"Fiona?" Percival dropped the crystal tumbler, and brandy splattered on the floor.
"I say!" Arthur rubbed a hand though his hair. "Just because you've inherited everything doesn't mean you need to go around smashing it all."
Percival snatched the newspaper from his brother and scanned it furiously until he saw Fiona's name. His heart lurched in his chest. It was her. His Fiona. She'd been in Sussex.
The woman who abhorred leaving the confines of her family's estate was digging up a site, just like she'd always dreamed of. It wasn't Cloudbridge Castle, not the place she always dreamed of excavating, but it was amazing.
He perused the newspaper. She'd discovered things. And what's more, she'd been developing a system of measuring where the items were found and labeling them to help future researchers. She wasn't just interested in getting her hands on a pretty Roman vase to display. She was interested in the cultural history of the objects, and her research was developing a new way to look at the Romans in Britain.
She'd gone out and changed her life even though he couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do so. No one dug up ruins, least of all women.
He sighed. He still missed her. He'd miss her every day of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that it wasn't to be.
"Ah . . . I see you're interested, Your Grace. Apparently they're both going to Italy soon."
Percival dropped the newspaper, and the cream-colored pages fluttered downward. Higgins dove to catch it.
"They're not planning to visit alone?"
Surely they possessed a modicum of sense. Fiona was content wiling away her days digging in the dirt behind Cloudbridge Castle. She couldn't even stand London. She had told him that.
And Italy-Italy was far away. Why, one had to first cross the channel, and then make one's way over France-an experience probably filled with scowling peasants glaring over battered vineyards, and then one had to traipse over the Alps in whatever ridiculous contraption the Europeans called a carriage, staying at horrid inns. And after doing all of that, one's reward was being in Italy, which had just survived a war.
If she went, would she ever want to face the journey back?
He rubbed his chest, deciding to ignore the manner in which Higgins' bottom lip toppled down, as if Percival had declared a preference for pink pantaloons or Scottish kilts.
"I believe they will travel on their own, Your Grace."
"Right."
Higgins placed the cravat round Percival's neck. "I'm sure they'll take care of each other, Your Grace."
"Let's hope!" Percival released another strangled yelp when Higgins tightened the knot that earned him a raised eyebrow from his valet. "But-"
His valet's carefully groomed eyebrow arched higher, and he narrowed his eyes, holding each end of the snowy-white monstrosity.
She would be in Italy, right in the home of the Romans. He couldn't offer her that. Any travel was painful for him, and he was tied to this blasted estate. Unlike Cloudbridge Castle, he hadn't heard any rumors of ancient ruins in this vicinity.
"Here's the mirror, Your Grace. You're all set for this evening."
Percival picked up the carved handle gingerly. The gold sheet glimmered in a manner he couldn't strictly describe as masculine, but he obediently peered into the looking glass.
The knot was splendid. Elaborate and tied with a real flourish.
"You'll have all the ladies eye you at the ball, Your Grace." Higgins' voice was filled with pride.
"It's a shame that the other men's valets won't be there to admire your good work."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Higgins bowed his head.
Percival brushed his fingers against the knot, running his finger over the crisp edges. It was perfect. It always was.
"You look like a proper duke," Higgins said.
Percival sighed. "I rather fancy that you're correct."
He could act the part of duke. He could marry Lady Cordelia, just like his aunt wanted, and receive more and more praise for conforming to the expectations of his role.
Soon people might forget about Bernard and think Percival had always been duke, and he'd never been the hastily installed cousin, criticized for spending too much time outside the ton.
He tore off his cravat, observing as Higgins' face transformed from bemusement to horror as the man's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. Percival flung the now-wrinkled linen on the bed.
"But your Grace!"
"Please inform the groom to prepare the carriage."
Percival pressed his lips together, and Higgins nodded. "Ah, yes. You needn't worry. It's being prepared for the ball."
"No." Percival gripped his cane with vigor. "I rather fear I have another destination in my mind. A place somewhat farther removed."
"You're going after Lady Cordelia after all?" Arthur beamed. "Such a romantic."
Percival was on the verge of something. He was sure of it. If Fiona could go traipsing around Italy, looking at art with a person Percival remembered her despising, Percival could make some changes too.
He considered Fiona. Lord, she'd been brave.
"I will not attend the ball tonight."
"But, the Prince Regent!"
"He can be there without me. Please pack my things. I am going to settle my life."
Chapter Twenty-eight
He loved her.
And he'd never told her. She didn't know, and now she was off to the southern-most tip of all of Europe.
He clenched his fingers together. But there was no one he could fight. Only himself.
The whole thing was absurd. It would be easy to go to the local ball, meet all of Sussex's most prominent men and women, and chat with the Prince Regent. That's what he was supposed to do.
He certainly wasn't supposed to direct his driver to head hundreds of miles in the opposite direction. Traveling from London had been sufficiently painful.
But if there was a single chance Fiona might return his affection-by Zeus, he'd be the largest fool on earth if he didn't try to plead for her. His chest clenched, but he ordered a servant to put his still unpacked valise in the carriage.
"Should I come with you to see the fair Lady Cordelia?" Arthur asked.
"No."
"You're not much of a host," Arthur complained.
Percival tried to chuckle. He was doing the most exciting thing he'd ever done. Possibly also the most foolish, but it was far too easy to imagine Fiona beside him. For the rest of their lives. He blinked. He wanted to brace himself for the pain of her likely dismissal, but he'd been doing that in London the entire winter and most of the spring. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't live in a world where he hadn't attempted everything to see if they could be together.
Likely he'd need to live in a world where she'd tossed him aside. Later he would deal with that.
He scrambled outside, dragging his bad leg over the uneven cobblestones.
The groom scurried to swing open the door to the carriage.
"You got it ready quickly," Percival said, noting the new horses. "Thank you."
The groom nodded. "Where would you like to go, Your Grace?"
"Yorkshire."
The word was ridiculous. They'd just traveled practically all the way to the south coast, but he'd have to leave gazing at the ocean for another day. There was only one being, one wonderful, wonderful person he wanted to gaze at now.
The groom's facial muscles flickered, but he retained a stoic expression. "Then we'd better get moving."
***
Of course they hadn't been able to drive the whole night. The horses required rest, and even with switching horses, the trip lengthened to a multi-day journey. Percival had never felt more that he lacked control. He attempted to tell himself that Fiona would be accepting of him, but all he remembered was her hardened face the last time he'd seen her.
He'd been a fool then.
Perhaps Fiona would think Percival not worth the inconvenience of being chained to a man who was required to make frequent appearances in society, who needed to spend significant time in Sussex, and who suffered from a deformity.
He gritted his teeth. Fiona was wise, and if she thought those things, she would be right to.
Percival might be strong now, but he didn't want to consider the future. Most men clung to canes in their old age; he did it now. What would he be like later on? His chest tightened, and a familiar jolt of pain surged though his leg.
He pushed the velvet curtain aside. The Dales loomed outside, their dark green peaks reminding him of places he couldn't venture anymore. He scrunched his fists together.
He'd told the driver to go to Fiona's cousin's home, and he struggled to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. He brushed his hand over his cheeks and met rough stubble. He hadn't dared to take the time to shave at the last coaching inn they'd stopped at.