

  The man knew nothing about it—nothing at all—and she would not allow him to lean back in his chair, smile at her smugly, and utter scarcely veiled insults in the small space he didn’t devote to masticating and wine.

  She threw her napkin on the table, ignoring the way everyone’s eyebrows jumped. “Your contempt is almost comical, dear uncle.”

  “Indeed?” Uncle Seymour clutched his goblet with the same vigor one of their ancestors’ may have clutched a battle axe.

  “The estate is sitting on potentially invaluable history.”

  “It’s a grand estate,” Uncle Seymour said dryly, “of course history is attached to it.”

  “But not every grand estate has history that could change the way we think about the Romans.”

  “They’ve been dead for centuries.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Uncle Seymour raised an eyebrow, and a condescending smile appeared on his face.

  “I mean—” Fiona’s tongue thickened, and the temperature of the room seemed to soar. Her heart pounded in her chest, the tempo harder and more rapid than any she was accustomed with.

  This was when she was supposed to apologize. This was when every rule of convention and etiquette books told her she should excuse herself and ask for forgiveness for her foolishness.

  The man was her uncle, and that fact alone should necessitate her respect. He was older, and should be wiser, and he was a baronet. He possessed wealth, where Fiona possessed none. And one day, Uncle Seymour would be moving into Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona would be spending every day and every evening with him, unless he decided it more fitting to send her off to be a governess somewhere, if she didn’t move in with her younger sister.

  And yet Fiona could not hold her tongue and did not even think her inability bad. “Surely you’ve heard of the plans for a British Museum?”

  “I heard it was bloody controversial,” Uncle Seymour said.

  “And yet we’re going to have one, for the public is indeed deeply interested in the ancient Greek sculpture that once were part of a great Parthenon.”

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “Surely you must know that Lord Mulbourne would be completely enthusiastic. He’s a respected art critic. Why, he would find the finding extraordinarily valuable!”

  “Have you discussed this with him?” Uncle Seymour asked.

  “No . . .” Fiona sighed. “But I’m sure he would agree that not digging up the land would be a crime. There’s so much of value that could be underneath it. Items that would explain how a whole culture lived over here. We owe so much to the Romans. I’m not asking you to tear up the house. Only for permission to remove some trees that could be replanted somewhere else.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say so much,” Cecil said. “That’s fascinating.”

  “Here, here.” Percival grinned and clinked glasses with Grandmother.

  Aunt Lavinia shifted in her chair, and Uncle Seymour sent Fiona a thundering glance that might once have affected her, but didn’t now.

  Uncle Seymour exhaled. “Perhaps you’re right and even members of the ton might find some amusement in learning about these people’s antics, but I still cannot believe that digging around in the dirt is a respectable pastime for a lady. The only person I know who has done anything similar is Napoleon in Egypt. And my dear niece, I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to support something that that tiny Corsican ruffian might have appreciated.”

  She stared at him. He’d been disapproving, she’d always expected that, but he hadn’t utterly dismissed her. He’d listened.

  She relaxed her shoulders. “Thomas Jefferson also has done archaeological work.”

  “Colonist.” Aunt Lavinia shrugged.

  “Former colonist,” Percival corrected.

  “That’s not in the man’s favor.” Uncle Seymour shook his whole head with such vigor that his carefully coiffed hair became frazzled.

  The man’s valet would soon be added to the list of people disappointed in Fiona.

  She sighed. “But you will consider the project?”

  “Absolutely not. I will not condone any such venture. Digging up the apple orchard, indeed.”

  “But there might be treasures—”

  Uncle Seymour shook his head. “The past is the past, Fiona. Better to look toward the future. Just like our country is doing. We’re the greatest country in the world, with the fastest growing innovations. It’s a great time to be British, my dear. No need to think about the past. Certainly not about some long-dead Italians.”

  Fiona’s shoulders slumped. It would have been so wonderful, so amazing if Uncle Seymour had truly seen fit to agree to the project.

  The clang and clatter of knives and forks being scraped over the plates pulled her away from her musings. She bit into the fish. Each flake was dry, despite Cook’s liberal use of buttery sauce to embellish it.

  “Did you see the Elysian marbles?” Cecil asked.

  Fiona shook her head. They’d been brought over to London with much fanfare, but Fiona hadn’t received an invitation to see them.

  “Good thing then,” Aunt Lavinia said. “Garish barbaric pieces of stone.”

  “Beautiful carvings of stone,” Percival said.

  Uncle Seymour shrugged. “Don’t see what all the fuss was about. It was a crime that some of the critics reviewed it so highly. An absolute crime.”

  “Some of the Greeks said that it was a crime that they were hauled from the country,” Percival said.

  “Typical thing for the Greeks to say. Still whining now, even though we’ve just saved Europe from ruin.” Uncle Seymour shook his head. “Th
e country has limited its accomplishments to ordinary things for the past two thousand years.”

  Fiona glanced at Percival, who retained a polite smile, though his face was becoming distinctly more flushed.

  Uncle Seymour shook his head firmly and then directed his gaze to Percival. “It’s a wonder that you’re going to marry this woman.”

  Percival set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. “I trust you will not insult my fiancée further.”

  “Well, I—er,” Uncle Seymour stumbled over his words, unaccustomed to having to defend himself.

  Fiona smiled. And then her heart became heavy.

  This amazing man was here, declaring to all her family his place as her fiancé, and none of it was true. Not in the least.

  For as charming as he might be, defending her to her relatives, he was no more hers than a vision was. Less hers in fact, for a vision she could call upon from time to time in her mind. When Percival left, it would be forever, and she’d need to spend the rest of her life explaining to her family how she’d let a magnificent man like him amble away, without admitting that she’d never been able to have him in the first place.

  The necessity of the project soared. The apple orchard belonged to Uncle Seymour, and the man did not want it dug up, even though he’d never expressed a passionate partiality for apples before.

  Once Grandmother died, Uncle Seymour and his wife would move in. She’d been imagining she would be allowed to spend her life occupied with the recording of the objects she discovered in the apple orchard. She’d allowed herself to daydream that she might research the Romans in Britain, in her wilder dreams even contributing papers on the subject, just like a man might do.

  But Uncle Seymour’s opinion had been firm. Her only hope of swaying him now was Lord Mulbourne, and Madeline was not inclined to be agreeable to anything concerning her. If only the baron did not occupy himself so much in London.

  The man was an expert in art, unlike his wife, who seemed to consider herself only an expert in fashion, though she was also unusually gifted in putting other people down, an impressive trait in the gossipy world of the ton.

  “Come now, eat up!” Uncle Seymour said.

  Fiona gazed down at her plate. At some point the footman must have changed it. Dark meat slathered in gravy perched in the center of the plate.

  “Aren’t Rosamund and her new husband supposed to take you to Harrogate tomorrow?” Grandmother sipped her drink and changed the subject.

  “Oh, I despise Harrogate,” Fiona said.

  “Pity,” Grandmother said. “She and her husband are planning to arrive here shortly after dawn.”

  “It’s on the way. They can go without me.” Fiona shrugged. She wouldn’t give Percival an opportunity to escape. The man seemed far too intrigued by the conversation.

  The room was silent. Finally, Percival cleared his throat. “Now tell me, who is Rosamund?”

  Fiona’s heart sped, and her mind raced for an excuse for her supposed fiancé’s question.

  “Her sister.” Uncle Seymour set his knife down and fixed steely eyes on Percival. “How curious you do not know the name of her only sibling.”

  Fiona forced a laugh. “Our romance was very quick, and he’s never met her.”

  “Ah, yes. That Rosamund. I’ve heard many tales of them. Playing with dolls. Having tea parties outside. And going to Harrogate.” A smile flickered across Percival’s face as he said the last word, and his eyes gleamed.

  Dread filled Fiona.

  “I had no idea you were acquainted with such a wide array of females bearing that name.” Uncle Seymour nodded, but his eyes remained narrowed, and his gaze returned to them throughout the evening.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting colored shadows on the floor, and Percival shut the door to his bedroom and made his way down the corridor. His eyes were groggy, and he pulled his frock coat tightly around him.

  He turned his head in the direction of Fiona’s room, but the door remained resolutely shut. She must still be sleeping, and he would be able to catch Fiona’s sister and new husband alone and convince them to take him along with them to Harrogate.

  The floor beams creaked underneath his unsteady steps, but no red-headed woman rushed out to meet him.

  I’ve outwitted her. The realization brought no sense of triumph with it. He’d actually miss this place. I’ll miss her.

  He quickened his pace. He would be able to catch a hack in Harrogate and make his way to a mail or stage coach from there. Soon he would be in London. He wouldn’t have the jewels with him, but those had always been an excuse. Lady Cordelia didn’t need them when he proposed, and he would have a servant send for them, just as he should have done in the beginning. He doubted Fiona would refuse to give them at that point.

  Footsteps padded behind him, and he grinned. Fiona was there. He braced his cane onto the floor and turned his head, but the only person in the hallway was a chamber maid. She gave him a tentative smile, and he nodded at her. His throat dried.

  He was really leaving. He hadn’t needed to wait for his relatives to rescue him discretely after all. Somehow, he’d imagined that Fiona would make some attempt to keep him here. He’d grown accustomed to her spirited motions.

  He grasped hold of the banister and made his way down the stairs, grateful at least that no one was there to see his clumsy motions. He’d never much had a use for banisters before, and now they seemed like the finest invention in the world.

  The entryway was empty, and he heaved open the door to the outside, to freedom.

  “Let me help you with that.” A man who exuded Corinthian charm grasped hold of the handle and grinned more than most people were capable of at any time, much less early in the morning. “You must be my new brother.”

  Percival blinked.

  “Lord Somerville,” the man said, smiling.

  Rosamund’s husband.

  The earl was clothed in a great coat and beaver-skin top hat. Behind him was a black sleigh pulled by white horses. The horses wore red plumes in their headgear, stomping occasionally on the fresh snow, though appearing on the whole quite relaxed at the prospect of journeying atop it.

  “We’re still going to Harrogate?” Percival asked. “Miss Amberly expressed reluctance, but I was hoping I might still join—”

  “Naturally! We’re relatives now. Well, practically.” The earl beamed. “My brothers live near here. It will be grand to have another man join us for cards.”

  “Marvelous,” Percival said, though the word exaggerated his emotional state. For some reason, the thought of leaving failed to fill him with joy. He wouldn’t be lighting any Roman candles.

  “But don’t worry about Miss Amberly,” the earl said. “The women are on their way.”

  Percival blinked. “Your wife?”

  “And Miss Amberly. She insisted on joining. Said you would be sure to want to go. Mrs. Amberly said you would be sleeping, but it seems Miss Amberly was right after all. True love has its power, doesn’t it?” Somerville chuckled.

  Percival rubbed his hand through his hair. “I seem to recall that Miss Amberly despised Harrogate.”

  “Yes, yes. She professes a dislike for shopping. I suppose she couldn’t be parted from you after all. It’s nice to see her so in love. The way she talks about you.” Somerville beamed.

  “Er... Yes.” Percival peered at the entrance to the manor house.

  “Makes me feel like I’m not the only romantic in the world,” Somerville mused. “They’ll be out any moment now. No need to worry.”

  Percival shifted, sinking into the fresh snow.

  The sound of jingles came from the distance. A set of horses pulled another sleigh. This one was painted a cheerful red. The horses’ heads were proudly raised. The sleigh was large with two rows, and a driver occupied one of them.

  “I took the liberty of getting the groom to prepare the sleigh here.” Somerville laughed. “One day
you’ll be arranging all of this.”

  “Right.”

  He’d only just met Somerville, but the weight of the lie pressed on him. Somerville believed he was meeting his new brother-in-law, and in reality he was simply meeting a stranger whom he might one day encounter in London. Somerville didn’t even know Percival’s name.

  The earl eyed him. “Let’s get you into the sleigh, Captain. I’m awfully sorry about what happened to you at Waterloo. It must be a dreadful shame. Such a bother. So near the end too.”

  “I’m making do.”

  Somerville’s words came from a good place, but Percival was tired of making conversation about his injury, and listening to people alternatively bemoan his poor fortune or laud the fact that he’d made it out alive at all, depending on their propensity toward optimism or pessimism.

  But perhaps the problem was with himself, for he seemed equally critical of people who mentioned his leg and of people who avoided mention out of politeness.

  The Napoleonic Wars had brought many soldiers back in various states of wholeness, and Percival was far more fortunate than most of those returning.

  He made his way to the sleigh, tottering over the snow-covered cobblestones. His hand tightened around his cane, and he allowed the earl to help him inside. A thick woolen blanket lay on the seat, representing everything cozy. The driver nodded to him, and he blinked under the bright, blue sky and the bright rays of sun.

  Before long the door to the castle opened. The countess appeared first, and then Fiona. Fiona’s face was tight, but when she spotted him, her shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

  The countess laughed. “Is that your fiancé?”

  Fiona nodded.

  The woman’s eyes sparkled, and she glided toward him.

  “My sister, please let me present my fiancé, Captain Knightley.” Fiona’s face pinkened a charming color, and she thrust her eyelashes downward. “Darling, this is Lady Somerville.”

  “I must admit part of me questioned your existence,” the countess said. “And yet you are here in the flesh.”

  “Mostly,” he replied.

  The countess’s eyebrows flew up, and he pointed to his wooden leg.