Percival's shoulders rose and dropped in a nonchalant fashion. His lips smirked, as if he found her distress amusing. The candlelight shimmered over him, sheathing him in a golden light. "Just enjoying the castle."
"Good," Fiona said uncertainly.
She'd expected the man to tell her he wanted to leave again, but he seemed content to lounge in the armchair.
Well. That was good, wasn't it?
Fiona swung her gaze, but no one was in the hallway. Grandmother was not a very vigilant chaperone.
"My . . . er . . . family is coming for dinner tonight."
"Your parents?" His words were casual, and she stiffened.
Her heart raced, and she dropped into the armchair opposite.
The smug expression on his face vanished immediately, replaced by something resembling worry. Percival's eyes were wide, and he leaned forward. "What's wrong?"
"They're dead," she said.
"Oh." He leaned back, and his expression sobered. "I'm sorry."
She forced herself to laugh. "You didn't know. It happened a while back."
"Both of them?"
She shifted her legs, tucking them under her chair, and smoothed her dress. The dark green fabric seemed fanciful, the forest color matching the greenery excessively. The satin ribbons gleamed, the bows were too festive, the cut too daring.
She missed her predictable grey gowns that honored her parents.
"Forgive me." Percival's velvety voice was deep and reassuring.
She lifted her gaze.
The man's blue eyes had darkened, and she squirmed under the intensity of his expression.
Her eyelashes fluttered down. It had happened so long ago, and it should have stopped being painful, but it wasn't. Her parents had died, and it was all her fault. Their coach had been driving too quickly, bounding into a boulder that shouldn't have been there, but which the driver would have seen if he hadn't been hastening.
She'd loved Christmas, and her parents had known it. Even though not everyone celebrated the holiday, she'd loved the scent of yule logs, loved the music of the wassailers, even when their voices were imperfect, and she'd loved the mistletoe and holly dangling from every archway in the castle.
"It was a coach crash," she said. "It happens all the time. A boulder was in the road, and that's all it took."
She felt his eyes resting on her and looked up.
"You said a tree was blocking the road yesterday." Percival's face was paler than before, not that it hampered the man's handsomeness.
"Yes."
"You really did just stop the coach to warn us," Percival said.
Fiona nodded. "I was surprised when your driver pointed a musket at me."
"I see." Percival shifted his lanky leg and rubbed his hand along the other one.
The thin material of his pantaloons gleamed under the flames from the red candles that sparkled from rod-iron chandeliers and sconces. The light accentuated his powerful thighs, until the material became loose at one of his knees, and a wooden leg poked from the bottom of his pantaloons.
"I shouldn't have pretended to be a highwaywoman," Fiona said, keeping her voice low. "I panicked when I saw the coach-driver's musket, and when the shots from the peasants fired, I took advantage of the situation. I wanted the driver's help in moving the tree. I thought I could explain everything to you in the coach, but when he disappeared, I panicked."
"I'm sorry." Percival's eyes softened, but then he cleared his throat. "Who's coming to dinner?"
"My Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Seymour. He's a baronet and acts like he owns the home. I suppose once Grandmother dies, he will."
"She's very sick?"
"Yes." Fiona said, unsettled by the tenderness in Percival's voice, and the manner in which his blue eyes rounded, as if he were concerned.
Sometimes it was all too easy to believe he really was her fiancé. Underneath all the man's bluster, he was sweet and gentle. She'd been willing to assign every bad quality of the ton to him. His concern for her was real. He understood her. And goodness, perhaps she understood him.
Just because a man possessed aristocratic features did not mean he didn't care about others. Percival had suffered. He'd lost his cousin and his leg. He could easily be wallowing at whatever apartment or estate he lived at, but instead he was independent. He traveled by himself, while Fiona, who had the advantage of excellent health, was too timid.
He was vivacious, easily charming Grandmother. Though Fiona found his symmetrical, sturdy features more fascinating than she cared to admit, it was the man's other qualities that most enchanted her.
A pang of sadness thrummed through her, and she shifted in her seat, as if the action might diminish the realization that Percival would never be her fiancé, and if this action was discovered, no man would ever be.
She straightened her shoulders, and strove to smile, no matter how foreign the gesture felt on her face. "Tell me about your fiancée."
Percival pulled his leg back, and his demeanor grew more formal. "She has a high reputation."
"Marvelous," Fiona chirped, sending him another wide smile that she didn't feel in the slightest. "How brilliant for you."
"Er . . . yes."
"And I imagine her hair is not red and curly."
"It is blonde and straight." Percival tilted his head, and she averted her eyes from his gaze.
"Like silk!" Fiona clapped her hands. "That's the best kind."
"So people say."
"They're right."
She tried to reflect on something else besides the copious charms of Mrs. Percival-to-be.
"I haven't actually met her," Percival said.
Fiona's eyelashes swooped up.
Carriage wheels scraped against the snow outside, and Fiona groaned. This was too soon. Far too soon.
Fiona's heartbeat quickened. She jumped to her feet and smoothed her dress frantically.
"You look beautiful," Percival said.
"Oh." She dropped her hand and stared at him. A faint tinge pinkened his cheekbones, as if he'd shared rather more than he'd intended, but he did not break his gaze from hers. His jaw was steady, and he nodded. "Green suits you."
"Thank you." Her voice wobbled, and her chest felt far too tight.
Percival gripped his cane and rose to his feet. "Now tell me, what should I do if they recognize me?"
"Why would they recognize you?"
He looked at her strangely. "They're members of the ton."
"But so are ten thousand other people. And you're from Sussex, and they live in Yorkshire. And you've been fighting in the Napoleonic Wars." She laughed. "Uncle Seymour has definitely not been doing that."
"Fiona … " A vein on Percival's temple throbbed. "I am a duke."
"Really?"
"I told you." Percival threw his arms up in an exasperated gesture. "I told you last night. I'm the Duke of Alfriston."
"But-" Fiona swallowed hard. "I didn't believe you. I thought that was just something you said to avoid being captured."
"I told you the truth."
"Oh." Fiona wound her arms together, holding them in front of her stomach. The hollow pit feeling spread.
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?"