How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1)

by Bianca Blythe

  They’d kissed before, but that had been at the tavern, before a group of strangers. This was real. No one was questioning Percival’s masculinity. If he was kissing her, it was because he wanted to. Her heartbeat raced, and she felt like one of the audacious heroines in the Loretta van Lochen novels. She smiled. The fact was not unpleasant.

  Percival drew her nearer to him. No, things were decidedly pleasant. More pleasant than anything she’d ever experienced, and her eyes flickered shut.

  She swore she could feel every muscle in his body. She certainly felt his warmth spread over her, even through his robe. Wide shoulders that extended past hers gave her a sense of stability she’d never known she craved, but which she was unwilling to let go.

  His morning stubble brushed against her cheeks. The rough texture reminded her that this was not a dream—not some wild fantasy she shouldn’t be having, but completely real. Her breath quickened, and she tightened her grip around him. Percival moaned, a low, deep sound that stirred every portion of her body. Her blood sizzled.

  Her whole life centered around the ecstatic sensation of Percival’s lips, Percival’s touch, Percival’s scent. There was nothing more. This was it. This was life. This was what brought havoc and scandal to some of the ton, this is why even the most matronly members had expressed surprise when she had said she had no desire to marry.

  They all knew about this. They all adored it.

  “Fiona—” Percival’s deep voice was hoarse, and his long fingers gripped her gown. The adjourning door was still open, and it was still winter, but she swore she’d never been so warm in her life.

  “One moment.” She staggered to her feet, and he blinked back up at her.

  She took unsteady steps toward the door and stared at the opening. It would be easy to escape from it, easy to make Percival leave, but instead she kicked it shut.

  They were alone. Her heart crescendoed, and Percival yanked her back to him. Her long dress swished against the chair, and he pulled her into his arms. She was sitting on a man’s lap. She, Fiona Amberly, had abandoned all propriety.

  “Is this fine?” He brushed his hands over her back. His scent filled the small space, and she closed her eyes, allowing the smell of pine needles and cotton to waft over her. He stroked her cheek bone, finding fascination in her face that she did not believe possible, and his hands moved toward her hair. “I’ve dreamed about submerging myself in these locks.”

  He peered at her. His eyes were wide, their gaze soft, and she stared at the flecks of gold that danced with the deep blue color. He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his burly arms around her. She pressed her body against his, her heart relaxing its frantic pace as it became soothed by the man’s presence. Warmth emanated from him. Perhaps she’d never been in such a position before, and perhaps being alone with a man like this was everything her former governesses would have warned her against, but right now all she could concentrate on was the delicious manner in which he held her.

  His hand cupped her jaw, and his thumb rubbed against her cheek. His eyes didn’t waver from her face, and his lips parted in something that resembled awe. “I wanted to do this yesterday.”

  His voice was hoarse, and she blinked back at him. Words vanished, and all she concentrated on was the sweetness of his presence. She’d never expected to find herself on a man’s lap. Grandmother was down the hall, and the servants were working, oblivious to the fact everything in her life had changed.

  His head tilted, and she barely had time to gasp before they were once again kissing.

  “You’re astonishing.” The words flew from him, and Fiona waited for him to withdraw them. She waited for his cheeks to tinge pink, and she waited for him to avert his eyes. She waited for him to inhale his breath, and she waited for him to quickly add a “but.”

  Yet no rebuttal, no modification ever came. Instead he continued to fix his gaze on her, and when a small giggle escaped her, because Lord, what else could she do in the face of so much seriousness, his lips rose.

  “I mean it!” he said.

  “But—” She paused. He was supposed to give the rebuttal, not her.

  He smiled again and stroked her hair. “No more speaking.”

  Happiness spread through her, starting slowly, but then leaping on to an ever quicker pace, until she was practically grinning at him. She must look a fright, but he only returned her grin, mirth shining through his deep blue eyes.

  “You could have anyone.”

  “You have a good impression of my masculine charms.” Percival leaned toward her, and his hot breath brushed against the lobe of her ear.

  She tried to smile back. His eyes were soft, almost in wonder, and she exhaled. Maybe she could believe him. Maybe this was indeed all real.

  Though didn’t a man compliment a woman in any seduction? Wasn’t that what made it a seduction? Reality would come this evening, after the ball, when he returned to London. To marry the woman he was supposed to be with.

  Guilt ratcheted through her, and she clung to his arms. She told herself that this was fine. He hadn’t met the woman yet, they weren’t formally engaged, and goodness, he was a man, and wasn’t this just what they did?

  She should be forcing him out, telling the servants, or just leaving herself. And yet—perhaps this would be her only experience with a man? Perhaps this was it?

  He stroked her cheek, and her eyes flickered shut. She couldn’t leave.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and her heartbeat ratcheted up.

  His hands glided against her, stroking her firmly. She looped her arm around him. Her fingers explored his hair, and then she moved downward to the solid planes of his muscular back. Like her, he’d only worn a robe, and the thin material left little to her imagination.

  Except—she wanted more. The silky robe and undershirt—all of those seemed like an excessive barrier, even though she knew the thought was ludicrous.

  His fingers brushed against the buttons of her nightgown, and the space between her legs tightened further. She rolled her body against him, trying to alleviate the pressure, and he groaned.

  “That gown better come off,” he growled, undoing the buttons and pulling the material up.

  “I—”

  For a moment the idea seemed dreadful, for he stopped kissing her, and her body was cold when he busied herself with her gown, instead of pressing her as close to him as possible.

  He swooped the material over her head. She was naked. Before him.

  She shifted, self-conscious.

  But his eyes flared, and he stroked her cheek with reverence. His hand trailed down her body, skimming over the curve of her chest, moving to her nipples. He pulled her toward him and kissed her again, this time more forcefully, as if he wanted to meld his tongue with hers. He pulled her back, staring at her, and an open smile spread over his face.

  “I’m happy. I’m so happy.” His husky voice caused pleasure to shoot through her body again.

  He pressed his lips against her neck, and his wet tongue circled and sucked on her skin. His hands moved to her bosom. He rubbed her nipples into tight peaks, and she rocked harder against him.

  “You’re wearing too much,” she murmured, and he shot her a cocky grin.

  “Thought you would never ask.” He moved to undo his robe, but then his gaze fell on his lap, and he seemed to hesitate.

  Her heart swelled. It was the leg. He was worried about it. She gave him her best smile and touched the material. “May I see it?”

  “It’s not much to look at,” he said, and he gave a little laugh that caused another pang to beat against her heart.

  “Every part of you is wonderful,” she said solemnly, and raised his nightshirt. She didn’t want him to feel like he had to hide any part of him. Not now. Not after this.

  She’d seen the wooden leg before. The bottom was as thick as the man’s other foot, similar to a shoe, allowing him to balance. She traced her fingers over the carved curves. A round joint lay
an inch above the bottom of his foot, in the space between his heel and toes, and she wobbled the lower part of the foot. It creaked slightly, and she giggled.

  He pulled her upward. “I’d rather you focused on the parts of me I can actually feel.”

  She laughed, and they kissed again. His hands rubbed her back, and he pulled her toward him, pressing his warm, wet lips to her neck, forming his own trail of kisses. Ecstasy swished through her, and he followed the slopes of her curved waist and thighs with his strong hands.

  “Percival.” She moaned his name. She’d never experienced this before, but now the thought of stopping, of not feeling him here beside her, was unimaginable. He brushed his hands nearer her mound, and her body tightened, as long, elegant fingers swept toward her. He delved his fingers into her silky, most private curls, and she writhed beneath him.

  She wanted—more. She wanted—him. Her body quivered at his every touch, at every flash of his brilliant blue eyes, which stared at her in awe.

  “My darling,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her chest with increased rapidity and desperation.

  Her nipples pulled into tight peaks, and he swooped his finger along her breasts, and she trembled. He moved his lips to her crests, immersing them in the hot splendor of his mouth. He sucked one of her breasts, and every part of her body seemed to exult in the force of his tongue on her. His fingers still continued their caress of her body, and his long eyelashes flickered shut as a blissful expression swept over his face.

  She thrust her mound toward him, no longer content with his teasing touches. He chuckled and moved his mouth to her other breast, sucking it expertly. And then—his hands traveled lower, and oh goodness, they were venturing into a place no one had ever journeyed to. His fingers pressed into her silky folds, and his eyes flickered up.

  “You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

  “I—”

  He smiled. Clearly he didn’t need a response and he quickened his attention. His fingers delved into her flesh, brushing over her tightest, innermost peak.

  “I—” She gasped underneath the blissful force of his attention. He ran his fingers over her core, quickening his pace as if to send her far away, into new realms. She squirmed and writhed. And then the tempo of her breaths increased, pleasure crescendoed through her. Nothing could ever be the same.

  His lips spread into a cocky grin, and he kissed her cheeks and mouth. His manhood pressed into her, and she reached for it tentatively. His confident smirk transformed to wonder, and she caressed the velvety sheen of his thickness. She brushed her fingers against tight, round ballocks, experimentally exploring the man’s body. Then she moved back up his rod, sweeping her fingers along Percival’s sturdy length. She circled the top, and beads of salty liquid dripped from him.

  “Don’t stop.”

  She smiled and then moved her fingers back down his length.

  This time she increased her pace, remembering her own blissful sensations earlier, and he groaned.

  “Just like that,” he murmured. “Just like that.”

  She continued her speed, swooping her fingers up and down his rigid length. He tightened his grip on her other hand, and his gasps soared through the tiny room. Creamy liquid gushed forth from his rod, and he shuddered. His eyes flickered shut, his cheeks darkened, and his chest rose and fell. A masculine scent filled the room, and he pulled her toward him. She lay against his chest, still rising, still falling. Strong arms caressed her, and for this moment, she felt wonderful.

  “I want so much to happen between us,” he said.

  The tips of her lips moved upward, but her heart heavied. After the ball, he would depart for London to his true life. She swept him closer to her, but that action could not stop his inevitable departure, and soon she would only be left with memories.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The coach halted, and music from the festivities streamed through the windows. Percival crept down the steps. His breath quickened as he turned to Fiona, and he gave her a short bow before extending his hand to her. “My darling.”

  There was nothing feigned about his words, and his heart swelled when Fiona’s cheeks pinkened. She slipped an ivory-gloved hand into his, and he beamed.

  By Zeus, his heart shouldn’t pound with such force at the mere touch of her satin-ensconced skin. But heaven help him, that flicker drew up a hoist of delightful images. If he had his way, he would be ordering the driver straight back to Cloudbridge Castle.

  From the anxious look Fiona directed at the manor house, he wasn’t the only person who didn’t want to be here, despite the fact this was clearly the place to be. Glossy coaches parked before the manor house, and sounds of people filled the crisp air.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go after all,” Fiona said.

  “Nonsense. We made it this far.” Percival smiled down at her, enjoying the sensation of her gloved fingers pressing against his arm. “And you need to speak with this marvelous baron of yours.”

  Tomorrow he would go to London. He’d speak to the dowager and explain he couldn’t marry Lady Cordelia after all, and that he would not propose to her.

  Perhaps he’d only known Fiona a few days, but he’d spent more time in her company than with any other woman. She understood him more than any friend, and her body was far more enticing. He had half a mind to stroll around the garden with her, his wooden leg be damned, and propose to her before all the gossips in this God-forsaken county she fretted about.

  Perhaps the dowager would not be happy and perhaps she would even comment on his lack of dutifulness. Percival might not make the choices her son would have made, but he’d try his very best to be a brilliant duke and manage his estate well. He’d always make sure the dowager’s needs were taken care of, and that would have to suffice.

  Yes, after a quick jaunt to London, he could start the rest of his life, the one he’d always heard the great poets laud, but never thought actually existed.

  “You’re smiling.” Fiona slipped her hand into the nook of his arm.

  He nodded. “I’m thinking of something pleasant.”

  She chuckled. “I gathered that. Care to share?”

  He shook his head, his lips still spread up. “It’s a surprise.”

  Romance might be a new thing to him, but he was certain a woman didn’t want to hear he was in love with her on a crowded path. Those sorts of moments should be confined to places with candlelight, roses, and a great deal of privacy. Those sorts of moments were to be treasured forever.

  They strode up the path. The place was every bit as grand as Fiona had said it would be. Roman Gods and elaborate stone vases perched on the facade of the Georgian manor house. A long, man-made lake stretched before the building, and even though ice filled the lake instead of water, and any birds and ducks that used to frequent it had long departed for more sensible destinations, the manor house still retained an impressive allure.

  They sauntered into the house, and Percival grinned. Fiona was on his arm, and life was wonderful.

  Everyone changed into their slippers, and they strolled past rows of boots of mainly differing sizes of Hessians, into the ballroom.

  Mistletoe and holly hung from the ceiling. Red ribbons were tied around each candlestick, and oranges and pine cones mingled together in silver bowls. Fiona had told him the ball would be elaborate, but he hadn’t expected this.

  Everything was impressive and perfect. A footman offered him a drink, and Percival took a deep sip of negus, smiling as the hot liquid, filled with spices and citrus, swirled down his throat, warming him as effectively as if he’d swallowed fire.

  Eight hour candles cast golden light from the comfort of gilded candelabras. A fire blazed in the huge marble fireplace situated in the center of the room.

  Musicians played up-tempo music in a corner, their heads tilted as their violin sticks jostled up and down in furious beats that created marvelous music. A large section of the ballroom was devoted to dancing, and men and women formed intricate patt
erns. He stared at the rapidly changing kaleidoscope of silk and velvet.

  Men wore black suits, and women wore pastel-colored gowns. Jewels sparkled from the women’s necks and chests, as if they had chosen diamonds and rubies to mask their cleavage. Silver punch bowls, embellished with flowers and leaves, dotted the room, leaving no one in need of an excuse for merriment.

  Fiona smiled. “I told you it was elaborate.”

  “How on earth did the baroness manage to emulate the best of London?”

  “I’m sure her life’s work is emulating the best of London.” She tipped her head to the ceiling. “Or the continent. She had a famous Italian painter come all the way from Venice to decorate the ceiling.”

  Gods and goddesses perched on fluffy white clouds, staring down at them.

  Percival shook his head. Likely they wouldn’t approve of the fact that he was feigning to be somebody else’s fiancé.

  The ballroom was thick with people. Silk-gowned women danced beside black-suited dandies and Corinthians. Women of all ages cast their gazes in his direction, likely assessing his marital status and potential as a suitor, if not for themselves then for their daughters. Their pleasant gazes wavered when they spotted his wooden leg peeking from his trousers.

  He’d thought he was going to some local ball—but this, Lord, what if someone recognized him?

  Fiona’s posture was stiffer than normal, and her lips were pursed into an unyielding line. She glanced around the room. But from the manner in which her hands tightened around her reticule, creasing her long white gloves, she probably wasn’t merely in awe of the crown moldings. “I’d forgotten how much I despised this.”

  He nodded, even though there didn’t seem much wrong with a ballroom filled with helpful-looking footmen holding silver platters of drinks and appetizers, long tables topped with even more food and drink, and up-tempo music.