His unwanted thoughts twisted his stomach, and his heart pulsated with the vigor of one of those Russian pianists, pounding the keys into a thrilling melody.
“How was your night?” Fiona smoothed her dress, unaware of the manner in which her hands caused her curves to be emphasized.
He forced his gaze away. “Uncomfortable. I’ve always favored a proper bed to blankets on a floor. But shouldn’t you know that, dearest wife?”
He chided himself at once for teasing her.
For a moment she stiffened, but her expression soon relaxed. Her eyes twinkled, and she brushed a piece of straw from his coat. “I can be so absent-minded.”
A knock rapped on the door.
“Enter.” Fiona’s voice was clear and strong.
Mr. Potter appeared. “The reunited couple, I see.”
“Thank you again for your assistance last night,” Fiona chirped.
“Always eager to help a damsel in distress.” The man did a short bow, and Percival scowled. Fiona seemed utterly oblivious to the man’s interest in her.
“Let’s go, darling wife.” Percival smiled tightly and fought to ignore the sudden heat that flowed through him, when Fiona slipped her fingers under his arm, as naturally as if they truly were married.
“Let me just tip this man.” Fiona removed the bag of coins he’d given her last night and slid one to the man.
Mr. Potter’s eyes rounded. “Thank you, missus.”
Percival’s eyebrows rose a fraction at the woman’s liberal distribution of her newfound money.
“Ready to go? Or do you want to stay longer, dear?” Fiona smiled sweetly at him.
He swept his gaze over the faded furniture and sentimental objects. “I will strive to recover from the sadness of leaving this place.”
“How very brave of you.” Mirth filled her eyes, and her lips spread up.
Percival wished he could put more smiles on her face.
Except that was a ridiculous thought.
Percival’s steps were careful as he followed the man down the rickety stairs, and his brow remained furrowed, his mind consumed with unwanted thoughts.
“Is that our sleigh?” Fiona exclaimed. “How marvelous.”
Percival followed her gaze. Zeus on Olympus.
A bright red sleigh that conjured up thoughts of all things sentimental and romantic sat outside.
The burly chap beamed. “There it is.”
“I’ll send somebody back with it. We won’t be long.” She held up her hand and slid into the sleigh. Her hair glistened under the sunlight.
A rosy flush graced her cheeks, and Percival clenched his hands together. No need for her to see them tremble.
Mr. Potter tilted his head. “I figure you need help.”
“Nonsense.” Percival gritted his teeth and clambered inside, ignoring the sharp pain from his leg. The sleigh was far too small, and he was conscious of the way in which her long skirts brushed against his good leg. His nostrils inhaled that sweet vanilla scent, and he forced his head away rapidly, hoping the warmth rising on his cheeks was not as visible as it felt.
He shouldn’t have kissed her last night. He shouldn’t have been goaded by the comments of the other men. The thought of reliving that ecstasy invaded his mind, and he should be focused on fleeing her, nothing else.
He sighed. At least he might cause her some discomfit. He pulled her closer to him, enjoying the way in which her green eyes widened and her black lashes swooped up, as if she were truly some innocent chit. “This is not so horrible, dearest.”
Mr. Potter waved as they drove off.
“Care to share where we’re going?” Percival whispered.
“I live nearby,” she said.
“I warrant you’re set up in some God-forsaken house.”
“Some people might say that.” Fiona had the indecency to turn her lips up, as if she didn’t recognize his insult.
Percival rubbed his leg. “That blasted floor . . .”
She grabbed the reins from him. “Let me drive.”
“No, I—”
“I’ll want you nice and refreshed.” The woman was matter-of-fact.
“What do you have in store?”
“You’ll find out.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I demand that you declare your plans.”
“That’s all?” She smirked, and her green eyes sparkled.
“And release me!” he stammered. “I demand you release me as well.”
She laughed. “And leave you on this road? You wouldn’t survive very long. You have absolutely no idea where you are.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve traveled throughout the continent!”
“Ah, so has my grandmother.”
“Leading troops!” He scowled
Fiona squirmed. She no longer pointed a knife in his direction, and he supposed he could direct the sleigh in whichever direction.
For some reason, he didn’t want to, and he despised it. Snowflakes fell more rapidly, a curtain of coldness. They fluttered down in thick, decadent shapes, toppling this way and that, oblivious to the havoc they caused.
“I’m not a thief.”
“So you’ve told me,” Percival remarked dryly.
“One year ago I made a mistake.” Fiona’s voice quivered.
“We’ve all made mistakes.”
“My mistake was telling my grandmother and sister that I was engaged.”
“So tell them you’re not engaged.”
The horses rounded a corner.
And then his mouth dropped open.
A huge castle sat in the valley. Snow covered the sloping roof and turrets, but it was impossible to avoid seeing just how fine the place was. Gargoyles perched underneath the gables, and classically beautiful statues dotted the yard.
Everything was immaculate, and everything differed completely from the abode he’d imagined she’d take him to.
If a criminal lived here, it was not someone who’d made his money robbing travelers. By Zeus, maybe she wanted to steal from the place. Except that seemed unlikely since his leg forced him to be an imperfect accomplice. “What is this place?”
“Cloudbridge Castle.” The woman tucked a strand of loose hair over her ear. “I live here.”
“As a—maid?”
“Only the unmarried kind.”
He tilted his head, and her cheeks pinkened.
“I’m an ordinary spinster.”
“Not a criminal.”
She shook her head. “I’m not quite as exciting. My name is Miss Fiona Amberly. Perhaps you’ve heard of my brother-in-law Lord Somerville?”
Percival coughed. “The earl?”
She nodded. “From the Worthing family. His older brother is the Marquess of Highgate.”
Percival rubbed his hand in his hair. “So when you said you wanted to kidnap me and bring me somewhere—”
“I wanted to bring you here.” The woman spoke matter-of-factly, as if what she was doing was completely obvious and self-explanatory, as if loads of women were in the habit of capturing men and dragging them to their castles.
Percival scratched his head and rather feared that all the intelligence his teachers had praised him for at Harrow and Edinburgh had vanished. Because this—this didn’t make sense.
“So this has nothing to do with my position?” Percival spoke slowly.
“Of course it does.”
His head swiveled to her.
“You’re a gentleman. You’ll be very suitable.”
He relaxed his shoulders.
“I would be most appreciative if you could tell them that we are betrothed—”
“You want me to pretend to adore you?”
Chapter Eleven
Percival scowled. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”
“Please though? Could you pretend you didn’t despise me?” Fiona thrust her eyes down, and the pink on her cheeks transformed to a definite red shade. “The story is that we met in London fo
ur years ago, two weeks into my season, and you proposed. We decided to keep the engagement secret because you were going to fight Napoleon, and that’s the reason I abandoned my season. I called my fiancé Captain Knightley.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Like a medieval knight?”
She stiffened. “I suppose.”
“Do they expect me to appear on a white horse as well? Just who do you think is good enough to be your impostor fiancé? Are you only after princes? Kings?”
“Please?”
“Find another pretend husband,” Percival growled.
He could have escaped, he could have protested, and he’d been too fearful to do so. She wasn’t a criminal. She was just a spinster, one too meek to find a husband for herself. And Zeus, she’d barged her way into his most private musings. “I’m not going along with your preposterous plans.”
“You won’t do it unless I give you a reason?”
“I will never agree!”
She sighed. “I have your jewels.”
“Excuse me?”
“The packet… The one you kept touching.”
His breath stopped.
“I took them while you were sleeping,” Fiona continued.
“So you are a thief.”
“I’ll give them back to you. After.”
Percival’s hands twisted with the urge to destroy something. Stomping both feet would feel wonderful right about now. He’d met women intent on having him for their fiancés before, but never a woman who wanted him to pretend to be someone else. He wondered whether this was some elaborate scheme for an actual marriage, but the woman seemed completely unaware he was a duke and far more worthy of romantic idealizations than some captain with an absurdly heroic name.
“Please?” Fiona’s face took on a mournful expression he abhorred. “It need not be for long. I only want to introduce my Grandmother to you.”
“And why didn’t you ask me this when you met me?”
“Would you have helped me?”
He sighed. He wouldn’t have. He would have laughed and waved her away, leaving her standing on the side of the road. “But pretending to be a highwaywoman—”
“It was an accident.” Fiona’s thick eyelashes swung down. “The driver assumed I was one, because of my dirty clothes, but really, I was just trying to warn about the tree. I didn’t put it there.”
“You sure?”
Her voice quieted. “Naturally.”
“But I heard gunshots.”
“Peasants. Shooting for Christmas dinner.”
With effort, Percival swallowed the anger surging through him. He relaxed his shoulders and strove to emulate the nonchalance of a man approaching a country party, and not that of a man discovering some spinster had kidnapped him.
The solution to not having a fiancé was not to kidnap an innocent passerby.
Percival crossed his arms. He’d been outwitted. He’d have to face the dowager, have to apologize for arriving late. He’d have to listen to her tell him that her son, the man who would be Duke if he hadn’t saved Percival in a moment of insanity, would never have been late like this.
And she would be correct.
Percival exhaled. Loudly. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Fiona shook her head. “The main thing is to keep Grandmother happy. You can speak in moon-like tones about gardening or about setting up some parish somewhere. You needn’t mention anything glamorous, and if Lady Mulbourne is here, I’m sure she won’t be particularly impressed, but that doesn’t matter.”
“It seems like just the fact you have a fiancé will be sufficient cause of rejoicing for them,” Percival said.
Fiona stiffened.
“And just who is Lady Mulbourne? And what absurd standards does she possess?” Percival normally prided himself on his calm, but normally he wasn’t faced with maniac women of means in want of fiancés.
“Oh, she’s very important.” Fiona nodded. “She’s my cousin and she thinks she’s in charge of this district, though that’s not entirely incorrect. But she’s married to a baron. He’s of great importance. He’s one of the greatest art critics England has ever had. You should read the reflective, thoughtful articles he composes on a range of subjects that would astound you.”
Percival scowled. “I see nothing worthy of laudation in a person who devotes himself to the study of inanimate objects.”
“Even important objects of cultural significance? Possibly historical significance?”
“There’s nothing important about art.”
Fiona stiffened. “One favor. A few minutes. Please? And then I’ll tell the groom to prepare the coach for you and give you back the jewels. You’ll be able to travel to London in far greater style than that mail coach.”
“One day later,” Percival grumbled.
“Please. If you could be so kind.”
Percival raised his eyebrows.
Fiona’s face fell. “Forgive me, I was absurd to link ‘kind’ and ‘you’ in a single sentence.”
“Yes.” Percival smiled tightly. “Rather unfortunate for you that I’m not more suitable for your needs. You don’t know what kind of uncultured louts lacking gallantry you find in carriages these days. Damned shame.”
“Please?”
“I won’t be subjected to some strange child’s play.”
“I’m not a child!” Fiona’s voice was outraged.
Good.
“You are worse than a child!” Percival declared. “A child contents herself to demand pretty dresses.” He paused to scan her ragged cloak. “You haven’t even the sense to ask for the latter.”
Percival laughed, or at least attempted to. “So I’d . . . er . . . better get going then. I’ll just drive this sleigh back to the inn and get a horse from there to go to London. I don’t need your coach.”
“But just a few minutes—” A pink tinge lined the woman’s cheekbones. “Please.”
Her voice quivered, and Percival tightened his fists, as if that gesture alone would be sufficient to tighten his resolve. “You cannot force me. I’ll go back to London and—”
“Propose? Won’t you need a ring?” Fiona’s voice was all innocence.
“I—”
Blast. His shoulders sank. She was right. He needed to do this.
“You bloody bastard,” Percival swore, not caring that he was breaching all rules of propriety. “Where the hell is it?”
Fiona blinked. “I hope you don’t mean to speak like that in front of my Grandmother.”
Percival stiffened and scrunched his fists together. His heart thundered against his chest. He’d begun to care for her; his gaze pulled to hers with too much frequency, as if she were the bloody sun.
But she was not a highwaywoman, not desperate in the traditional sense, not in the least. The manor house enlarged as the horses trotted on, oblivious to the tumult in the sleigh. The façade was more intricate and the statues more sophisticated than even his family’s original estate, had dear old Bernard not died and left him a whole dukedom.
She was a wallflower. Even after they’d kissed, after the world had tilted and swirled and it took everything in him to pretend that nothing between them had actually changed after their lips touched, she hadn’t confided in him. She’d stayed up in the night instead and stolen his jewels, proving that the dowager was right, and he wasn’t a man anymore. He couldn’t protect a tiny packet from a chit.
“Look.” Fiona swallowed hard. “You pose as my fiancé, and I’ll give you your ring and those other jewels back. Just introduce yourself to my grandmother as Captain Knightley and say you’ve been away at war and that you’re looking forward to our impending marriage.”
“I hope you haven’t arranged that already, too,” Percival grumbled.
“Of course not,” Fiona exclaimed. “But if she asks, say we’ll need to delay our wedding. Maybe you can make another excuse?” She tilted her head. “I suppose you don’t think it’s likely that Bonaparte will make his e
scape from St. Helena?”
Percival narrowed his eyes. “No.”
She sighed, and he tapped his fingers against the edge of the sleigh. Finally, he smiled. He was practiced at smiling after all. He excelled at turning his lips up when greeting pompous people, and on feigning a pleasant demeanor even when his leg ached from standing. When one smiled long enough, eventually one was even prone to believing the veracity of one’s joyous demeanor. “Very well.”
Fiona exhaled in obvious relief. The sleigh neared the manor house. She glanced to him, her forehead crinkling. Clearly the woman was more discerning than he’d given her credit for. “Most people would be complimenting the stone facade and the fountains now.”
Fiona pulled the horses before the entrance, and Percival staggered from the sleigh and offered his hand to her. In the old days he might have given her a bow, but at the moment he felt sufficiently courteous. His other arm rested firmly on the side of the sleigh. “Let me escort you, my betrothed.”
She hurried from the sleigh, decidedly not grasping his hand. “I’m not asking you to be my fiancé for any personal reasons.”
Of course she wouldn’t really want him. His leg was ruined. He forced his mind from lingering on searing lips, a gentle touch, and soft, luscious curves.
He abhorred her. Utterly and completely.
He followed her gaze to the manor house. A stout, stone fish with well-defined carved scales and speckled with spots of green discoloration squatted in the center of an icy sheet. His head—Percival didn’t want to ascribe such an unattractive appearance to a female fish—was directed upward to the grey, cloudy sky. One could almost imagine water spurting from the thick lips of the statue’s mouth.
“It is perhaps more stunning in the summer,” Fiona said.
“It’s divine.” A house like that was sure to be filled with people.
Chapter Twelve
Servants peeked from the windows with their heads tilted and their eyebrows raised, and Fiona’s heart sped. Sweat prickled the back of her neck, and though she’d kidnapped him for just this moment, fear spread through her.
Percival stumbled beside her, and a strange gleam shone in his eyes, seeming to grow stronger with each step toward Cloudbridge Castle.
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 9
