How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (11 page)

Purposeful steps sounded outside the door.

She whirled around. “Do you know him?”

“I—”

“Do you?”

Percival’s gaze softened. “No, I don’t.”

Fiona gave a curt nod and then scurried toward the entrance. She picked up her skirt a fraction of an inch as she sped to the entrance, slowing only when she reached the bottom.

The front door was open. Cold air swept into the room, and dead leaves fluttered into the hallway. Percival followed her into the room. He strode toward her until her dress brushed against him.

Her heartbeat raced. His broad shoulders provided a support she had not known she needed, and she longed to lean into him. The touch of his lips against hers was still not forgotten.

She smiled at Grandmother when she appeared in the room and wished that the contented smile Grandmother cast at Percival and her could be a reason that shouldn’t be relegated to fantasy.

Uncle Seymour entered the room. Snow clung to his boots, and melting ice splattered onto the floor.

Fiona bobbed down in a deep curtsy.  The man was her uncle, but it always seemed particularly trying to show the man the respect his age and supposed worldliness would expect.

“Fiona. You appear just the same. Is that an old dress?”

She smiled. Clearly the man hadn’t remembered she’d been in half-mourning these past years. “You look well.”

“Ah, yes. That’s because I look after myself. Keeping up with the latest fashion and everything. The
ton
in London rather demand one take an interest in those things.” Uncle Seymour offered Fiona a polite smile. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you my dear?”

The smile on Fiona’s face faltered, and she shivered. A warm hand and a scent she was already becoming way too fond of pressed against her. Fiona slammed her lips together. The temptation to lean back into sturdy muscles, to pull firm arms around her, startled her.

For a moment Fiona imagined that Percival was traveling about the Dales with her, the temperature no longer freezing, with vibrant blossoms and butterflies to accompany them.

The sound of Uncle Seymour clearing his throat hastened her back from the idyllic, absolutely impossible image of her and Percival enjoying life together.

“Who is this?” Uncle Seymour raised his eyebrows even higher than they’d been previously, and his eyes narrowed more than Fiona was accustomed to.

“That, my dear brother,” Grandmother announced, “Is Fiona’s fiancé, Captain Knightley.”

Percival strode forward. Even in the out-of-fashion dinner attire Evans had found for him, the man was magnificent. He bowed. “I’m ever so delighted to meet you, my lord.”

“Oh!” Uncle Seymour straightened. His hand flew to his cravat knot, and he shifted his feet, gazing anxiously in the direction of the open door. “My dear wife! Fiona has a
fiancé
!”

Aunt Lavinia and Cousin Cecil sauntered into the castle and came into an abrupt halt as they took in Fiona and the narrow distance between Percival and her.

“My dear girl.” Aunt Lavinia blinked, and her thin hand clutched her heart. She seemed dazed as one of the servants assisted her with removing her cloak. The ruffles on her dress and jewels seemed to overwhelm her bony figure, and her gaze remained fixed on Fiona.

Fiona curtsied.

She’d dreamed about a moment like this, and the expressions on her relatives faces clearly showed they thought they might be living in a dream.

Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia had hinted at a marriage with Cecil frequently, despite the fact that Cecil had never shown any interest in her.

Cecil clutched a bouquet and lowered the bright flowers over his short, rotund body, a testament to his cook’s good skills. “I . . . er . . . brought these for you.” He glanced at his mother, whose eyes remained wide. He swung his arm to Grandmother. “I meant . . . er . . . you.”

“That gentleman is Fiona’s fiancé,” Grandmother said happily. She pushed her nose into the flowers. “Divine.”

Cecil gave her an awkward bow.

“I’m so happy you managed to pull yourself from London,” Grandmother said.

Cecil’s smile faltered, as if he did not share her happiness.

Fiona stifled an urge to laugh. She had nothing against her cousin, but Madeline had confided in her once that Cecil had a habit of frequenting the most adventurous brothels, the kind known to cater to sodomites.

Fiona hadn’t asked her cousin just how she’d garnered this information, but it had rather quelled any impulse to link her life with Cecil’s in anything more than the occasional family gathering.

After the requisite small talk, each painful word lessened only by the continued startled glances her aunt, uncle and cousin flickered at Percival, the dinner bell gonged.

They entered the dining room, and a now-familiar heat surged through Fiona when Percival offered his arm to Fiona, gathering force when she pressed her hand against the crook of the man’s arm. They strode to the dining room and settled into their seats.

The room was silent, except for the sound of the footman pouring soup into gold-rimmed china bowls. The thick white soup sloshed inside the bowls, visible from Fiona’s chair, and a clink sounded when he placed the bowls on the silver platter.

Candle lights flickered from cast-iron sconces, flinging long shadows over the room. Garlands draped from the ceilings, tied with red and gold ribbons. They hung over the swords some ancestor had thought it good to display on the wood-paneled wall. Tonight it was particularly easy to imagine the destruction and terror these weapons must have called when used by some war-minded knight.

Uncle Seymour glanced at the dark beams that crossed over the ceiling. “What this house needs is some redecorating. Less of this medieval nonsense.”

Fiona stiffened. She adored this room and all the history within. The house would go to Uncle Seymour when Grandmother died, but that hardly meant he needed to openly discuss the changes. “I find much about the past of interest.”

“My niece is prone to lauding the delights of rolling around in dirt.” Uncle Seymour directed his gaze toward Percival, chortling.

The footman placed the soup before them.

Fiona’s hands tightened over the lace tablecloth, feeling Percival’s gaze rest over her. “Archaeology is not rolling around in dirt.”

“Why don’t you leave the things in the ground be?” Uncle Seymour clutched a spoon in hand and then dipped it into the soup. “Seems rather ghoulish to pore over the once-used pottery of dead people.”

Percival cleared his throat, managing to make the simple sound menacing.

Aunt Lavinia fluttered her hands and nodded to Grandmother. “This is delicious. You have a talented cook.”

“I have a talented granddaughter as well,” Fiona’s grandmother said, raising her chin. “I find her idea that there’s a Roman palace buried under the apple orchard fascinating.”

“Because it’s insane.” Uncle Seymour took a hearty slurp of wine.

“There’s a rumor there’s one near Chichester as well.” Percival tore a piece of bread and slathered it in butter.

Fiona’s eyebrows darted up, and Percival smiled. Warmth bounded through her chest, and she forced herself to avert her eyes.

“Hmph!” Uncle Seymour muttered. “Still doesn’t change her macabre tendencies.”

Fiona squared her shoulders.  “I feel, Uncle Seymour, that there is value in learning about the world and about the past.”

“I feel there’s value in drinking red wine.” Uncle Seymour shrugged and addressed a footman. “Please, fill the glass up.”

The servant dashed over to Uncle Seymour’s side, appearing rattled that Uncle Seymour had had to ask.

“I mean how does one get interested in a thing like that?” Aunt Lavinia smiled, even though there was nothing delightful about the manner of her lips’ ascent. “There is much in this world to explore. One need not go searching four feet underground.”

“Sometimes more,” Fiona murmured, and her uncle tilted his head at her.

“I find it most enlightening,” Grandmother said.

“I had enough of learning at Eton.” Uncle Seymour slurped down the rest of his soup.

A footman removed Uncle Seymour’s bowl and proceeded around the table.

Percival cleared his throat. “Tell us more about your plans for the apple orchard.”

“I’m glad she hasn’t bored you with the plans already,” Uncle Seymour said. “But then, why bore one person, when you can bore many?”

The footman placed the fish course before them.

Grandmother tilted her head. “But I do not mind.”

Uncle Seymour smiled. “Because you are a gentle woman, too forgiving of your niece’s most abhorrent inclinations.”

“Please!” Percival sat up. “I will not permit you to refer to my fiancée in that despicable manner.”

Uncle Seymour narrowed his eyes at Percival, who met his with the same amount of enthusiasm.

Fiona’s lips parted. The vision of Percival defending her was everything she’d told herself not to imagine or hope for. Men like him weren’t supposed to come to her rescue. They were supposed to defend dainty damsels, so slender that a whisk of wind or even a careless word might harm them. They weren’t supposed to defend sturdy-looking women like herself whose own impulsivity brought them harm.

Fiona read books. She knew how things worked.

But Percival still fixed Uncle Seymour with a firm expression until finally Uncle Seymour pushed his plate away. “Young lovers. Impossible to reason with.”

Fiona smiled, even though she knew that calling Percival and herself anything resembling lovers was misguided. A jolt of anger swept through Fiona, and her fingers clutched her napkin, tightening it into a hard ball. She’d allowed her uncle to spend too many evenings over too much wine criticizing her. Archaeology was a recent complaint; she’d kept it secret for years.

The man knew nothing about it—nothing at all—and she would not allow him to lean back in his chair, smile at her smugly, and utter scarcely veiled insults in the small space he didn’t devote to masticating and wine.

She threw her napkin on the table, ignoring the way everyone’s eyebrows jumped. “Your contempt is almost comical, dear uncle.”

“Indeed?” Uncle Seymour clutched his goblet with the same vigor one of their ancestors’ may have clutched a battle axe.

“The estate is sitting on potentially invaluable history.”

“It’s a grand estate,” Uncle Seymour said dryly, “of course history is attached to it.”

“But not every grand estate has history that could change the way we think about the Romans.”

“They’ve been dead for centuries.”

“No.”

“No?” Uncle Seymour raised an eyebrow, and a condescending smile appeared on his face.

“I mean—” Fiona’s tongue thickened, and the temperature of the room seemed to soar. Her heart pounded in her chest, the tempo harder and more rapid than any she was accustomed with.

This was when she was supposed to apologize. This was when every rule of convention and etiquette books told her she should excuse herself and ask for forgiveness for her foolishness.

The man was her uncle, and that fact alone should necessitate her respect. He was older, and should be wiser, and he was a baronet. He possessed wealth, where Fiona possessed none. And one day, Uncle Seymour would be moving into Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona would be spending every day and every evening with him, unless he decided it more fitting to send her off to be a governess somewhere, if she didn’t move in with her younger sister.

And yet Fiona could not hold her tongue and did not even think her inability bad. “Surely you’ve heard of the plans for a British Museum?”

“I heard it was bloody controversial,” Uncle Seymour said.

“And yet we’re going to have one, for the public is indeed deeply interested in the ancient Greek sculpture that once were part of a great Parthenon.”

“Perhaps . . .”

“Surely you must know that Lord Mulbourne would be completely enthusiastic. He’s a respected art critic. Why, he would find the finding extraordinarily valuable!”

“Have you discussed this with him?” Uncle Seymour asked.

“No . . .” Fiona sighed. “But I’m sure he would agree that not digging up the land would be a crime. There’s so much of value that could be underneath it. Items that would explain how a whole culture lived over here. We owe so much to the Romans. I’m not asking you to tear up the house. Only for permission to remove some trees that could be replanted somewhere else.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say so much,” Cecil said. “That’s fascinating.”

“Here, here.” Percival grinned and clinked glasses with Grandmother.

Aunt Lavinia shifted in her chair, and Uncle Seymour sent Fiona a thundering glance that might once have affected her, but didn’t now.

Uncle Seymour exhaled. “Perhaps you’re right and even members of the
ton
might find some amusement in learning about these people’s antics, but I still cannot believe that digging around in the dirt is a respectable pastime for a lady. The only person I know who has done anything similar is Napoleon in Egypt. And my dear niece, I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to support something that that tiny Corsican ruffian might have appreciated.”

She stared at him. He’d been disapproving, she’d always expected that, but he hadn’t utterly dismissed her. He’d listened.

She relaxed her shoulders. “Thomas Jefferson also has done archaeological work.”

“Colonist.” Aunt Lavinia shrugged.

“Former colonist,” Percival corrected.

“That’s not in the man’s favor.” Uncle Seymour shook his whole head with such vigor that his carefully coiffed hair became frazzled.

The man’s valet would soon be added to the list of people disappointed in Fiona.

She sighed. “But you will consider the project?”

“Absolutely not. I will not condone any such venture. Digging up the apple orchard, indeed.”

“But there might be treasures—”

Uncle Seymour shook his head. “The past is the past, Fiona. Better to look toward the future. Just like our country is doing. We’re the greatest country in the world, with the fastest growing innovations. It’s a great time to be British, my dear. No need to think about the past. Certainly not about some long-dead Italians.”

Fiona’s shoulders slumped. It would have been so wonderful, so amazing if Uncle Seymour had truly seen fit to agree to the project.

The clang and clatter of knives and forks being scraped over the plates pulled her away from her musings. She bit into the fish. Each flake was dry, despite Cook’s liberal use of buttery sauce to embellish it.

“Did you see the Elysian marbles?” Cecil asked.

Fiona shook her head. They’d been brought over to London with much fanfare, but Fiona hadn’t received an invitation to see them.

“Good thing then,” Aunt Lavinia said. “Garish barbaric pieces of stone.”

“Beautiful carvings of stone,” Percival said.

Uncle Seymour shrugged. “Don’t see what all the fuss was about. It was a crime that some of the critics reviewed it so highly. An absolute crime.”

“Some of the Greeks said that it was a crime that they were hauled from the country,” Percival said.

“Typical thing for the Greeks to say. Still whining now, even though we’ve just saved Europe from ruin.” Uncle Seymour shook his head. “The country has limited its accomplishments to ordinary things for the past two thousand years.”

Fiona glanced at Percival, who retained a polite smile, though his face was becoming distinctly more flushed.

Uncle Seymour shook his head firmly and then directed his gaze to Percival. “It’s a wonder that you’re going to marry this woman.”

Percival set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. “I trust you will not insult my fiancée further.”

“Well, I—er,” Uncle Seymour stumbled over his words, unaccustomed to having to defend himself.

Fiona smiled. And then her heart became heavy.

This amazing man was here, declaring to all her family his place as her fiancé, and none of it was true. Not in the least.

For as charming as he might be, defending her to her relatives, he was no more hers than a vision was. Less hers in fact, for a vision she could call upon from time to time in her mind. When Percival left, it would be forever, and she’d need to spend the rest of her life explaining to her family how she’d let a magnificent man like him amble away, without admitting that she’d never been able to have him in the first place.

The necessity of the project soared. The apple orchard belonged to Uncle Seymour, and the man did not want it dug up, even though he’d never expressed a passionate partiality for apples before.

Once Grandmother died, Uncle Seymour and his wife would move in. She’d been imagining she would be allowed to spend her life occupied with the recording of the objects she discovered in the apple orchard. She’d allowed herself to daydream that she might research the Romans in Britain, in her wilder dreams even contributing papers on the subject, just like a man might do.

But Uncle Seymour’s opinion had been firm. Her only hope of swaying him now was Lord Mulbourne, and Madeline was not inclined to be agreeable to anything concerning her. If only the baron did not occupy himself so much in London.