"I don't know … " Percival rubbed his hand over his leg.
"Lady Cordelia is still available."
"I thought the Duke of Carlisle was courting her."
Arthur shrugged. "Apparently he died."
"Dreadful."
"I imagine he was grateful he lasted so long, what with all his indulgence for vices."
Percival nodded, though his jaw was decidedly more tightened than it had been earlier in the conversation. "I'm not marrying Lady Cordelia for anyone."
"Naturally." His brother leaned forward. "But are you sure you shouldn't marry her for you?"
"I-" He tilted his head and blinked.
His brother gave a cocky grin and poured some more brandy into his tumbler. "I must say the very best brandy comes from France. Don't you agree?"
"Why would I want to marry Lady Cordelia?"
"Because despite all your protestations against the match, she remains very suitable."
"She cares about balls."
"And you claim you don't anymore." His brother smiled. "You complement each other perfectly."
"We should have somewhat more in common."
"You would have your future wife, the mother of your children, take an interest in gaming halls and racquetball?" Arthur tsked, and warmth prickled the back of Percival's neck. "Hauling that wooden leg around does seem frightfully cumbersome. Might be nice not to have to go from house party to house party to court someone."
Percival nodded. The leg was a blasted pain. Sometimes he still felt it, still woke up and felt it aching. But more often he felt his thigh, and the way his wooden stump pressed against the remainder of his leg. He didn't like to complain about the pain and the irritating necessity to clean it. After all, he was lucky.
"Your jaunts about Europe are behind you. You know that. What you need is a nice, sweet woman who will manage your household and your friends, so you won't need to."
"You make it sound so simple."
"Or I could compile a list of other suitable matches?"
Percival shook his head. He was tired of all of it. "Wouldn't want to delay the process of living happily ever after."
Arthur laughed. "You sound like you've been reading fairy-tales. But I don't like seeing you unhappy. A pretty woman will ease your troubles, and a marriage will ease your conscience."
Arthur was right, and Percival slumped his shoulders.
Perhaps he'd protested Lady Cordelia's qualities, but he'd never attempted to truly get to know her. He'd been too quick to see in her all the qualities of the ton he despised, but he'd also not taken the time to appreciate her good qualities.
He certainly hadn't fallen for any debutantes that season. When he lay in bed, his mind dwelled on soft, rosy cheeks, curly red hair and emerald eyes. He reached for a curved figure beside him who was not there. Would never be there.
His face tightened. "I need to prepare for tonight."
"I'll join you," Arthur said. "It's always amusing observing your struggle with Higgins."
Percival made his way upstairs, clasping the banister firmly. He swept his gaze around, taking in the high ceilings and the view of the estate.
Arthur was right. This place was too large for just him. It needed a family.
His valet cleared his throat. "Shall we commence?"
"You may torture me."
His valet's eyes glinted, and he chose a starchy cravat.
Percival shuddered. "Perhaps you needn't torture me to such an extent."
"It's very fashionable, Your Grace. Clean, crisp lines." Higgins fixed him with an expression of bemusement.
"The man's right," Arthur said cheerfully, passing him some brandy.
At least his brother had had the foresight to carry the crystal tumblers upstairs. Arthur stretched out on Percival's armchair, swung his legs onto a velvet ottoman, and read the butler's carefully ironed paper.
Percival narrowed his eyes as Higgins approached with the cravat. "I wore that bloody concoction last Friday."
"For the Dowager Duchess's ball. That was very good of Your Grace. But the locals might expect a similar degree of formality." Higgins leaned closer. "I've heard the Prince Regent is rumored to make an appearance."
"Well if he is," Percival replied, "I can guarantee he'll be looking at the bloody food, and not my cravat."
"Your Grace! I'm not sure one can speak of the future king in such a manner." Flustered, the man fumbled for a silver tray and handed him an envelope. "I believe, Your Grace, that this is an invitation to Brighton."
"My word." Percival grabbed hold of the stiff envelope and he glided his fingers over the embossed gold letters and the red seal depicting the Royal Pavilion. "Already getting mail here? I suppose I really am a duke now."
"Indeed, Your Grace." Higgins' smile faltered somewhat.
Percival nodded, not for the first time wondering how easy it had been for Higgins to switch from calling him My Lord. Percival hadn't found the transition nearly as easy. He sighed. "Bernard would have been so much better at this."
"Your cousin was gifted."
Percival removed the seal and scanned the invitation. A summer at the Brighton Pavilion with the Regent himself. What could be more pleasant?
He attempted to draw up some of the joy that he was sure Bernard would have been feeling at such an invitation. But the only thing he could think about was that Brighton was bloody far removed from Yorkshire. Which was ridiculous, because he had no need to be in Yorkshire again. Being a duke did not come naturally to him, and his estate would hardly be helped were he to be coupled to an anti-social wife who was open in her dislike of the ton and modern society.
Fiona had agreed it was for the best that the two never saw each other again. And since Fiona displayed a definite dislike of London that seemed like a very firm possibility.
"But perhaps you would like to be more adventurous during the summer." Higgins buttoned Percival's waistcoat. "Now that the war has ended, people are returning to Europe."
"Yes, must be filled with lots of middle-aged men reliving their Grand Tour." Percival sniffed, though in truth the idea didn't sound half bad.
"Perhaps, Your Grace, they are congregating there because they have already visited and possess familiarity with its charms." Higgins picked up a white linen.
"My generation's experience there was imperfect." Percival said, envisioning the sprawling battlefield in Waterloo. Normally he would shut his eyes tight or demand a glass of brandy, but instead he attempted to control his breaths. One day perhaps the images of carnage, the pangs of killing, and the guilt for surviving when abler men than he had fallen would fade. He bit his bottom lip. "I suppose Europe has its charms."
"I've heard quite good things about Paris, Your Grace."
Percival shrugged. "That blasted Corsican's former capital? Not for me."
"But the architecture-"
"By Zeus, this isn't something my younger sister has put you up to, is it?"
"No, no," Higgins sputtered.
Percival relaxed his shoulders. His sister had a habit of over-idealizing Paris.
"I'd adore the chance to go to Italy," Arthur mused. "Venezia. Firenze. Roma."
Percival swung his head over to Arthur. The man's accent was surprisingly good. Sometimes he underestimated his brother.
"Why just today I was reading in the newspaper about two ladies who were planning to travel," Higgins said. "If ladies can do it, you can consider it. Even with your foot."
Percival smiled. "I am pleased at your confidence in me."
"Yes, one of the ladies was a bit of an archaeologist. That's what she called it. Sounded most interesting. She's been finding all sorts of interesting things in the ground over here."
"A female archaeologist?"
Percival's heart lurched. Fiona. His heart hammered, and he attempted to snatch the newspaper from his brother. For a moment he forgot about his leg, and he grimaced when he failed to find his footing the first time.
"What female archaeologist?" He said hoarsely, taking another swig of brandy.
"Some chit's been digging near Chichester."
"Oh." Percival slumped back into his armchair. He closed his eyes. Clearly archaeology was simply spreading at a more rapid pace than he'd expected. Fiona wouldn't have found herself on the south coast. She was a Northerner to the core. She'd told him even going to Harrogate was an unusual event.
He sighed. He'd hoped that she'd been able to secure her uncle's permission to dig up the apple orchard. He wanted her to receive the renown she deserved.
"Yes. She's going up north next. Should be there now. A Miss Fiona Amberly … "