How to Capture a Duke(40)

Percival considered Lady Cordelia. Everyone assumed he would propose,  and it would be easy to do so. He clutched the package that held the  jewels and traced the sharp edges through the velvet bag.

The coach halted. By Zeus, it would be grand if it were some highwayman.  He could use a distraction now. But of course they were in the middle  of Mayfair, and the coach had halted at the dowager's London residence.

He clambered from the coach, his legs stiff and his heart nowhere prepared for what was to come.

He only had to climb a few steps before the butler swung the door open.

"Dearest Percy." The dowager stretched out her arms to him in an  uncharacteristic display of affection, assigning him a nickname he'd  never used. Thick ebony taffeta crushed against him, and the dowager  peered at him from famed, icy-blue eyes that her generation had lauded  as beautiful, but which now appeared simply cold.

"Aunt Georgiana," he murmured to his late uncle's wife, bestowing a similar affection.

A woman, slightly younger than the dowager and clothed in a tangerine  orange dress embellished with frills, regarded them. Her pale blonde  hair was tied in a dainty chignon, and she'd pasted a bland smile on her  face. She must be the Duchess of Belmonte, his new mother-in-law.

The dowager fixed a piercing gaze on him, and he sighed.

"You're late," she whispered.

"Yes."

"My nephew would never have been late for an event of such importance."  The dowager stepped away from him and laughed, even though neither of  them had said anything in the least bit amusing. She raised her voice.  "My delightful nephew managed to get on the wrong mail coach. He slept  almost all the way to Edinburgh, before he realized. And then he was  held up by all the bad weather."

"Indeed," the duchess said.

"Quite amusing," the dowager said. "Clearly he requires a wife."

The Duchess of Belmonte's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "All men do."

"Indeed." The dowager arranged her features into something resembling a smile.                       
       
           



       

She was gifted at knowing what worked best for appearances. Usually the  Duchess of Alfriston excelled at selecting the correct Staffordshire  china to match somewhat, but not overly, with the other decor. She  flaunted her knowledge of whether it was more appropriate to have the  chef cook roast goose or stuffed pig, serve brandy or port. She invited  the finest scientists and artists to her soirées and knew just when  they'd fallen from favor.

"You're just in time to prepare yourself for the winter ball," the dowager said. "Higgins is upstairs."

Right. He rubbed his hand through mussed locks. "How thoughtful of him."

"You're to look your best," she said sternly.

"Fortunately the man looks handsome," the duchess interjected.

Percival strove to garner enthusiasm. Instead he sighed. "Forgive me.  I'm tired. The long coach journey. Perhaps it is best if I do not come  tonight."

The two women were silent, and both their lips swerved downward.

Then his aunt chuckled, though the sound seemed strained. "Ah, my  darling nephew is amusing. The things he says. Of course you will  attend, my dear. You mustn't think you can fool me." She turned to the  other duchess. "The man does like to jest. As if he wasn't able to sleep  in the coach. Why, my nephew cannot wait to meet your daughter!"

"Yes," Percival said finally. "My aunt knows me too well."

A tightness in the duchess's jaw eased. "Good."

"It will be a pleasure." Percival bowed and headed up the stairs,  grateful for the bannister as he pulled himself up the marble staircase,  as pain still shot through his leg and heart.

Higgins, his valet, waited for him at the top of the steps, and he succumbed to the man's ministrations.





Chapter Twenty-five




The ball resembled all the other London balls, and Percival steeled his  jaw as he wound his way through sumptuously attired people, their faces  enhanced by the soft candlelight and the previous toil of their valets  and ladies' maids.

Laughter from the dance floor wafted toward him. Men and women swirled,  and their fingers touched as they formed intricate patterns to the sound  of the up-tempo violins. This time he did not regret the loss of his  leg. He'd never had less of a desire to dance.

"You haven't forgotten the jewels?" The dowager lowered her voice to a whisper.

"No."

She'd asked him when they'd entered the coach, and when they'd departed. He still hadn't left the gems anywhere.

"You must propose at once," she declared. "No time for contemplation."

He raised his eyebrows.

"And then you'll be able to devote the whole evening to celebration. Quite in the Christmas spirit."

"I should speak with Lady Cordelia." He would grant his aunt that much.  It was ridiculous to find themselves on the verge of marrying without  actually having met.

The dowager's shoulders relaxed, and he scoured the ballroom, searching for some doe-eyed beauty.

Balls in London were a rarity at this time of year. Most of the ton had  escaped to sprawling country estates they deemed cozy, and anyone left  seemed to be at this one. Christmas Day had passed, but garlands dangled  from every ceiling, and the aroma of mulled wine still wafted through  the room. No one would stop celebrating the season until Twelfth Night.

A few people directed curious looks at him, and their gazes lingered on  his cane and wooden leg. He glowered and did his best impression of a  haughty duke, satisfied only when the cheeks of the nosiest guests  pinkened in what he hoped was a result of guilt and not just from the  culmination of copious imbibing of alcohol.

He felt someone's gaze on him, and he turned his head. Likely the elusive Lady Cordelia. Instead his heart tumbled.

Lord Somerville glowered at him. Beside him stood a couple gentlemen  whom Percival did not recognize, though they seemed to have decided that  abhorrence was the favored emotion to direct at him. Their dark  coloring and lanky figures resembled Somerville's. These must be the  man's brothers.

Percival tightened his grip on his cane, conscious of his deformity under the scrutiny of the Worthings. "One moment."

"You desire to speak with them?" The dowager sniffed. "At least they're titled. But you mustn't forget-"

"I won't." The ring burned in his pocket.

Percival wound his way through the clusters of finely attired guests,  wondering at the swiftness at which the gossip must have traveled, until  he stood before the man who'd once called him a brother.

Somerville's frown had not lessened, and the earl lowered his torso in an exaggerated bow. "Your Grace."                       
       
           



       

Percival flinched at the man's obvious sarcasm.

"May I present my brothers, Your Grace?" He turned to the swarthiest man. "This is the Marquess of Highgate."

"I have heard much about you, Your Grace."

Percival gave the marquess a tight, unreturned smile.

"And this," Somerville continued, "Is our youngest brother, Mr. Worthing."

"Pleased to meet you," Percival said.

Somerville nodded. "You might find it extraordinary, but those are actually their true names. Quite unusual."

Percival sighed. "I am sorry-"

Somerville raised his hand. "No need to apologize. I'm a mere earl,  after all. Not prone to understanding the ways of the greater  aristocrats. I'll only say that you gave no indication of being under  duress. Instead you seemed content in the company of my wife's sister."

"I was happy," Percival croaked. "Believe me."

"You smeared her reputation."

Percival's shoulders slumped. The man was right. Percival had only hurt Fiona. He swallowed hard. "I don't see the countess."

Somerville frowned. "She's supervising the packing. We're departing for  Yorkshire in the morning. I'm only here now to socialize with my  brothers."

"Right." Percival stiffened. He knew when he'd been dismissed. "If you  see Miss Amberly, please assure her of my utmost condolences."

"How polite," Somerville said. "To be frank though, she needs rather  more than that. And Your Grace, you're not the person to bestow it."

Percival steeled his jaw. He wanted to smooth things over, not worsen  them. But clearly the thought was ridiculous. He couldn't help Fiona.  He'd only harmed her.

He scanned the ballroom.

"Are you searching for Lady Cordelia?" The marquess tilted his head.

"Perhaps."

"That's all her mother has spoken about."

"Right." Percival tightened his grasp on his cane, conscious of three pairs of glaring eyes on him.