Goodness. What in heaven’s name had she done?
“Don’t attempt anything,” she murmured through gritted teeth.
He answered her with a laugh, a low relaxed rumble the man was probably accustomed to emitting in smoky clubs filled with copious supplies of brandy.
Drat.
She needed to speak to Grandmother before this man entered. She hurried forward. Or as fast as one could dash while still attempting to maintain a portion of one’s dignity, conscious of various curtains being drawn back in the house. The maids were cleaning, and clearly her late appearance was of greater interest than poking about sooty fireplaces.
She hitched her dress up an inch and proceeded faster. Her cloak billowed in the wind, and strands of hair were flung against her face. Her boots crunched against the sheets of snow that sparkled from the dim sunlight. The servants had attempted to shovel some of the lane, but it was a large job, and she skidded and swerved over icy patches.
Until she fell.
The world veered downward, and her nose squashed against the snowy surface. She pushed her hands against the snow and forced herself up, striving to maintain some semblance of dignity as the wind whirled about her coat and dress.
“I trust you’re uninjured?” Percival shot her a cocky grin. His steady pace, even hampered by his injury, placed him at the entrance to the manor house.
The man grasped the cast-iron door knocker and pounded on the bright red door that never quite matched the mourning Grandmother had thrown herself into.
He was not going to speak with the servants before her.
Who knew what story he would tell them.
Like the right one. The pit in her stomach hollowed, and she was only a few paces behind him when the door opened.
Not to a servant.
Grandmother.
Her knees quivered, and it was only focusing on the door that kept her moving forward, because certainly Fiona’s natural inclination was to topple forward and pray for the earth to swallow her.
Grandmother peeked her grey head out, and Fiona knew without a doubt that she had seen everything. Fiona was with a man, all alone. Fiona had traveled with him by herself. If she were the type of woman who believed in being ruined, Fiona would have been devastated, though right now she only desired Grandmother to believe her story.
“You must be Captain Knightley.” Grandmother extended her hand toward him.
Percival paused.
“You can take her hand, my dear!” Fiona forced a laugh. “He’s a bit shy, Grandmother. I should have said.”
“I—” Percival swung his head around and glared at her.
“Oh, that’s quite alright.” Grandmother tilted her head. “My Fiona is very shy too. As you no doubt know well.”
A vein throbbed from Percival’s temple. “I would not have used that term to describe her.”
“My dear, you must come in. It won’t do to have you shiver in the English winter, as nonexistent as some people claim it to be.”
Percival brushed past Fiona’s grandmother. “England isn’t supposed to have a winter. It’s supposed to be blustery and sometimes damp. That’s all.”
“My dear Captain Knightley.” Grandmother smiled fondly at the man. “How much shock it must be for you now to return to your home country after so many years of fighting.”
“You mustn’t call me that. I’m just a man who—”
“Adores my niece.” Grandmother’s smile widened. “You are much too humble, my dear. I can call you that, can’t I? I feel you are like family to me. I have heard so much about you.”
“I have not heard anything about you—”
“—that has not been pleasant.” Fiona hastened to the man’s side and then halted. It felt too natural to stand beside him, and she had a strange urge to stand even closer to him, as if her body missed his. She frowned. The sleigh had been too tight.
Percival opened his mouth. “I am afraid that this woman captured me!”
Fiona froze. She steeled herself for Grandmother’s reaction, and Percival gave her a smug look, not befitting a man whose jewels she had stolen.
“She held me up at gunpoint and demanded I be her fiancé.”
Grandmother tilted her head and smiled. “True love is rather like that. I do envy you both.”
“She captured me! Completely against my will!”
Grandmother laughed, though Fiona did not join her.
“One doesn’t know when love will strike.” Grandmother leaned closer. “But when it strikes hard, when it is so strong, it bodes well for your future. Too many people settle for simple, mutual non-hatred. Even hatred can be more of an indication of true passion.”
“But—” Percival’s face reddened, not as if the extra color could decrease from the man’s handsomeness. He glanced at the butler, and Fiona hastened to slip her hand underneath his arm. Blast convention.
“My fiancé finds amusement in jesting about the force of our passion. I’m sure he was about to demand you call the magistrate and notify the local gentry.” Fiona tilted her head up at Percival’s ever more bemused countenance.
“You take the words out of my mouth,” Percival said stiffly.
“My darling.” Fiona allowed herself to rest her face against Percival’s chest. The woolen fabric of his great coat scratched against her cheek, but her cursed heartbeat still quickened.
Percival tensed against her, but thank goodness, the man didn’t push her away. She ignored the sudden warmth that soared through her with inexplicable force.
Though that was absurd. It was Grandmother’s scrutiny that brought on her excitement. Nothing else.
Obviously.
Evans’ countenance appeared less stern than normal, and she remembered that the butler was himself married to the housekeeper in a match so well-suited that it had produced seven children, despite the discouragement of household staff to create families.
“Where’s your sister?” Grandmother inquired.
“She’s . . . er . . . still at her estate.” She stretched her lips into a wide smile, even though there wasn’t anything pleasant about this moment. She resolved to send Rosamund a note at once and inhaled. “Forgive me, I know that it was improper to ride without a chaperone—”
Grandmother waved her hand, and Fiona noticed that her appearance was slightly more frazzled than customary. Her makeup was unevenly applied, as if her grandmother had seen fit to do some touch-ups herself.
“The mail coach was waylaid.” Percival scowled.
“I’m sorry!” Fiona squeaked to Grandmother, conscious of Percival’s arched eyebrow and his steely eyes fixed on her.
“You mustn’t worry, my darling. I’m so happy to see you. And to meet your captain.” Grandmother laughed and peered closer to Percival. “Your appearance is quite extraordinary. Most aristocratic. Has anyone told you that you look just like the old Duke of Alfriston? He was quite a handsome fellow in his time. Dead now. And his son after him. So tragic.”
Percival stiffened, and Fiona tilted her head. She hadn’t wanted to know anything about Percival, but suddenly she regretted it.
“The straightness of your nose and that shade of blue in your eyes… And your chin, such a perfect shape. It is quite extraordinary to find all those features in one person, so much younger than the duke. Perhaps he is one of your ancestors.”
Percival opened his mouth, and Fiona stammered. “Most curious. Unfortunately, my darling fiancé will need to leave very soon. But you can see that we are engaged and happy.”
She avoided directing her gaze anywhere in the direction of Percival.
“Yes.” Percival nodded with such vigor that people might have termed the gesture frantic. “I would not want to encroach upon your hospitality.”
“Impossible.” Grandmother shook her head. “Your cousin’s Christmas Ball is in two days, and my niece must have an escort.”
“But!” Fiona’s voice trembled, and she shot a glance at the butler who seeme
d amused by the unaccustomed appearance of a stranger. “The dear captain will be able to escort me to events for the rest of our lives.”
“Starting today!” Grandmother nodded firmly and turned to Percival, who was definitely scowling now. “You would not believe how much my poor granddaughter missed you. Locking herself up all day long in her work room.”
“Oh?” Percival’s cool, impersonal question caused the back of Fiona’s neck to prickle.
“I will not let you venture out in this dreadful weather. I forbid it.”
Percival sighed. “But I am afraid the weather will become more dreadful—”
“En route.” Grandmother shook her head. “Just when you don’t want it to become worse. That’s why I favor staying inside. Unless you are willing to risk your good health when you have just arrived from the devastation of battle.” She flickered her gaze to his wooden leg, “In order to abandon my granddaughter—”
“Of course he wasn’t!” Fiona cut in, forcing a laugh, and ignored the manner in which Percival’s jaw tensed, and his scowl deepened. “My fiancé has a dreadful sense of humor.”
“Clearly he makes up for it in other respects,” Evans said slowly, his gaze scanning Percival.
“Indeed, Evans. Please have the maids prepare the Green Room.” Grandmother seemed to be amused. “Let us have tea now.”
They strode to the drawing room, and Percival settled stiffly into an armchair. He crossed both arms around him and glared at the furniture of the room with a vigor unsuited to a fiancé.
Fiona’s throat dried. “I’m afraid my darling captain is exhausted.”
“The Green Room is in the old men’s quarter, even though we seldom have male guests now. Some of my brother’s old hunting trophies are there. Men have expressed fondness for that.” Grandmother paused, and a lascivious grin Fiona rarely saw spread over her face. “Fiona’s room is located on the first door on the right of the women’s corridor.”
“Grandmother!” Fiona straightened her back, and refused to make eye contact with Percival, though she was conscious of the melodic, low-pitched sound of his laugh. “Captain Knightley will not require any directions.”
“Forgive me!” Grandmother said, and Fiona inhaled, even though she could not bring herself to glance at the gentleman. “I forgot that you were a captain. You are probably talented at finding your own way about things. Fiona was telling me that you’d led troops into Russia.”
“And the maps there are very difficult to read,” Percival said gravely. “They even use a different alphabet.”
Grandmother nodded. “You hear that, Fiona? He is impressive.”
“I’m sure the captain was able to make use of translated maps!”
“My beautiful fiancée is correct.” The captain smiled, and Fiona’s heart fluttered despite herself. “Though I confess that I do speak Russian.”
“So you could have used one of their maps,” Grandmother breathed. “Well done. And how on earth did you learn it?”
“The captain does not need to outline his entire life experience.”
“Of course not. It is seldom one comes across a person with such extensive knowledge of the world, and I am confident it would take longer than I have to live to hear all of it.”
Percival dotted Fiona a confused glance, and her shoulders shrank together. She hadn’t told Percival about her grandmother’s illness, hadn’t mentioned the ever steadier stream of doctors, and the bowls of blood for the servants to wash, after they’d drained her grandmother yet again, to yet again no avail.
Grandmother seemed more alert than Fiona had seen her for years, and though the fact made Fiona happy, she felt sad that it was all for a lie. Grandmother had reassured her that she needn’t worry about leaving the season without a husband, but once Fiona had brought a man back who promised to be a husband, she seemed overjoyed.
Percival cleared his throat. “I am of course happy to oblige you on anything that might bring you pleasure.”
Grandmother smiled, and Percival glanced at Fiona.
“Within reason of course.” He tapped his finger against the arm of the armchair, tracing the bold blue and white striped pattern.
She wasn’t sure which words the man would say next. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know just what to say to charm her grandmother. The horrible thing was she had a dreadful suspicion that he was charming her as well.
And that couldn’t happen.
Because the man before her might be flesh and blood, but his presence was invented more from her desperate imagination than anything else.
Fiona’s nose crinkled. “My dear captain, don’t you have another battle to get to?”
“I am on Christmas leave, my darling,” the man said. “And we’ve conquered our worst enemy.”
Fiona sipped some tea. The water was too hot, and the liquid burned her throat as she forced it down. “But didn’t you mention to me that you were getting sick? Sudden, unexplainable nausea?”
“No,” Percival said simply. He turned to Grandmother. “What beautiful paintings you have.”
Grandmother’s cheeks pinkened, and soon she and the imposter captain had entered into a discussion on art, and the overwhelming sadness that the war had closed off much of the continent, so people had had to make do with visiting Cornwall instead of the Mediterranean, which had historic landmarks in addition to a pleasing natural light.
“One day the captain and you will visit Italy together,” Grandmother declared.
Fiona swallowed down more hot tea. The two spoke so naturally, as if—as if the man were her real fiancé, and as if he were really interested in everything about her. Right now her grandmother was regaling him with stories of holidays with Fiona and her sister, Rosamund, to the south coast.
“I wish I could have joined,” the man said.
Fiona sputtered and coughed. Her chest constricted, and heat prickled the back of her neck. He played the role of her fiancé too well.
“Oh my poor girl!” Grandmother looked at her as if Fiona, and not her grandmother, were at death’s door. “Perhaps it is good if you rest.”
Percival rose and nodded. “If I may retire as well…”
“Of course.” Grandmother smiled.
“You are an extraordinarily understanding woman,” the captain said.
“You flatter me,” Grandmother said. “Though I am sure that any good qualities I might have are already known to you, reflected by my brilliant granddaughter.”
The captain smiled at her, and Fiona’s cheeks flamed.
“Your fiancé is quite charming, my dear.”
Fiona nodded, and her throat dried. “I am pleased you should find him so.”
***
Percival was not amused.
He was many things: furious, angry, frustrated… but no, decidedly not amused.
His annoyance had started once he’d met the blasted woman, and it had not halted after, though it had grown to anger many times.
It didn’t matter that the butler had led him into a decent sort of room, with olive green velvet curtains and maple furniture. It didn’t matter that a fire was leaping and swirling in the medieval stone fireplace, as if Fiona’s grandmother had ordered a servant to light it at the first sighting of him struggling through the blasted snow.
The two women were probably conspiring together.
He needed to get to London. The dowager was depending on him. He turned to the butler, who was obsequiously pulling out all the spare blankets. “Look here, Evans.”
“Sir.” The man paused, holding onto a fuzzy red woolen blanket that looked damned tempting.
“I need to get to London. At once.”
The butler smiled politely.
“Please prepare a horse for me.” Percival glowered at the man.
“Her ladyship was clear that your presence is requested elsewhere.” Evans continued placing the blankets on the bed.
“This is all a great mistake. I was captured. I never intended
for this to happen.”
Evans tilted his head. “There is no allowing for when Cupid’s arrow strikes.”
“Then Cupid was wielding a knife!” Percival muttered.
“Sir?” Evan’s lifted his grey eyebrows.
Percival shook his head. “Nothing. Cupid has not struck me.”
“And yet you’re about to be married.” Evans tilted his head, and Percival groaned. He slid into an armchair.
He tilted his head. He should correct the man. He wasn’t a sir. He was—well, he was Your Grace. Which had more of a ring to it, one he wasn’t yet fully accustomed to hearing.
And at this rate one that he would completely forget about.
He scrunched his eyebrows together. But even though he did rather want to emphasize his title and intimidate the man into arranging a horse for him, he didn’t really want it to be known that the Duke of Alfriston had managed to get himself captured by some chit claiming to be a highwaywoman.
That was definitely gossip fodder. But blast it, he needed to get to London. He swung his head in the direction of the outdoors.
The sky had grown grayer, and though he had a wild moment of hope that the heavens might open up with some very English rain, washing every last flake of snow away, it was really far more likely—far more his luck—that it would snow more.
His shoulders sank. His luck had left him long ago. He was stuck here. “I don’t suppose I can send a message?”
“Why of course.”
“Of course?” Percival tilted his head at the butler. His esteem of the man had ratcheted up abruptly, and he now considered how he’d ever managed to not see the man’s definite intelligence and decency.
“Naturally if you require to get in touch with somebody, we could of course arrange to send a message—”
“Good God, Evans, you’re a miracle worker!” Percival grinned wide. “Has anyone told you you’re bloody amazing?”
“Her ladyship has been effusive on various occasions, and Fiona’s kindness is of course well known among the staff—”
Percival waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you to number her accomplishments.”
“Ah, I see!” Evans gave him a knowing glance. “You clearly are already familiar with her outstanding qualities.”
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 10
