Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  PERCIVAL’S LEG ACHED. The ball had been tiring, and he’d spent the past hour on horseback in the frigid winter air, chasing the magistrate, and then finally convincing the man to release Fiona.

  “Ah, it’s you again.” Sir Seymour’s voice boomed. “I thought it might be another doctor. Not that anyone was able to save my mother.”

  “My condolences. She was a kind woman.”

  Sir Sidney’s face tightened. “Indeed. Too kind at times.”

  “I wanted to see your niece.”

  “Gentleman callers at this hour? I shouldn’t allow it.”

  “Please.”

  Sir Seymour sighed. “You don’t believe me. You don’t believe anything bad about her.”

  “Why do you want to demean her? She’s your relative.”

  Sir Seymour shrugged. “I take pride in telling the truth. Perhaps we’d never met before tonight, but my wife did tell me that she’d heard from Her Grace, the Duchess of Belmonte, that their daughter Cordelia was going to marry you.”

  Percival stiffened.

  “I hope my niece knows.”

  “She does.”

  Sir Seymour fixed steely eyes on him. “Hmph. And you wonder why I berate her for her lack of morals.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  Sir Seymour arched his eyebrows up. Finally, he shrugged and picked up a cloak. It was the dark one Fiona had worn when she first met him. “She didn’t want to wear it to the ball. I found a pamphlet in this. The very one I told you about.”

  “You shouldn’t search through her things.”

  “Don’t you want to read it?” Sir Seymour flicked through the pages. “It’s all about capturing men. Isn’t that what you were—captured?”

  “I—”

  “And look, it even has a handy list of the most eligible rakes and rogues. And you’re at the top. Because—shall I read to you?”

  “You mustn’t—”

  Sir Seymour cleared his throat. “No space exists between the body and spirit. If you find an injured man, you find a vulnerable one. No man was more handsome than Percival Carmichael, and now no man is more flawed. He struggles to make it from one end of the ballroom to the other. He’s now a duke, and the prize for his affections cannot be higher, nor can his affections be easier to obtain. Wallflowers, bluestockings, even you can capture him.”

  Percival’s heart stopped. “That was—”

  “Educational?” Sir Seymour smirked. “You probably didn’t realize why your aunt was so eager to marry you off. She’s probably terrified you’ll marry the first woman who pays you attention. Even one who masquerades as a highwaywoman.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me. When did you first find my niece attractive? Because I can assure you, no other man did. Was it after you found out that she had respectable blood coursing through her? Or was it before? When you thought her a common criminal?”

  Percival’s chest constricted, and he rubbed his hand over it. He’d never felt more powerless, not even when the blood had rushed from his leg on the battlefield.

  Everything had been an illusion.

  Fiona, his sweet Fiona, had expertly used him. And why not? The woman was clever. He didn’t know how she’d found out that he’d been traveling near her estate, but clearly she had.

  And the whole ton—did they all see him as this vulnerable? As destroyed? He fought to keep his breath steady. Sir Seymour continued to sneer.

  “I don’t like being contradicted before a vast crowd. You should respect the consideration I’ve shown you.” Sir Seymour tossed the pamphlet to him, and Percival grasped the pages with the automatic reflex of an athlete.

  Percival gazed at the pamphlet, wondering if the well-worn quality derived from careful perusing or could be ascribed to a poorer quality paper. “I need to speak with Fiona.”

  “Truly?” Sir Seymour shook his head. “Clearly you’re as weak as the pamphlet claimed. My niece is in her room. She’s already a ruined woman. You may see her there. I imagine you don’t need directions.”

  Percival flinched and headed toward the steps.

  “I trust even you will not be susceptible enough to fall for her trifling charms again.”

  The pain in his leg had never been more piercing, more searing, yet all he could think about was Fiona.

  A SOUND RAPPED ON THE door, and Fiona sprinted up. She ran her hands over her skin. It felt puffy beneath her touch, and her eyes stung from crying.

  It was Percival.

  Or some semblance of the man.

  His face was stern, and his lips were pressed into a tight, unwavering line. His eyes, usually so vibrant and lively, were replaced with a piercing stare, and she shivered.

  He brushed past her. “My condolences about your grandmother.”

  The words could have belonged to any of her neighbors, any of her servants, any of the local gentry, and she wrapped her arms around the chest.

  “You captured me on purpose.”

  “I—”

  “I’m furious. Or are you going to tell me you’ve never seen this before in your life?” He tossed her a pamphlet.

  She took the pages from his hand. The pamphlet was somewhat crumpled, but she recognized the cheerful prints. “It’s mine.”

  “I see.” His face seemed to crumple. He shook his head, and any emotion that had been there was replaced with the rigid expression of a stranger.

  “My sister gave it to me.”

  “She’s in on it as well?” Percival’s eyes widened and flickered back into a dull glare. “You have a horrid family.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Wait! What?”

  He grasped the doorknob. “I don’t think there’s anything more for me to tell you. You don’t even attempt to hide your contemptibility.”

  “Me? You had me arrested.”

  She glanced toward Grandmother’s room, considering the cold, still body that lay inside. She couldn’t bring herself to think about the ball. She’d been ridiculous, attiring herself in splendid clothes, smiling and chatting with everyone whom she knew she couldn’t trust.

  She clenched her fingers together into fists and forced her eyelashes down. She hadn’t changed her dress yet, had headed straight to Grandmother’s room, and the scarlet color was at odds with the sobriety of the moment. The ruffles, wrinkled from the long coach ride with the magistrate, hung limply from her. “Why are you here?”

  His features hardened, and she laughed. The sound was ugly, but now was not the time for any pleasantry. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know.”

  She stiffened. Against all reason a sliver of her had imagined his presence would ease things, and he could explain away the pains of the night. He would tell her that he hadn’t really seduced her this morning only to call the magistrate to have her arrested before everyone. He would tell her that this morning had meant something.

  Instead he was a stranger. Worse even, for he despised her.

  “You wanted to rake your gaze over my misery?” Her voice was haughty, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “You? The person who told the magistrate that I’m a highwaywoman? The person who made me the talk of the ball, in the most horrible way imaginable?”

  “I—”

  “It’s not your fault. I know. It’s mine.”

  Percival fixed her with a regal glare. “It is.”

  She blinked.

  He strode toward her, as if he had no idea how much he affected her. As if he didn’t know that she longed to bury her face in his wide chest, as if he didn’t know she wanted his arms to pull her close, protecting her from everything in the world. As if he didn’t know how much she adored him—still—even now that he was horrible.

  Her chest tightened. “You’re imaginary.”

  “I am not.”

  “No, but—” She swallowed hard. She didn’t know what had happened to the Percival she once knew. He was gone. Maybe he always had bee
n. “I concocted up a fiancé to please Grandmother. And now she’s dead and I need to prepare things. I need to speak to the doctor and to the staff. I’ll need to move. I don’t have time to talk to you.”

  He continued to approach her.

  Her heart pommeled her ribs, and she lifted her chin. He still appeared to resemble something—more. But she couldn’t trust him. “You had me arrested.”

  “No!”

  “You were the only person who knew I’d taken the jewels. And what is so upsetting about that pamphlet?”

  “You knew about me.”

  “What are you talking about?” She glared at him.

  “You said you’d never heard of me.”

  “I hadn’t.”

  He stared at her.

  She sucked in a deep breath of air. “Look... You come here right after my grandmother dies to insult me?”

  “I—”

  “Because I don’t have time for that,” she interrupted. “Go back to London.”

  “You really didn’t know?”

  She blinked again.

  “Did you read the pamphlet?”

  “Some of it. Those things are too silly to take seriously.”

  “Forgive me,” his voice was hoarse, but she shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She tried to laugh. “You were never real. Not to me.”

  “You’re upset.” Percival swallowed hard. “Let me be a comfort you.”

  She steeled herself from his charm. “We both know just what that ring in your parcel is for, and it has nothing to do with me. Do your duty, be a dutiful duke. I’ll do my duty here.”

  She glanced down at her red ball gown. The silky fabric was garish, and she pressed her arms together, aware of Grandmother’s unending sleep. Fiona lifted her chin. “Please leave.”

  He swiveled, his steps echoing through the hallway, and she stood silent, listening as the steps grew fainter and fainter, listening as she heard him murmur to Evans downstairs, and listening finally at the sound of horses trotting away.

  He was gone, now just as much a dream as when she first described Captain Knightley to Grandmother.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The horses slowed, and the sounds of the city pervaded the carriage. Post horns blared, their honks mingling with the crunch of carriages grinding against cobblestones, and men and women shouted and jabbered outside.

  Only one thought careened through Percival’s mind, usurping the clamor and clatter of the city: he’d lost her. His stomach tightened, and he fought to square his shoulders and relax his face, lest his brother comment again on his misery. He clenched his fingers together and forced his breath to remain calm, for heaven help him, it was all he could do to keep his breaths steady.

  By Zeus, he’d been an absolute fool. He didn’t deserve her. What sort of man stumbled into the room of a woman whose grandmother has just died to accuse her of misdeeds? When he’d only just had her arrested?

  He’d been too willing to believe society’s gossip. He’d been too prideful, on guard of anyone taking advantage of his supposed vulnerabilities. She wasn’t desperate for his money or lifestyle.

  She wasn’t the type of woman to care about dukedoms. Fancy balls meant nothing to her, and long dinners were dismissed as unpleasant. All the things which might have made women chase after him were disadvantages to her.

  He should have been begging her to make her his. Instead he’d only hurt her more.

  She was right. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her.

  His leg throbbed, pain pulsating through it. He shifted in his seat, but no position could ease the straining of his heart.

  Ten years of being a rake, yet he’d lost his composure with this woman. She’d shattered all his pre-conceptions. She’d been braver, more intelligent, and more passionate than the ladies of the ton with whom he’d been familiar, and he’d claimed her for his own.

  He closed his eyes as the memory rose of the day before, of soft curves pressed against him, of a woman unperturbed by his wooden leg. He directed his gaze at the offending appendage.

  Maybe it wasn’t his injury that had made her oust him from her side. Maybe she’d simply despised London, despised the ton, or found his company tiresome. Clearly it didn’t matter—she was gone from his life. She’d made it clear that this was a time for real family and real friends, and not the ones caught along the way.

  Percival sighed and thrust open the curtains. Tall white buildings flanked both sides of the carriage, and men rode on horses. Top hats perched on their heads, and their great coats spilled over both sides of the horses’ rears.

  It would be difficult to rejoin the ton. The woman had showed him what it was like to truly live, and he wasn’t ready to live the dull, staid, responsible life he should.

  He massaged his fingers over his aching leg. The long drive had done little to ease the pain. Sleep had been a rarity on the journey. They’d spent the night at another tavern, another blasted reminder of Fiona and all the wonder he’d thought he’d gained in his life, only to lose it.

  A bird squawked outside, and Arthur rubbed his eyes. “Good grief, Percival, this is the absolute last time I’ll rescue you. You look appalling.”

  “I feel appalling.”

  “At least you’re honest with yourself. That’s the first step to recovery.”

  Percival scowled, and Arthur heaved a heavy sigh. “Don’t worry, old sport. You’ll be back to your old dastardly self soon enough.”

  He laughed, but Percival did not join in.

  Yesterday at this time he’d had Fiona on his lap, had gazed into the liveliest eyes in the world and dreamed of their lives entwined together.

  Now he sat rigid in an uncomfortable carriage meant to take him to the finest neighborhood in the finest country in the world, and he couldn’t feel more miserable.

  He wrapped his arms together. Fiona’s grandmother had died. Even though war had tried to teach him that the fact a person was there one moment was no guarantee he’d last until the next one, the news still shocked him. Death always did.

  Percival sighed. His brother appeared bleary-eyed; it had been decent of the man to come after him. “I’m sorry for dragging you away from London.”

  Arthur stretched his arms over his head and eased his legs into a new position. “Gives a chance for the chits to miss me.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  Arthur tilted his head at him. The two weren’t prone to discussing much beyond gambling halls and horses. “I prefer widows. They don’t get their hearts broken as easily.” He grinned. “Though married women are even better. They never confess to getting their hearts broken at all.”

  “You’re enjoying being a rake.”

  “It’s the perfect life.” Arthur smiled, but something in his face flickered, and the words lacked his characteristic enthusiasm.

  Percival tilted his head. He was older than Arthur, and by the time his younger brother had mastered talking, and playing without toppling over, Percival had been ushered off to Harrow.

  “What’s Lady Cordelia like?”

  “Feeling romantic?” Arthur winked.

  “Hardly,” Percival growled.

  Arthur shrugged. “Impeccable. She’s a Belmonte after all.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “She’s fluent in French, just perfect when you want to take your European tour. And quite knowledgeable about horses, if her brother’s passion for them is any indication.”

  “Splendid,” Percival said, though the thought of dragging his leg around Napoleon’s former empire or buying horses failed to conjure an immediate rush of pleasure.

  “And her watercolors are divine,” Arthur continued. “The dowager was quite raving about them.”

  Percival narrowed his eyes. “Have you even met her?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I met her last season. She’s too proper to have spent time in London when parliament wasn’t in session.”

  Percival considered Lady Cordelia.
Everyone assumed he would propose, and it would be easy to do so. He clutched the package that held the jewels and traced the sharp edges through the velvet bag.

  The coach halted. By Zeus, it would be grand if it were some highwayman. He could use a distraction now. But of course they were in the middle of Mayfair, and the coach had halted at the dowager’s London residence.

  He clambered from the coach, his legs stiff and his heart nowhere prepared for what was to come.

  He only had to climb a few steps before the butler swung the door open.

  “Dearest Percy.” The dowager stretched out her arms to him in an uncharacteristic display of affection, assigning him a nickname he’d never used. Thick ebony taffeta crushed against him, and the dowager peered at him from famed, icy-blue eyes that her generation had lauded as beautiful, but which now appeared simply cold.

  “Aunt Georgiana,” he murmured to his late uncle’s wife, bestowing a similar affection.

  A woman, slightly younger than the dowager and clothed in a tangerine orange dress embellished with frills, regarded them. Her pale blonde hair was tied in a dainty chignon, and she’d pasted a bland smile on her face. She must be the Duchess of Belmonte, his new mother-in-law.

  The dowager fixed a piercing gaze on him, and he sighed.

  “You’re late,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “My nephew would never have been late for an event of such importance.” The dowager stepped away from him and laughed, even though neither of them had said anything in the least bit amusing. She raised her voice. “My delightful nephew managed to get on the wrong mail coach. He slept almost all the way to Edinburgh, before he realized. And then he was held up by all the bad weather.”

  “Indeed,” the duchess said.

  “Quite amusing,” the dowager said. “Clearly he requires a wife.”

  The Duchess of Belmonte’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “All men do.”

  “Indeed.” The dowager arranged her features into something resembling a smile.

  She was gifted at knowing what worked best for appearances. Usually the Duchess of Alfriston excelled at selecting the correct Staffordshire china to match somewhat, but not overly, with the other decor. She flaunted her knowledge of whether it was more appropriate to have the chef cook roast goose or stuffed pig, serve brandy or port. She invited the finest scientists and artists to her soirées and knew just when they’d fallen from favor.