How to Capture a Duke(20)

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."