How to Capture a Duke(2)

"My husband?" Madeline's voice faltered.

"I would like to speak to him about some findings … "

"Oh." Madeline's long black eyelashes swooped down over her eyes. "Perhaps I might be of some use-"

Fiona shook her head. The less people she told about the apple orchard  the better. The ones she had told already thought her mad for believing  there was a Roman palace buried underneath there. Her cousin was not the  type to lend herself to confidences; she was far too fond of gossip.

Right now it was more important that Madeline did not learn of Fiona's  supposed engagement; her cousin was the largest gossip in Yorkshire.  Fiona had no inclination to be a laughingstock, and any hope of the  credulity and support the baron might give her theory on the Roman  palace would be destroyed if he were to discover she'd invented a  fiancé.                       
       
           



       

Though she'd long abandoned any aspirations to marry, she couldn't stand  the thought that all her work, all the carefully collected and recorded  artefacts, would lose all significance because their finder was deemed a  foolish girl. No one would donate funds so that the rest of the palace  might be dug from the ground, and any mosaics, any sculptures, any  pottery would remain firmly in the earth to be forgotten.

Fiona's conviction that a Roman palace lay under the apple orchard would  be deemed ridiculous, and anyone she told would be reminded in giggling  tones that Fiona also had insisted she was betrothed to a wonderful  man, when the man had turned out to be entirely imaginary.

The coach pulled in before Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona exhaled. Gray  stones blended into the harsh gray sky above, as the castle thrust its  jagged turrets, defenses from a former age, into the sky. In another age  her ancestors would have warred against the neighboring aristocrats;  now they were supposed to be friends, simply for their shared status.

Her cousin exited the coach and glided toward the butler, padding her  lace boots over the cobblestones. Fiona lifted her gray dress and  proceeded. The coarse wool prickled her fingers, and she stumbled on a  worn cobble.

"Madeline." Grandmother's astonished voice rang out from the open door of the castle, and Fiona quickened her pace.

Murmurings sounded. Fiona couldn't decipher her cousin's doubtlessly  refined answer. Madeline's delicate soprano voice never carried, a fact  her cousin had exploited once she discovered she could make snide  comments about everyone, assured that only her seat companion would be  able to hear.

Fiona entered to discover Grandmother leading Madeline toward the Great  Hall. So much for any hope of speaking with Grandmother alone. Fiona  followed them, her dress swishing against the antiques cramming the  narrow hallway.

"I was just telling Fiona that I was so hoping you might grace us with your presence at this year's annual Christmas ball."

Grandmother laughed as they settled into the velvety armchairs that  surrounded the table in the Great Hall. "My days of balls are behind me,  though Fiona might attend."

"How splendid." Madeline clapped her hands together.

Fiona moved a finger to her collar, brushing against her mother's  favorite brooch. "Thank you for inviting me, but I fear I cannot accept  the invitation."

"But dearest!" Grandmother exclaimed.

Fiona stood up, coughing. "I fear I'm getting a cold. You must go,  Madeline. I would not want to inflict anything so despicable on my  dearest cousin."

Madeline's thick eyelashes, far longer and more elegant than Fiona  deemed necessary, fluttered downward as she blinked. "I'm sure I do not  fear any cold that you might have."

"Then you are a brave woman, baroness." Fiona strove to keep her face solemn.

"But you truly should consider attending!" Her cousin leaned forward,  and her eyes sparkled. Her voice took on an affable tone at odds with  the smug manner she seemed to favor. "I'm sure we can find you an  eligible bachelor with whom to dance. Cousin Cecil is attending."

"Indeed."

"Why, he shows as little interest for dancing as you do! Uncle Seymour  and Aunt Lavinia say it is sure to be an ideal match. He has no title,  but not everyone can be sufficiently fortunate to marry a man with one."  She beamed, perhaps contemplating her own accomplishment at acquiring a  baron.

Fiona strove to nod politely, thinking it best not to mention that she  suspected it was not within Cousin Cecil's nature to find doing much of  anything with a woman appealing.

A maid appeared with tea.

"You must find yourself a husband," Madeline said. "It is the natural  course of things, and your sister is no longer here to keep you company.  And the ball will be marvelous. They always are."

"How delightful." Grandmother picked up the teapot and poured tea into a cup. "And by then Fiona's-"

Fiona coughed. Not in the most elegant manner, but she was aiming for loudness, not delicacy.

Madeline moved back a fraction, and Grandmother's eyebrows jolted up.

"My dearest, you are doing quite poorly. I don't think I've ever heard you cough quite like that. It was as if-"

"As if you were trying to emulate a carriage." Madeline bit into a sweet.

Grandmother fixed her gaze on the baroness. "I wouldn't have termed it in quite that manner."

"Oh, yes!" Madeline said. "The kind with multiple horses, and driving on poorly maintained roads. Like in Scotland!"

Fiona's chest constricted. At this moment she could only hope her  grandmother had thoroughly forgotten everything Fiona had ever told her  about Captain Knightley. She heaped a generous amount of sugar into her  teacup, snatched a silver spoon, and stirred the tea with vigor.                       
       
           



       

"I might not be well enough for the Christmas ball." Fiona touched her forehead and ventured another cough.

"My dear!" Grandmother's hand flickered to her chest, and Fiona cursed the lie. Grandmother worried far too much.

"I mean, I am sure I will eventually recover, but-"

"Splendid!" Madeline nodded. "The ball is not until Christmas Day, and  you will have four days during which you might make your recovery."

"I am wary of risking the health of the other guests."

"I have the utmost confidence in your health." Madeline accepted the cup  Fiona's grandmother offered and raised it to her perfectly formed lips.  "It would be odd indeed if everyone in Yorkshire were attempting to  sound like carriages."

Fiona gulped her tea. The hot liquid swirled down her throat, and she  grabbed the teapot to pour herself more, sloshing tea over the delicate  lace tablecloth. Heat prickled the back of her neck, and her hands shook  as she sopped up the amber puddle with a napkin.

"And of course," Madeline's clear voice continued, "We were also sorry  to miss having you last year, and the year before as well. But then I  suppose you might find it uncomfortable, now that you've reached such an  advanced age with no husband-"

Grandmother's mouth opened, and she seemed more alert than normal.

"I must go." Fiona leaped up. Perhaps if Fiona hastened, her cousin would follow and then-

"She's already got one!" Grandmother beamed and selected a sweet. "Next year she'll be hosting her own festivities."

Fiona stiffened.

"Excuse me?" Madeline halted, and a knot in Fiona's stomach hardened. Of  all the times for Grandmother to be vocal. Nothing delighted Madeline  more than gossip, and her ties to London were strong.

Fiona's knees wobbled, and she sank back into her chair. If the world were ending, she may as well be comfortable.

"Surely Fiona hasn't found a husband?" Madeline leaned forward, and a smile played on her lips.

"She has." Grandmother gave a contented sigh.

Madeline's smile broadened to an almost unladylike extent. "However did you find a husband?"

"Fiancé." Fiona's voice wobbled at the lie. "That's all."

"Mm-hmm!" Madeline turned her gaze to the window and the jagged curves  of the Dales, scattered with snow. "Who knew it would be so simple to  find a fiancé here?"

The landscape seemed rather devoid of any dwellings, much less one belonging to an appropriate husband-to-be.

"He's . . . er . . . away!" Fiona said.

"I can't make his acquaintance?" Madeline's tone was mournful, even  though her eyes seemed to sparkle with something very much resembling  mirth. "He's not an officer, is he?"

"That's it!" Fiona said. "So he's very much gone."

Madeline's perfectly groomed eyebrows arched up. "How astonishing. What's his name?"

"Um …  We're trying to keep the engagement secret now," Fiona said. "I hope you can be understanding."