How to Capture a Duke(23)

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!"





Chapter Fourteen




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."