“I was just telling Fiona that I was so hoping you might grace us with your presence at this year’s annual Christmas ball.”
Grandmother laughed as they settled into the velvety armchairs that surrounded the table in the Great Hall. “My days of balls are behind me, though Fiona might attend.”
“How splendid.” Madeline clapped her hands together.
Fiona moved a finger to her collar, brushing against her mother’s favorite brooch. “Thank you for inviting me, but I fear I cannot accept the invitation.”
“But dearest!” Grandmother exclaimed.
Fiona stood up, coughing. “I fear I’m getting a cold. You must go, Madeline. I would not want to inflict anything so despicable on my dearest cousin.”
Madeline’s thick eyelashes, far longer and more elegant than Fiona deemed necessary, fluttered downward as she blinked. “I’m sure I do not fear any cold that you might have.”
“Then you are a brave woman, baroness.” Fiona strove to keep her face solemn.
“But you truly should consider attending!” Her cousin leaned forward, and her eyes sparkled. Her voice took on an affable tone at odds with the smug manner she seemed to favor. “I’m sure we can find you an eligible bachelor with whom to dance. Cousin Cecil is attending.”
“Indeed.”
“Why, he shows as little interest for dancing as you do! Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia say it is sure to be an ideal match. He has no title, but not everyone can be sufficiently fortunate to marry a man with one.” She beamed, perhaps contemplating her own accomplishment at acquiring a baron.
Fiona strove to nod politely, thinking it best not to mention that she suspected it was not within Cousin Cecil’s nature to find doing much of anything with a woman appealing.
A maid appeared with tea.
“You must find yourself a husband,” Madeline said. “It is the natural course of things, and your sister is no longer here to keep you company. And the ball will be marvelous. They always are.”
“How delightful.” Grandmother picked up the teapot and poured tea into a cup. “And by then Fiona’s—”
Fiona coughed. Not in the most elegant manner, but she was aiming for loudness, not delicacy.
Madeline moved back a fraction, and Grandmother’s eyebrows jolted up.
“My dearest, you are doing quite poorly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you cough quite like that. It was as if—”
“As if you were trying to emulate a carriage.” Madeline bit into a sweet.
Grandmother fixed her gaze on the baroness. “I wouldn’t have termed it in quite that manner.”
“Oh, yes!” Madeline said. “The kind with multiple horses, and driving on poorly maintained roads. Like in Scotland!”
Fiona’s chest constricted. At this moment she could only hope her grandmother had thoroughly forgotten everything Fiona had ever told her about Captain Knightley. She heaped a generous amount of sugar into her teacup, snatched a silver spoon, and stirred the tea with vigor.
“I might not be well enough for the Christmas ball.” Fiona touched her forehead and ventured another cough.
“My dear!” Grandmother’s hand flickered to her chest, and Fiona cursed the lie. Grandmother worried far too much.
“I mean, I am sure I will eventually recover, but—”
“Splendid!” Madeline nodded. “The ball is not until Christmas Day, and you will have four days during which you might make your recovery.”
“I am wary of risking the health of the other guests.”
“I have the utmost confidence in your health.” Madeline accepted the cup Fiona’s grandmother offered and raised it to her perfectly formed lips. “It would be odd indeed if everyone in Yorkshire were attempting to sound like carriages.”
Fiona gulped her tea. The hot liquid swirled down her throat, and she grabbed the teapot to pour herself more, sloshing tea over the delicate lace tablecloth. Heat prickled the back of her neck, and her hands shook as she sopped up the amber puddle with a napkin.
“And of course,” Madeline’s clear voice continued, “We were also sorry to miss having you last year, and the year before as well. But then I suppose you might find it uncomfortable, now that you’ve reached such an advanced age with no husband—”
Grandmother’s mouth opened, and she seemed more alert than normal.
“I must go.” Fiona leaped up. Perhaps if Fiona hastened, her cousin would follow and then—
“She’s already got one!” Grandmother beamed and selected a sweet. “Next year she’ll be hosting her own festivities.”
Fiona stiffened.
“Excuse me?” Madeline halted, and a knot in Fiona’s stomach hardened. Of all the times for Grandmother to be vocal. Nothing delighted Madeline more than gossip, and her ties to London were strong.
Fiona’s knees wobbled, and she sank back into her chair. If the world were ending, she may as well be comfortable.
“Surely Fiona hasn’t found a husband?” Madeline leaned forward, and a smile played on her lips.
“She has.” Grandmother gave a contented sigh.
Madeline’s smile broadened to an almost unladylike extent. “However did you find a husband?”
“Fiancé.” Fiona’s voice wobbled at the lie. “That’s all.”
“Mm-hmm!” Madeline turned her gaze to the window and the jagged curves of the Dales, scattered with snow. “Who knew it would be so simple to find a fiancé here?”
The landscape seemed rather devoid of any dwellings, much less one belonging to an appropriate husband-to-be.
“He’s . . . er . . . away!” Fiona said.
“I can’t make his acquaintance?” Madeline’s tone was mournful, even though her eyes seemed to sparkle with something very much resembling mirth. “He’s not an officer, is he?”
“That’s it!” Fiona said. “So he’s very much gone.”
Madeline’s perfectly groomed eyebrows arched up. “How astonishing. What’s his name?”
“Um… We’re trying to keep the engagement secret now,” Fiona said. “I hope you can be understanding.”
“So he lacks a name?” Madeline asked, her voice calm, though her lips extended upward briefly, before she hastened to sip her tea. “I look forward to meeting such an extraordinary person.”
Fiona averted her eyes. Her gaze fell on the tea caddy. Dust clung to the mahogany box, and Fiona brushed her finger over the wood. Visitors were not common at Cloudbridge Castle.
“He is said to espouse all the best possible qualities,” Grandmother declared.
“Indeed?” Madeline tilted her head, and for one blissful moment Fiona thought the woman seemed uneasy. The baroness’s eyes soon narrowed. “To think you met someone here, without any assistance. And how unlikely that he should be in possession of such apparent brilliance.”
“Ah, but you forget that Fiona is brilliant herself.” Grandmother’s eyes softened. “I was so concerned about her future and was relieved to find she was engaged all along.”
“Secretly!” Fiona hastened to add. “A secret engagement. In fact, we met in London, during my season.”
“Those two weeks?” Madeline’s eyebrows pushed up.
“Which was why Fiona was so eager to return home,” Grandmother added, but her voice faltered somewhat, and her gaze rested on Fiona too long.
“I see,” Madeline said. “Likely even our grandmother has not had the good fortune of meeting this ideal man.”
Fiona coughed now, and this time the cough felt real.
“Well I am sure that now all the soldiers are being returned home, you will have no more need for discretion.” Madeline smoothed the folds of her dress. A ruby ring sparkled from her finger against the green fabric. “One week. Grandmother will desire the meeting as well. You wouldn’t want her to suspect you invented the man!”
Madeline laughed, and Grandmother joined her after a trace of hesitation that Fiona despised.
Fiona wanted Grandmother to believe what happe
ned three years before hadn’t mattered. She couldn’t stand the thought of Grandmother continuing to worry about her, all the while being visited by doctors with increasing frequency and expense. “He’ll be there!”
“Wonderful.” Her cousin rose.
“I only hope he’ll be able to make his journey over to Yorkshire safely. Perhaps he’ll be delayed—”
“The man’s survived the worst war mankind has ever seen,” Madeline said. “He’ll be fine.”
“I’m so happy for you.” Grandmother’s eyes took on a blissful, dreamy expression, one Fiona knew well, but which she had seen too little of ever since the doctors’ sober news. It was that expression that kept Fiona from admitting that she’d lied last year in a foolish attempt to keep Grandmother from worrying about her future.
Fiona rubbed a hand against her hair, and another curl dropped from her chignon.
“Unless there’s a problem.” Madeline smirked. “Sometimes when men don’t see their betrothed for long periods of time, they find they do not anticipate the meeting with the requisite eagerness. Perhaps—”
Fiona’s lips settled into a firm line. “The captain is devoted and true. He is kind and brave and dashing. He is everything a man should be.”
Madeline offered her a wobbly smile. “Marvelous.”
Fiona raised her chin and struggled to maintain a composed face. She had no desire to suffer humiliation from the ton, but there was no way in which she would allow the truth of her behavior to reach her grandmother. Even if concocting a fiancé might not be specifically warned against in etiquette books, the consequences of being found out would be no doubt distressing.
“Then I will leave.” Madeline’s emerald green skirts swept against the furniture, and she exited the room with as much determination as she had entered it. She paused to glance at the ceiling.
Fiona followed her cousin’s gaze. Shapely goddesses with white wigs and scant attire stared at her. No doubt they would think Fiona repugnant as they perched from their fluffy ivory clouds, their pale, unfreckled skin raised toward the sun. None of them would invent fiancés.
“Really, you should have this restored. There are many treasures here. Aunt Lavinia says when—” Her cousin halted and her cheeks pinkened. “Never mind. I am happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Fiona squeaked.
Anyway. It would be easy.
All she had to do was find a fiancé.
In four days. In the middle of nowhere.
When no man had ever expressed an interest in her before.
How hard would it be to find a man by Monday? She didn’t need to marry the fellow. In fact, he needn’t even attend the ball. He just needed to prove his existence, a feat that would suffice in impressing the others. If she only succeeded in introducing somebody to Grandmother, all would be fine.
Or mostly fine.
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About the Author
Wellesley graduate Bianca Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.
She credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank goodness for blustery downpours.
***
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The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) Page 7