"Rosamund said it was easy to convince any man to marry someone. One had five paths to do it. The first path was dazzling them, by being pretty and feminine and everything wonderful." Sir Seymour turned and kissed his wife's hand. "Just like my lovely, beautiful bride."
Percival nodded, and a cold chill spread through him. By Zeus, it was bloody difficult to see Sir Seymour as completely lacking in morals. Not when he treated his own wife with such consideration. His shoulders sank, and he wondered if just perhaps Sir Seymour might be saying something of importance after all.
"And the second cause is by befriending them-feigning delight in the things that interested them." Sir Seymour paused. "I take it that my niece did not do that?"
"No." Percival shook his head, but Sir Seymour merely chuckled. The baronet curled his lips upward, revealing teeth tainted by likely frequent consumption of sweets.
"The other method is by ignoring them. Clearly she didn't do that. Otherwise she would have let you be in the coach." Sir Seymour chuckled.
Percival stilled. The horde of elegantly attired people seemed to arch toward him, and he was conscious of the faint fluttering of ladies' fans. The decorative items' proclivity toward feathers and dramatic colors did not mask their owners' open interest in the conversation.
Sir Seymour turned to his wife. "Now what were the other tricks? It was all most clever. Most clever indeed. Ah ha!" He steepled his fingers. "The other trick was mystifying them-well, there may have been a bit of that. But you know what I truly think she did, the clever minx?"
Sir Seymour's wife tugged the man's arm. "Do you truly think you should be telling him all that?"
Sir Seymour grinned. "My niece is married. She won't mind if I reveal all her insights."
"But His Grace might not appreciate-"
"His Grace will appreciate not being married to a calculating madwoman. I think His Grace should be ever so thankful to me."
"I highly doubt that," Percival said.
Sir Seymour tilted his head. "And still you stand here before me, even though your leg must hurt ever so much."
Percival stiffened. The throbbing intensified under the baronet's fixed stare.
"The last rule is simple. Capture them! Keep them alone." Sir Seymour chuckled. "I thought it was a joke myself. I thought surely no one would do that. But didn't Rosamund give the list to her sister? And didn't Fiona capture you? And force you to be in her company? Taking you in that tiny sleigh to Harrogate? Only to turn around? The magistrate said she even insisted on spending the night with you."
"You shouldn't speak about your niece like that." Percival whitened and leaned forward. "I am afraid we are of great risk of being overheard."
People tittered behind him. Percival didn't recognize the people, but he knew they were important gentry in Yorkshire. It wouldn't be long before word would spread to London, haunting him, haunting Fiona.
"She's not here to defend herself," Percival said. "Don't speak of family in that way."
"Oh, I wouldn't call her family." Sir Seymour shook his head. "Relation perhaps, but I'm going to hope that the relationship remains ever so distant."
"I am sure she feels similarly toward you," Percival said, though he did not put much force in his words. Perhaps Fiona had calculated everything, learned of his trip by some deceitful method, and waylaid the course. Perhaps all the emotion he felt toward her was completely false.
"It's a foolish man who does not heed warnings."
"She doesn't desire marriage. She's not some fresh debutante eager to connect herself with a titled man. She's content with her work. She's amazing." Percival smiled now, eager to distract himself with thoughts of Fiona. Pondering her easily led to smiling.
"On the contrary, she's in desperate need of a husband. Once her grandmother dies, she might not have the opportunity to live at Cloudbridge Castle anymore."
"Surely you would not force her out! She adores the castle."
Sir Seymour sighed. "And yet she is not my daughter, merely my niece, and one who thinks I do not notice when she rolls her eyes at me. I adore my wife. Very much. I've no desire to taint the time we have together by having a niece whom neither of us are fond of live with us so she might tear up the beautiful apple orchard."
"I am quite fond of apples," Sir Seymour's wife added.
"You see?" Sir Seymour asked. "My hands are tied."
"Thank you for informing us. We are most appreciative," Arthur said. "You can be assured that my brother will have nothing else to do with her."
Sir Seymour nodded. "You are quite welcome." He paused. "My wife is quite fond of Sussex, should you ever see fit to invite-"
"I doubt we will see you again," Percival said. "Unless we are at a ball, in which case I would hope that we can put sufficient space between us."
"Ah . . . This is most unpleasant business," Sir Seymour said.
"Indeed." Arthur gave a curt bow and dragged Percival toward the exit. Bows had become a more difficult thing in recent months, and Percival did not deign to attempt one before the baron.
Lead seemed to have replaced his heart, and he strained against the pressing weight constricting his chest. He attempted to force Sir Seymour's words from his mind, but they kept on returning. The baronet believed them. That much was evident. He believed Percival had been woefully manipulated and that it was his aristocratic duty to warn him about her. And perhaps the man was indeed correct.
Percival's shoulders sagged. Perhaps Percival had been too eager to be flattered, too eager to believe a woman existed who might admire him for his own merits, even when that included a leg count that ended in one, and even when that consisted of a woman not knowing, or not believing he was truly a duke.
He shook his head. He'd been warned there were women everywhere who would be eager to join themselves to his money.
Perhaps Percival was simply naïve, unsuited for the role of duke. Perhaps it would be unwise for Percival to completely ignore their opinions.
Even if Sir Seymour lacked gallantry toward his niece, the man was likely held with more than a modicum of respect in his own circles. His own wife seemed pleased with him, which was more than Percival could say for many aristocratic marriages. More than he'd hoped for in his own marriage with Lady Cordelia.
His brother turned to him. "Let's go."
Percival followed him through the crowd of men and women, their satins and silks gleaming in the flickering light of the eight-hour candles. His wooden leg clicked against the unfamiliar black and white marble floor, and his leg ached as he pushed through the swarm of guests. The faces ranged from sympathetic to curious, but he didn't want either emotion from these people.
His hands tightened around his cane. This wasn't supposed to be his role. He wasn't supposed to become a duke. He was supposed to live a simpler life, and perhaps the dowager was correct in her ill-masked worry about the fate of the dukedom under his surveillance.
He'd been so close to giving the ring to Fiona. So close to divulging that he wanted nothing more than to join their lives together, to have her spark and her empathy always by his side.
His shoulders sagged. He'd been a fool. He should have learned at Waterloo that it was wrong to hope for anything more. He should have learned then that his life should only be focused on fulfilling the dreams of his cousin. Bernard had sacrificed himself for him, and he should not repay that sacrifice a mere six months later by tying himself to a chit who had found herself hauled off to the magistrate's prison.
Arthur held the door open for him, and they exited the ballroom. They pulled on their great coats and top hats in silence. The servants eyed them, curiosity visible. He wondered what story they would spread to the downstairs workers.
Fiona was right to be frightened of the ton. Unless she wasn't frightened and only wanted to isolate him . . .
He shook his head. He needed to speak with her. Even now, that's all he wanted to do.
"Soon you'll be with Lady Cordelia, and this will all be in the past. It's a good thing you wrote," Arthur said. "Seems like you got yourself embroiled in something quite nasty."
"I-"
Arthur sighed. "Look. You're my brother. Of course I'm bound to worry about you. But I don't like the manner in which your eyes soften whenever anyone mentions the woman's name. And I don't like how argumentative you were with the baronet."