How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (15 page)

The coach halted, and music from the festivities streamed through the windows. Percival crept down the steps. His breath quickened as he turned to Fiona, and he gave her a short bow before extending his hand to her. “My darling.”

There was nothing feigned about his words, and his heart swelled when Fiona’s cheeks pinkened. She slipped an ivory-gloved hand into his, and he beamed.

By Zeus, his heart shouldn’t pound with such force at the mere touch of her satin-ensconced skin. But heaven help him, that flicker drew up a hoist of delightful images. If he had his way, he would be ordering the driver straight back to Cloudbridge Castle.

From the anxious look Fiona directed at the manor house, he wasn’t the only person who didn’t want to be here, despite the fact this was clearly the place to be. Glossy coaches parked before the manor house, and sounds of people filled the crisp air.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go after all,” Fiona said.

“Nonsense. We made it this far.” Percival smiled down at her, enjoying the sensation of her gloved fingers pressing against his arm. “And you need to speak with this marvelous baron of yours.”

Tomorrow he would go to London. He’d speak to the dowager and explain he couldn’t marry Lady Cordelia after all, and that he would not propose to her.

Perhaps he’d only known Fiona a few days, but he’d spent more time in her company than with any other woman. She understood him more than any friend, and her body was far more enticing. He had half a mind to stroll around the garden with her, his wooden leg be damned, and propose to her before all the gossips in this God-forsaken county she fretted about.

Perhaps the dowager would not be happy and perhaps she would even comment on his lack of dutifulness. Percival might not make the choices her son would have made, but he’d try his very best to be a brilliant duke and manage his estate well. He’d always make sure the dowager’s needs were taken care of, and that would have to suffice.

Yes, after a quick jaunt to London, he could start the rest of his life, the one he’d always heard the great poets laud, but never thought actually existed.

“You’re smiling.” Fiona slipped her hand into the nook of his arm.

He nodded. “I’m thinking of something pleasant.”

She chuckled. “I gathered that. Care to share?”

He shook his head, his lips still spread up. “It’s a surprise.”

Romance might be a new thing to him, but he was certain a woman didn’t want to hear he was in love with her on a crowded path. Those sorts of moments should be confined to places with candlelight, roses, and a great deal of privacy. Those sorts of moments were to be treasured forever.

They strode up the path. The place was every bit as grand as Fiona had said it would be. Roman Gods and elaborate stone vases perched on the facade of the Georgian manor house. A long, man-made lake stretched before the building, and even though ice filled the lake instead of water, and any birds and ducks that used to frequent it had long departed for more sensible destinations, the manor house still retained an impressive allure.

They sauntered into the house, and Percival grinned. Fiona was on his arm, and life was wonderful.

Everyone changed into their slippers, and they strolled past rows of boots of mainly differing sizes of Hessians, into the ballroom.

Mistletoe and holly hung from the ceiling. Red ribbons were tied around each candlestick, and oranges and pine cones mingled together in silver bowls. Fiona had told him the ball would be elaborate, but he hadn’t expected this.

Everything was impressive and perfect. A footman offered him a drink, and Percival took a deep sip of negus, smiling as the hot liquid, filled with spices and citrus, swirled down his throat, warming him as effectively as if he’d swallowed fire.

Eight hour candles cast golden light from the comfort of gilded candelabras. A fire blazed in the huge marble fireplace situated in the center of the room.

Musicians played up-tempo music in a corner, their heads tilted as their violin sticks jostled up and down in furious beats that created marvelous music. A large section of the ballroom was devoted to dancing, and men and women formed intricate patterns. He stared at the rapidly changing kaleidoscope of silk and velvet.

Men wore black suits, and women wore pastel-colored gowns. Jewels sparkled from the women’s necks and chests, as if they had chosen diamonds and rubies to mask their cleavage. Silver punch bowls, embellished with flowers and leaves, dotted the room, leaving no one in need of an excuse for merriment.

Fiona smiled. “I told you it was elaborate.”

“How on earth did the baroness manage to emulate the best of London?”

“I’m sure her life’s work is emulating the best of London.” She tipped her head to the ceiling. “Or the continent. She had a famous Italian painter come all the way from Venice to decorate the ceiling.”

Gods and goddesses perched on fluffy white clouds, staring down at them.

Percival shook his head. Likely they wouldn’t approve of the fact that he was feigning to be somebody else’s fiancé.

The ballroom was thick with people. Silk-gowned women danced beside black-suited dandies and Corinthians. Women of all ages cast their gazes in his direction, likely assessing his marital status and potential as a suitor, if not for themselves then for their daughters. Their pleasant gazes wavered when they spotted his wooden leg peeking from his trousers.

He’d thought he was going to some local ball—but this, Lord, what if someone recognized him?

Fiona’s posture was stiffer than normal, and her lips were pursed into an unyielding line. She glanced around the room. But from the manner in which her hands tightened around her reticule, creasing her long white gloves, she probably wasn’t merely in awe of the crown moldings. “I’d forgotten how much I despised this.”

He nodded, even though there didn’t seem much wrong with a ballroom filled with helpful-looking footmen holding silver platters of drinks and appetizers, long tables topped with even more food and drink, and up-tempo music.

“I hope Grandmother’s fine.” Fiona bit her lip. “She didn’t look that well when we left.”

Percival didn’t want to agree with her.

His grandparents had all passed away, and he hadn’t even had the benefit of any close relationships with them. He supposed that unfavorable comparisons to his cousin didn’t really count for a close bond, however instructional his grandparents had intended their unsought advice to be. His brother Arthur had escaped much of their condemnation, perhaps because they’d grown feebler, but more likely because there was never much chance he’d be tasked with the dukedom. And Arthur had of course always been ridiculously charming, as had Percival’s younger sisters.

He wouldn’t allow her to be unhappy. “The servants will call you if there’s any need to return,” Percival assured her. “She has a whole swarm of people looking over her. She seemed more excited about the ball than you. Come, you need to get some stories to bring her.”

He leaned toward her, and for a moment he almost pecked her cheek, before he had the good sense to halt himself. That action would be inappropriate for an actual fiancée, much less a pretend one. He may have vowed to himself that Fiona would always have a place in his life, but that moment hadn’t been formalized yet.

***

“There he is—Lord Mulbourne!” Fiona swiveled her head toward Percival. “He’s made an appearance. I almost believed he wouldn’t be here. I must—”

Percival smiled. “Go ahead. Dazzle him. I know you can. Your ideas are marvelous.”

Fiona spread her lips into a wide smile. “Th-thank you.”

The phrase did not suffice in crediting him with everything he had done, but it would have to do for now. The words hardly conveyed the burst of emotion that blazed through her when she thought of him. The man toppled all her pre-conceptions of the
ton.
He’d defended her to her uncle. He’d even stayed longer with her, refusing to journey to London from Harrogate. He’d cared about Grandmother. He even . . . he even seemed to care about her.

He wasn’t simple handsome. The man was magnificent: intelligent and far kinder than he desired to display. She forced away the strange flutterings that beat against her chest with frequency whenever she dwelled on him.

The ball was everything she hated, everything that had impelled her retreat from society, and yet it hardly seemed to be the hellish spot she’d imagined it to be.

Some women whispered, and though they might be gossiping about her and her unlikely attendance, they might not be.

“Excuse me . . .” A woman halted her. The woman’s eyes peeked from an ornate oriental fan. “Your clothes—”

“Yes?” Fiona paused, bracing herself for some insult, though she doubted that even the harshest one would affect her very much.

“It’s lovely.” The woman smiled.

“Lovely?” She repeated the word.

“You look quite beautiful. You must give me the name of your dressmaker.”

“Oh.” Warmth spread through Fiona. It didn’t matter whether the woman thought her beautiful or not, but pleasure still coursed through her nerves. “Thank you. You look lovely as well.”

She peered over the crowd. Madeline’s husband, the baron, stood in the corner of the ballroom. No one else had approached him, and the man seemed content to fix his gaze on the various dancers as they leaped and jostled through the patterned dances, the women’s gowns swishing and the men’s brightly colored waistcoats shimmering.

“Lord Mulbourne!” She called out, and he turned to her.

“Miss Amberly.” His eyebrows lifted somewhat, and Fiona sighed. Everyone was right. She could have been more social. It wasn’t good for the husband of her former best friend, the husband of her very own cousin, to express shock at their meeting. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“You too.”

“You’re looking well.”

She smiled. “I’m feeling well.”

“Ah . . . The merits of youth.”

She nodded, but for the first time it occurred to her that this man, the one whom Madeline had boasted so much about, was perhaps not perfect.  Perhaps he was not the ideal match Madeline prided herself in making, and perhaps Madeline had made her own sacrifices to follow the rules of the
ton
.  Lord Mulbourne was rather on the wrong side of thirty-five, and grey speckled his thin hair, the pale flecks emphasized by the man’s ivory cravat.

“Are you looking for my wife?” He smiled politely.

“No!” Fiona stammered, and then took a breath, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I mean—I wanted to speak to you, though I must speak to Madeline at some point, for I must thank her for this delightful party.”

“She mentioned it was a struggle to get you to accept her invitation.”

Fiona offered him a sheepish smile and peered around. Though there were some clear couples at the ball, there were also groups of unmarried women sitting on the outskirts. Perhaps they were wallflowers, but despite the term and its decided bluntness and absence of flattery, the women seemed to be enjoying themselves, chattering and sipping mulled wine. “Then I was a fool.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” Amusement filled Lord Mulbourne’s voice.

“No—” Fiona smiled. “I wanted to speak with you about something quite different.”

He raised his eyebrows, and Fiona forced her voice to not shake. “I rather believe I’ve discovered a Roman palace buried beneath an apple orchard at Cloudbridge Castle.”

Lord Mulbourne tilted his head. “That is rather an incredible statement. Or perhaps not so incredible.” He swung his gaze around the room. “Where is my dear wife now?”

Fiona shook her head. “I’ve come to speak with you. Not her.”

“I see.” Lord Mulbourne nodded, but his smile wobbled somewhat, and the easy rapport between them seemed to have all but disappeared. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand—”

“I do,” Fiona hastened to add. “I understand perfectly. I’ve read everything you’ve written about Classical Civilizations.”

“You have?” Lord Mulbourne’s face seemed a trifle paler than before, and he craned his neck again to peer out over the crowds. His hand flickered up. “There she is.”

“And your work is brilliant,” Fiona added. “Absolutely brilliant. So very insightful.”

Lord Mulbourne relaxed his shoulders somewhat as he gazed at his wife. “I’m pleased.”

“As you know, much talk is devoted to digging up Roman sculptures and bringing them over here. Now that Napoleon is gone, it’s of course once again easy to get to Italy.”

The baron flashed her a tight smile.

“And that’s wonderful,” Fiona continued, “But I’m convinced there are treasures within Britain as well.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You must have an opinion on it,” Fiona leaned forward, and her heart hammered. “What do you think? Your good word would mean everything in giving me permission from Uncle Seymour to dig up the apple orchard.”

“I—” Lord Mulbourne stammered and stepped away.

For one moment Fiona thought he’d abandoned her. She peered into the crowd, and for a wild moment she even thought she recognized Graeme, the mail coach driver, but the thought was absurd. Drivers didn’t attend balls such as this one.

Lord Mulbourne returned soon, dragging Madeline behind him.

“Miss Amberly was telling me that she believed a Roman palace might be buried underneath her estate. And she wanted to know my opinion on the possibility of it.”

“Indeed.” Madeline sipped her drink.

“I know the subject has some controversy,” Fiona said. “Lord Mulbourne’s article on the Roman soldiers’ influence on Britain was fascinating.”

Madeline’s face rosied in obvious pride of her husband’s accomplishments; perhaps Fiona’s negative judgement of her had been inappropriate.

“But then you will believe,” Madeline said, “My husband’s opinion that the Romans left no art of any significance here, and that we must go to the Mediterranean to find the true treasures of the Roman Civilization.”

Lord Mulbourne cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Just what I was going to say. You always do manage to take the words straight out of my mouth, my dear.”