Everything had changed. She wasn’t the same bluestocking, the same wallflower she’d once been. Percival’s charm, his consistent sense of humor in the face of all manner of ills, made her adore him. Life was fuller than she’d ever imagined.
“We needn’t do anything, Fiona. I’m quite willing to postpone any delights until after the wedding. Whatever you want.”
She shook her head firmly. She’d thought for so long she might never even see the man again. She wanted this moment. Her whole body craved him.
She raised her chin. “I choose you over any tradition.”
“Thank God.” He pulled her downward, so that the space between her legs touched his manhood. He rocked her over the tip over it. “Just like that, my dear. Just become used to it. You needn’t do anything more.”
The contact with something hard and firm was spectacular, and he slid her gently over him. “It will hurt less if you’re in control.”
She smiled down at him. His hands rubbed along her thighs, reminding her that he was here, with her, for this moment. She arched down over him, placing her hands on either side of him.
He was inside her. They were joined, and everything in the world was marvelous. Sweat beaded over his muscular chest, and pink tinged his cheeks. Some of his hair clung to his forehead, and she squeezed her hands over the wooden floorboards.
Perhaps she was acting disgracefully, but she’d never been happier in her life.
And then the bliss grew larger, for Percival thrust inside her. She joined him in this new, exciting rhythm. Percival urged her lower still, and he returned his attention to her, capturing her tight peaks in his mouth.
Percival’s eyes glistened. “Fiona. Darling.”
Any coldness she’d experienced had long since disappeared, and she moaned as his hand traveled over her thigh.
The tempo quickened, and their breaths joined. Fire swept through her, and her body shook and quaked. Percival grasped hold of her. And then he was shaking beneath her, filling her with his seed. She rested her head on his broad width and rubbed her fingers over the smattering of chestnut curls and his own tawny peaks.
This was happiness.
Chapter Thirty-one
Fiona’s breath steadied as she nestled in Percival’s arms. He stroked the arch of her back, seeming to find fascination in its simple curve.
Light streamed through the thin curtains with more force, and rain no longer thundered against the walls of the cottage.
Percival brushed his lips against the corner of her eyes, and his lips moved to her cheeks. ”Fiona, my sweetheart.”
When he pulled her toward him, warmth whirled through her, as if his mere presence was enough to send joy sauntering through every part of her body. She squeezed his hand, tracing the way in which the hairs on his wrist glistened under the light.
“We should leave,” Fiona said regretfully.
“Very well.” He appeared equally reluctant, and Fiona smiled.
They dressed and made their way down the path.
After a short wait, carriage wheels rolled toward them. Fiona forced herself to at least give the appearance of calm, though her heart still seemed to beat a jubilant melody.
“You seem better.” Madeline poked her head from the coach. “Mrs. Rogers is having a baby, and I was going to take you to another doctor. But perhaps you’re fine?”
“Never better,” Percival said.
“Mm-hmm.” Madeline assessed them. “So I’m chaperoning you two?”
Fiona smiled, and Percival linked hands with hers.
“Because I’m not sure I’m doing a good job.” She narrowed her eyes at them. “I like doing a good job.”
“I’m not removing my hand,” Percival said testily.
“Hmph.” Madeline sniffed. “So are you joining us in Italy as well?”
Percival stiffened. His hand was, as promised, still around hers, but it was more rigid than before.
“How long will you be gone?” Percival turned to Fiona. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“As long as we can,” Madeline chirped.
“I don’t want to keep you from your dreams, Fiona,” Percival said, his tone softer than she had ever heard it. “You have brilliant dreams, and I—I have duties.”
“Well, you should probably decide, unless you want to wait until we reach Hull to make your decision,” Madeline said.
Fiona shot her cousin her most confrontational look.
“I’ll wait for you,” Percival said. “Go to Italy. Enjoy yourself.”
Fiona hesitated. She’d spent her life dreaming about the Romans. She’d never expected to go to Italy, and her cousin’s sudden enthusiasm for the trip had spurred her on.
Italy was the very loveliest of dreams.
“My stepfather adores the country,” Percival said, and his voice trembled.
She peered up at him. She knew Percival’s stepfather used to be a sea captain, but he hadn’t spoken much about his family.
“You would have a good time with your cousin,” Percival said.
“I’m not as horrible as people make me out to be,” Madeline added cheerfully.
“Good.” Percival bit his lip. “My leg—it makes traveling more painful. Not that I won’t do it. I just—probably couldn’t do it with as much enthusiasm. Wandering cobble-stoned streets in the rain no longer sounds appealing.”
Fiona squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Percival’s eyes shone, and he pulled her toward him.
For a moment her cousin’s face seemed to crumble, but then her lips arched upward with a swiftness suited to a gifted hostess. “I’m happy for you, Fiona.”
“I’m sorry, Madeline. Perhaps one day—”
Her cousin nodded. “Perhaps. You’ll have a large estate to manage,” Madeline said. “You’ll be meeting many people.”
Fiona tilted her head. She’d never allowed herself to ponder a life so conventional in its form of happiness. She’d always assumed that that life wouldn’t be available to her. She considered her cousin’s warnings. It would be difficult. Yes, she knew that. She hadn’t lived her whole life as a bluestocking and wallflower to not know that finding her way into society would not come naturally.
Worry flickered through his eyes, and his chin jutted out, as if bracing himself to hear the worst.
She looked at Percival and smiled. “I’m not going anywhere,” she repeated. “Except to be at your side.”
He beamed and drew her close, and this time their lips met again. His firm, hot lips pressed against hers, sending a jolt of happiness racketing through her body.
Her cousin cleared her throat noisily. “Let me speak to the driver.”
Fiona laughed softly as Madeline scurried away.
FIONA WAS FIRMLY PART of Percival’s life at Wentworth Place. They’d darted up to Gretna Greene before traveling down to Sussex. He beamed as he contemplated her and turned to Higgins. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how one’s whole life can change because of a fallen tree?”
“Terribly,” Higgins muttered. “Now let me finish here, because I can assure you your visitor will expect you to look your very best.”
Percival’s beam faltered. “Just who is here, Higgins?”
“The dowager duchess herself.”
“She should have sent word of her arrival.”
“I believe she was aspiring for the element of surprise.”
“Well that’s the only thing she will succeed at getting.” Percival grabbed his cane and headed out the door.
“I haven’t finished your hair,” Higgins called after him.
Percival shook his head as he strode down the corridor. “She’ll just have to put up with it.”
He clutched hold of the banister and gingerly made his way down the marble steps to greet the formidable woman pacing the entry.
“Your Grace!” The dowager exclaimed, her gaze flickering to his unwaxed hair.
“How surprising to see you,” he s
aid in his frostiest voice, swooping his torso into a bow.
The dowager curtsied. “I wanted to warn you that I have heard the most horrific rumor.”
“Indeed?”
“But you needn’t worry. I told everyone it was incorrect.”
“And what was the rumor?”
“People are saying that you are married. To a former highwaywoman. The daughter of a county squire.”
“That’s correct.”
The dowager blinked. “Indeed?”
Percival nodded solemnly. “Most definitely.”
“Then you must annul the marriage!”
“Impossible.”
The dowager’s gaze drifted to his leg. “I think in your position, you might be able to convince people of the need. Perhaps if you reference your injury—”
“No.”
“Your masculinity need not suffer. People will understand that you are injured.”
“I love her,” Percival said. “With all my heart.”
“Oh.” The dowager’s gaze flickered down.
Percival sighed. “You have been so helpful to me over these past few months. I’m afraid I haven’t told you how grateful I am. But please, do not worry. I may have never planned to be a duke, but I am committed to being a good one. Your son would have been an excellent one, and it is unjust that he is not here now instead of me.”
The dowager bit her lip.
“I cannot bring him back,” Percival continued. “But I cannot either lead my life imagining what he would have done in my position. You will get to know my wife more, and you will also see her many charms.”
The duchess rubbed a hand though her hair. “Thank you. Perhaps I was foolish to barge in like this.”
Percival shook his head. “You cared. As someone who also now cares about this estate, I can understand and appreciate that.”
The dowager flickered her eyes to the door. “I suppose I should go.”
Percival shook his head. “Nonsense. Not after your long journey. Let me introduce you to my wife. I have a feeling the two of you might get along. She was very fond of her grandmother.”
Epilogue
December 1816
Yorkshire
Fiona hadn’t prepared herself for such joy.
Her life wasn’t supposed to be like this. Any joy was supposed to be reserved for the heroines in Loretta Van Lochen’s romances.
She wasn’t supposed to have married a duke. She was supposed to while away her time in Yorkshire, helping her sister with her child, and reading up on the Romans when she could.
And she might have eventually found contentment doing that. But this—this was more.
Branches of holly spread from vases throughout the bedroom. The scarlet berries countered the silky azurean blankets, gold-framed mirrors, and sumptuous oriental carpets. A large bay window dominated the room, revealing views of the towering Dales, their slopes whitened, glistening under the outside lanterns. The servants had scraped away the snow in preparation for the guests’ arrival.
Most of the year needed to be spent at Wentworth Place, but they were spending Christmas in Yorkshire, at one of Percival’s smaller estates.
Her husband strode into the room. The man was growing increasingly at ease with his cane, and his blue eyes brightened when his gaze found hers. Higgins had clearly managed to convince Percival to allow him to tie one of his more elaborate cravat knots, and her husband was a vision. His black trousers tightened around his muscular thighs, and his chestnut hair glimmered against his black coat.
Warmth never failed to rush through her at the sight of him. “You look like a complete Corinthian, my dear.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment, given your obsession with everything Classical.”
“I’m afraid I must bore you dreadfully.”
“Not bore. Not for one second. You enchant me.” Percival grasped her hands in his, and warmth soared through her. He nodded and lifted his chin, and in that moment he looked every bit as grand as the most impressive statues in the new British Museum. He winked. “Appropriate for the Scarlet Demon.”
She chuckled, but she knew the fact was true. Despite Percival’s once easy dismissal of art, the man enjoyed discussing her finds and the historical significance.
Carriage wheels ground against the frozen cobblestones, and Percival squeezed her hands. “They’re arriving.”
Fiona inhaled. There’d been a time when she’d hidden from the world, seeing each social occasion as an unwanted intrusion and scrutiny into her life.
“Come, sweetheart.” Percival offered her his arm. “We have a ball to attend.”
Fiona slid her fingers against his velvet tailcoat. She tilted up her face, and he brushed his lips against hers. He uttered a moan, or maybe she did.
Percival withdrew and he flickered his gaze to the bed. “I would be quite happy if Evans told the guests we’d both gotten sick and that they should enjoy the festivities without us.”
“That would be most inappropriate.”
“If you insist, sweetheart.” Percival opened the bedroom door, and they exited. “I’m forever being captured by you.”
Fiona giggled. “Our children are going to roll their eyes at you.”
“Children?” Percival swallowed hard.
“Well, the plural might be premature.”
The noise of the ball was louder, and the scent of Christmas grew stronger as they proceeded down the hallway. The servants had draped garlands of greenery over every arch and looped the luscious leaves from the ceiling.
Fiona had spent so many years dreading large celebrations like this, but now she was hosting her own.
She smiled at all the people gathered there. She wanted them all to feel welcome, even the shyer wallflowers, and more awkward bluestockings.
They greeted Arthur, Rosamund and her husband, and a swarm of new people she was enjoying becoming acquainted with.
“Are you perhaps—” Percival ran his hand through his hair. The man’s tongue did not seem to function as well as it normally did, and his gaze lingered again on her stomach.
Fiona laughed. A footman offered Percival and her some appetizers. She sniffed and waved the platter away with a smile.
“Darling.” Percival inhaled. “Can you be—”
“Ah, Fiona.” Uncle Seymour’s voice boomed in her ear. “So . . . er . . . delightful to see you.”
“Uncle.” She smiled and allowed him to kiss her cheek.
Percival still looked somewhat stunned, but he managed to raise his eyebrows.
“My niece, the duchess,” Uncle Seymour continued, his voice maintaining its consistent fortissimo.
“Her uncle, the baronet.” Percival bowed.
“How is Cloudbridge Castle?” Fiona asked.
“Ah, yes!” Uncle Seymour said. “Very nice. You should consider visiting some time.”
“And sleep in the tiny guestroom?” Percival asked.
Uncle Seymour shifted his legs. “No, ah, that won’t be necessary. We—well I could offer my room to you. It would only be proper. It would be an . . . er . . . great honor to see you again.”
Percival’s mouth twitched, and Fiona murmured gratitude for the invitation.
Uncle Seymour took a deep sip of negus. “And . . . er . . . if you happen to still be interested in the apple orchard . . .”
“Oh?” Fiona swiveled her head to him.
Uncle Seymour shifted from side to side, and he rubbed his cravat, rumpling the flourishes. “Well—my wife was reading about your latest discoveries in Chester. It seems lots of people are actually interested in stones that come up from the ground.”
“Ah, yes,” Percival said. “The general population is rather more intelligent than they are often given credit for.”
“Well.” Uncle Seymour coughed. “My wife was curious if you were right and if there might indeed be treasures of some sort in the orchard. And since you’re so famous, it didn’t seem right to bring just anyone
to dig through the garden.”
Fiona had missed Cloudbridge Castle, but she was glad the world now extended beyond the manor house’s constraints. She smiled at her uncle’s hopeful gaze. “I would be honored to work on the project. Though I won’t be doing much digging either.”
“Ah . . . I gather you’ll be bringing in your own crew again,” Uncle Seymour said. “Quite good. We’ve been able to give some of them jobs.”
Fiona nodded. “So I heard.”
“I reckon you’ll be busy with your museum,” Uncle Seymour said.
“Oh, indeed,” Fiona responded. “I have no plans to give that up.”
Italy might be postponed, but one day, certainly, she would make her way there. In the meantime, there was still much to be discovered here.
“Suppose even becoming a duchess couldn’t change you much,” Uncle Seymour sniffed.
Fiona raised her eyebrow, and her uncle’s face reddened. He made his excuses and hastened in the direction of the punch table.
“My dear . . .” Percival didn’t mask the tremble in his voice. “Just what is keeping you from digging around in the ground as well?”
A jolt of happiness surged through her. “Next Christmas, there will be another person here.”
“Sweetheart.” Percival beamed.
She smiled and entwined her hand with his, enjoying the warmth of his palm and the knowledge her life with him was merely beginning.
THANK YOU FOR READING Lords, Snow and Mistletoe. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Fiona and Percival. A Rogue to Avoid continues the Matchmaking for Wallflowers series. Tap here to get it now.
About the Author
BORN IN TEXAS, 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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