How to Capture a Duke(52)

Her husband strode into the room. The man was growing increasingly at  ease with his cane, and his blue eyes brightened when his gaze found  hers. Higgins had clearly managed to convince Percival to allow him to  tie one of his more elaborate cravat knots, and her husband was a  vision. His black trousers tightened around his muscular thighs, and his  chestnut hair glimmered against his black coat.

Warmth never failed to rush through her at the sight of him. "You look like a complete Corinthian, my dear."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment, given your obsession with everything Classical."

"I'm afraid I must bore you dreadfully."

"Not bore. Not for one second. You enchant me." Percival grasped her  hands in his, and warmth soared through her. He nodded and lifted his  chin, and in that moment he looked every bit as grand as the most  impressive statues in the new British Museum. He winked. "Appropriate  for the Scarlet Demon."

She chuckled, but she knew the fact was true. Despite Percival's once  easy dismissal of art, the man enjoyed discussing her finds and the  historical significance.

Carriage wheels ground against the frozen cobblestones, and Percival squeezed her hands. "They're arriving."

Fiona inhaled. There'd been a time when she'd hidden from the world,  seeing each social occasion as an unwanted intrusion and scrutiny into  her life.

"Come, sweetheart." Percival offered her his arm. "We have a ball to attend."

Fiona slid her fingers against his velvet tailcoat. She tilted up her  face, and he brushed his lips against hers. He uttered a moan, or maybe  she did.

Percival withdrew and he flickered his gaze to the bed. "I would be  quite happy if Evans told the guests we'd both gotten sick and that they  should enjoy the festivities without us."

"That would be most inappropriate."

"If you insist, sweetheart." Percival opened the bedroom door, and they exited. "I'm forever being captured by you."

Fiona giggled. "Our children are going to roll their eyes at you."

"Children?" Percival swallowed hard.

"Well, the plural might be premature."

The noise of the ball was louder, and the scent of Christmas grew  stronger as they proceeded down the hallway. The servants had draped  garlands of greenery over every arch and looped the luscious leaves from  the ceiling.

Fiona had spent so many years dreading large celebrations like this, but now she was hosting her own.

She smiled at all the people gathered there. She wanted them all to feel  welcome, even the shyer wallflowers, and more awkward bluestockings.

They greeted Arthur, Rosamund and her husband, and a swarm of new people she was enjoying becoming acquainted with.

"Are you perhaps-" Percival ran his hand through his hair. The man's  tongue did not seem to function as well as it normally did, and his gaze  lingered again on her stomach.                       
       
           



       

Fiona laughed. A footman offered Percival and her some appetizers. She sniffed and waved the platter away with a smile.

"Darling." Percival inhale. "Can you be-"

"Ah, Fiona." Uncle Seymour's voice boomed in her ear. "So . . . er . . . delightful to see you."

"Uncle." She smiled and allowed him to kiss her cheek.

Percival still looked somewhat stunned, but he managed to raise his eyebrows.

"My niece, the duchess," Uncle Seymour continued, his voice maintaining its consistent fortissimo.

"Her uncle, the baronet." Percival bowed.

"How is Cloudbridge Castle?" Fiona asked.

"Ah, yes!" Uncle Seymour said. "Very nice. You should consider visiting some time."

"And sleep in the tiny guestroom?" Percival asked.

Uncle Seymour shifted his legs. "No, ah, that won't be necessary.  We-well I could offer my room to you. It would only be proper. It would  be an . . . er . . . great honor to see you again."

Percival's mouth twitched, and Fiona murmured gratitude for the invitation.

Uncle Seymour took a deep sip of negus. "And . . . er . . . if you happen to still be interested in the apple orchard . . ."

"Oh?" Fiona swiveled her head to him.

Uncle Seymour shifted from side to side, and he rubbed his cravat,  rumpling the flourishes. "Well-my wife was reading about your latest  discoveries in Chester. It seems lots of people are actually interested  in stones that come up from the ground."

"Ah, yes," Percival said. "The general population is rather more intelligent than they are often given credit for."

"Well." Uncle Seymour coughed. "My wife was curious if you were right  and if there might indeed be treasures of some sort in the orchard. And  since you're so famous, it didn't seem right to bring just anyone to dig  through the garden."

Fiona had missed Cloudbridge Castle, but she was glad the world now  extended beyond the manor house's constraints. She smiled at her uncle's  hopeful gaze. "I would be honored to work on the project. Though I  won't be doing much digging either."

"Ah . . . I gather you'll be bringing in your own crew again," Uncle  Seymour said. "Quite good. We've been able to give some of them jobs."

Fiona nodded. "So I heard."

"I reckon you'll be busy with your museum," Uncle Seymour said.

"Oh, indeed," Fiona responded. "I have no plans to give that up."

Italy might be postponed, but one day, certainly, she would make her way  there. In the meantime, there was still much to be discovered here.

"Suppose even becoming a duchess couldn't change you much," Uncle Seymour sniffed.

Fiona raised her eyebrow, and her uncle's face reddened. He made his excuses and hastened in the direction of the punch table.

"My dear . . ." Percival didn't mask the tremble in his voice. "Just  what is keeping you from digging around in the ground as well?"

A jolt of happiness surged through her. "Next Christmas, there will be another person here."

"Sweetheart." Percival beamed.

She smiled and entwined her hand with his, enjoying the warmth of his  palm and the knowledge her life with him was merely beginning.



THE END