Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  She laughed and turned to Fiona. “I like him.”

  Fiona gave her a wobbly smile.

  “And really, you mustn’t worry about your lack of a leg. I’m sure it’s more common than one might think.” The countess smiled brightly. “We are departing for London tomorrow. Somerville needs to meet with his brothers—they’re such rakes, and I know it does them good to see him.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Quite,” the countess chattered. “They’ll meet at the Duchess of Belmonte’s ball. The Duke of Alfriston will even be there.”

  Percival stiffened and he avoided the countess’s gaze.

  “Why, he’s even missing a leg just like you!” The countess clapped her hands.

  “But you haven’t met?” Percival asked finally.

  “No, no. All a bit mysterious really. He wasn’t supposed to be a duke at all. But then his cousin died—that beastly Bonaparte, and now he’s rich.”

  “Imagine,” Percival said faintly.

  “Life is most mysterious.” The countess smiled. “My poor sister was most worried this morning when she did not see you. It was most charming to see. I thought nothing fazed her.”

  Fiona frowned. “Perhaps we should go.”

  “Let’s leave the lovebirds, darling,” the earl said, and Rosamund joined him.

  Percival exhaled, as the countess glided over the snow, oblivious that she’d just spoken of him.

  Fiona climbed into the sleigh and settled into the seat beside him.

  “But what of your hatred for shopping?”

  She tilted her head. “You didn’t really imagine I would abandon you?”

  He snorted, and warmth spread through his chest. “It would be unlike you.”

  “I aim for not surprising you,” Fiona said, and he laughed.

  “You’re the most surprising woman I ever met,” Percival said.

  Fiona’s eyes widened, and she fiddled with the blanket. Pink tinged her cheekbones.

  The sleigh moved swiftly, the horses not impeded with the heavy weight of a carriage. He shifted in his seat.

  “Your leg?” Fiona asked at once.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  They were silent for a few more minutes. The bells on the horses jingled, and the blanket was a seasonal mixture of red and green, but Fiona did not protest.

  “I brought the jewels and money,” she said.

  “What?” Percival swung his head over to her.

  She nodded. “I thought you might want to make your escape in Harrogate. You should be able to catch a hack easily enough that will take you to a mail or stage coach.”

  “Oh?” Percival tried to compose his features into an innocent expression, but from Fiona’s resigned smile, he hadn’t achieved much success.

  “You needn’t pretend otherwise. You were terribly eager to go shopping in Harrogate.”

  “Perhaps I have a fondness for visiting new tailors.”

  Fiona’s shoulders slumped, and a dull weight pressed against Percival’s chest. “You’re correct. I did plan to take advantage of Harrogate’s connection to London.”

  “Thank you for everything. You were so kind last night. And I’ve—I’ve been horrible to you. Dragging you so far away. I’m so sorry.” Fiona passed him the package.

  He grasped hold of the thin satin material, and pressed against the stones, feeling the familiar shapes. He’d traveled so far to fetch them, had lost them, and now had regained them.

  They weren’t his. They should have belonged to his cousin, and soon would belong to Lady Cordelia, the woman whom the dowager never failed to praise.

  He frowned. “What’s going to happen after I leave?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But your sister, your brother-in-law, your grandmother...”

  “I’ll let them believe in the engagement, and then at some point—” her voice wobbled, and he wondered if she meant after her grandmother’s death, “I will invent a lie, and they’ll think it’s broken off.”

  “But—why are you doing this? You must know it will be more difficult for you to find a husband after you’ve been betrothed before.”

  Engaged women were chaperoned more lightly, and women who were formerly engaged were regarded as spoiled.

  “I won’t ever marry,” Fiona said.

  “But society demands it.”

  “Society demands many things. One needn’t follow it slavishly.”

  “Right.” Percival scrunched his fingers together and thought of Lady Cordelia, his destiny, despite the fact he’d never met her, despite the fact that until a few months before, she’d been his cousin’s destiny.

  “I would love to travel,” Fiona said. “I would love to learn more about the people who lived here before.”

  “And a family? Children?”

  Fiona pressed her lips together. “It’s not to be. Not everything is.”

  He tilted his head to her. “Just why did you leave your season early?”

  Fiona sighed, and her fingers tapped a nervous pattern over the blanket. She glanced up at him, and her eyelashes flickered over her emerald eyes.

  Something in his gaze must have seemed reassuring, for she sighed and gave a short laugh. “I looked forward to it. Before it happened. Before I knew better. I looked forward to wearing pretty dresses and to having men dance with me. Everyone said debuting would be the nicest part of my whole life.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged and wrapped her arms together. “The pretty dresses I wore weren’t considered pretty by the other girls. I suppose I went to the wrong dressmaker. I suppose Grandmother didn’t know any better and I thought they were pretty.”

  “I’m sure you were beautiful,” Percival said.

  Fiona’s eyes widened, and she averted her eyes. He had a sudden urge to pull her toward him.

  “I felt foolish amidst the gossip. I didn’t know the dances well, and the men soon knew better than to ask me to dance. I suppose I was the typical wallflower, except I never bonded with anyone else either. I had considered Madeline a friend, but she was only too happy to gossip about me.”

  “So you left.”

  Fiona nodded. “Grandmother was uncomfortable in London as well. She was older than all the marriage-minded mamas and hadn’t been in London in ages. It was easy to convince her to leave. And though everyone told me that I was ruining my chances, I never really believed them.”

  “I suppose you haven’t had any suitors here?”

  Fiona faltered and then shook her head.

  This time the urge to pull her toward him overwhelmed him. He moved his hand underneath the blanket, and away from any cursory glances from the others.

  Fiona stiffened, but her fingers opened to his. He pressed his hands against hers and entwined their fingers.

  The snow sparkled against the bright blue sky and the still brighter sun. In the distance children played, their gleeful shouts echoing through the valley.

  Soon the sleigh would arrive in Harrogate, and they would never see each other again.

  Percival pressed his fingers more tightly around hers, telling himself that it didn’t matter how well suited Fiona and himself might be.

  She bit her lip. “I had all these ideals, and I’d decided that I had no time for the ton and all the vapid, gossipy women. But I sometimes wonder if I was just as vapid, just as prejudiced, because I certainly didn’t take the time to actually know any of them. And when I see how happy Rosamund is, I feel so foolish for not having tried harder.”

  The sleigh vaulted toward Harrogate. Percival pressed his top hat on his head. The crisp wind swirled beside them, toppling the cloak from Fiona’s head. Her hair lay exposed, and for a moment, Percival simply stared at her auburn curls. The rich color contrasted with the snowy-white landscape behind her, and her locks twisted and turned in the air.

  Her curled locks shouldn’t fascinate him. She shouldn’t fascinate him. Her voice should not
sound like the one of his dreams, and when he closed his eyes, her face should not echo back at him.

  “Everyone said a husband was vital,” Fiona continued, “but I had no desire to be tied to a man like Uncle Seymour. I thought I was doing something noble by not yielding to the pressures of the ton, but really I was just being foolish. Perhaps I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find someone and didn’t want to play a game I was always destined to lose.”

  “Not all men are like your uncle.”

  She turned to him, and her eyes roamed his face. “No.”

  “I suppose it was fortunate that I had my war injury. It made me easier to capture.”

  “Oh, I would have been successful either way. I planned to capture you once I called myself the Scarlet Demon.”

  “Indeed.” Percival’s voice was frosty, a quality he’d practiced at school, surrounded by the other children of aristocrats, all with morals that tended to be low on the ethical spectrum. He crossed his arms and cursed himself for removing her fingers from his own.

  She raised her chin. “If this is about your foot, Percival, you know I don’t care about it.”

  “Excuse me!”

  She sighed. “I mean, of course, I care that you got hurt. Of course that’s dreadful. And of course I wish you did not have to be in so much pain, and that you did not need a cane, and all of that. But no, I did not choose to capture you because you lacked a foot.”

  His mouth tightened.

  “Anyway,” she said. “Once we’re in Harrogate, you can make an excuse and leave. Or not make an excuse, though I’d still rather that the true cause doesn’t reach Grandmother...”

  “I won’t.” His voice softened. “I find it admirable that you are so close to her and I’ve little desire to break that trust.”

  Her smile wobbled. “I’m sure I deserve for that trust to be broken.”

  “You never set out to be a highwaywoman.”

  “I took advantage of the situation.”

  “Perhaps not a completely bad quality.”

  She flickered her eyelashes down, and Percival averted his eyes. Stone houses dotted the landscape, and in the distance the Ripon Cathedral pierced the horizon.

  The fact was agonizingly clear. With Fiona everything was different—truer. The women with whom he’d shared his bed had seemed interchangeable, saying words that had seemed calculated to please him and not reveal anything about their own personalities.

  They remained the beautiful blonde debutante or the experienced widow, and he remained the army officer, the cousin of a noble family, and now the duke. They expected him to act poorly, to not call on them, and to leap into bed with them, and he was ashamed that he had lived up to their lack of expectations.

  “There are coaches near the Minster,” Fiona murmured as the sleigh stopped. “I’ll tell the others that you were called away.”

  “Even though they’ve seen no messenger?” Percival slid from the sleigh and waited for Fiona to disembark.

  Fiona’s face tightened, but she nodded. “I will make an excuse. We won’t be able to take the sleigh into the town center; the snow will not be thick enough for that. But you should be able to find a hack.” She paused and then pointed. “There’s one.”

  He followed her finger. There indeed was a hack. The driver tilted his head. “Cheap rides.”

  “See—”

  Percival sighed.

  Freedom.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve already done.” Fiona’s voice trembled.

  Percival nodded. “You were the greatest highwaywoman a man could ask for.”

  Her face pinkened, and she laughed softly. Her eyes were still sad when he turned to the hack driver. He trudged through the snow, his steps slow and labored. He clutched his cane tightly as it made deep incisions in the snow. When he reached the hack and all its promises of freedom, his heart should have thudded with relief, but instead his chest tightened. He swung his gaze back to Fiona.

  She was behind the others as they looked at fabric through a shop window. Her face was rigid, her spine was straight, and his heart hurt.

  Blast.

  He turned and headed back toward her, making his way through the slushy snow and struggling to maintain his balance.

  “But sir,” the hack driver called behind him, but he waved his hand.

  He strode toward her, and his tongue thickened as he neared her. She wasn’t expecting him.

  Not that he could leave her.

  “Fiona.”

  She spun around, and relief flooded her face. “But—”

  “Let’s go back,” Percival said.

  “But—”

  “We’ll make your grandmother happy. If I’m to be your fiancé, let me at least be a good one. Let’s go to the ball tomorrow. I want to be remembered fondly.”

  “That would be . . . wonderful.” Fiona smiled at him. “But you’re in a rush to go to London.”

  Percival shrugged.

  The dowager would be upset at his continued absence. He would send another note to her. His cheeks warmed at the memory of the passionate note he’d sent earlier, calling Fiona a kidnapper. He would send a note to ease any worries she might have. He needn’t be a slave to society’s desires. Not today. Not tomorrow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The fire cooled, and the flames that leaped and swirled in the medieval fireplace before Percival’s bed vanished, replaced by long strips of garnet and orange that crunched the dark logs.

  His mind shifted to the day previous. The sleigh ride from Harrogate had transformed into sipping chocolate in the Great Hall, chatting with her and her grandmother. Chocolate transformed into listening to wassailers, and another sleigh ride late at night, brightened by the moon and the glimmer of frosted leaves and branches.

  Something sounded on the balcony.

  A bird. Or maybe some nocturnal squirrel, unfazed by the vast piles of snow.

  Fiona.

  His heart leaped at the thought, despite its ridiculousness. A woman might pretend to be a highwaywoman, but that did not mean she scratched on the window of a man’s room.

  And yet he still clambered off the bed, even though rising remained a difficult procedure. He still wrapped a robe over himself and he still headed outside, the sound of the clicking of his wooden foot loud in the morning quiet.

  He unlocked the door and stepped onto the stone balcony.

  Naturally she wasn’t there.

  The thought had been foolish, and he told himself he was relieved. His life was planned, and now was not the time for romance.

  The sun journeyed up the horizon, casting long pink and orange rays over the snow-covered landscape. The sharp slopes glistened bright tangerine colors.

  Everything sparkled, at variance with the dour, rain-clogged Dales he’d anticipated, where the sky and ground would share that same, muddied color.

  Crisp air swept over his hair. Snowflakes continued their descents, but they tumbled slowly, twirling under the growing light, their distinctive shapes fluttering before they settled onto the piles of snow, merging forever.

  Tonight was the ball, and after he would go to London. He would meet his perfect bride, adorn her with the perfect jewels with their perfect history. They would have their perfect children and lead their perfect lives.

  They’d spend the season in London, summer at one of their country estates, and when they had the urge to be exciting, they might descend upon Europe, now the war was over.

  He bit his lip, uncertain if Lady Cordelia favored travel. His knowledge of her was limited to her passion for needle work, though he’d never comprehended the delight for stabbing a piece of cloth repeatedly to form a rigid representation of a flower.

  No matter. The sun clambered up the peaks of the Dales, and he padded farther onto the balcony. Soon uniform white buildings would form his view, their facade only varying with the choice of statue to embellish the home. Apollo or Aphrodite, Zeus or Hera, these were soon to be the large ques
tions.

  Some of the servants exited the castle, clothed in dark coats and wielding large shovels. They tackled the snow, bowing their heads down as they lifted up the white powder and flung it to the side. Eventually dark cobblestones poked through the snow, their presence confirming that there would be no cause to delay his return to London.

  It was foolish to be anything else than grateful he’d return home soon. He shivered, but he couldn’t solely blame the cold.

  A woman like Fiona would never be comfortable on his arm. She’d not even lasted a season when she’d been a debutante.

  A door creaked open, and he froze.

  “Sorry—” Fiona’s voice stammered an apology, and he swiveled around.

  She was in her nightdress, a long flowing gown that should have afforded no view of her person, but which managed to reveal her every curve.

  Or perhaps his thoughts found it natural to dwell on every lustful aspect of her.

  It was easy to linger on the delightful manner in which her ivory skin melded against the satin gleam of her gown. It was easy to ponder the charming caramel-colored freckles which dotted her tiny, upturned nose, and it was easy to be drawn in by the shards of emeralds that posed as her eyes.

  Her body curved appealingly, and his fingers itched to trace the line from her waist to her hips, from the curve of her neck to the slope of her bosom.

  And her hair. By Zeus, her hair.

  The rich auburn strands would feel rougher than the straight, silky locks of the ton he was accustomed to. The only joy there was found in undoing their chignons, though the process usually involved copious amounts of pins.

  His fingers tightened, and he averted his eyes.

  “Sorry!” Fiona repeated, as if she had no idea how the throaty tone of her voice affected him. “I thought no one was here. I like to watch the sun rise.”

  “Then we share an enjoyment of the same pastime.” Percival cursed the sudden hoarseness of his voice.

  She pulled her robe more tightly around her, but it only managed to more clearly reveal the curves of her body.

  Percival forced his gaze away. He tried to focus on pink rays that outlined the now-white hills that had occupied his attention so thoroughly before, but the looping slopes of the Dales that men traveled far to see was no competition to the enticing curves of the woman beside him.