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

by Bianca Blythe

  Ten years of being a rake, yet he’d lost his composure with this woman. She’d shattered all his pre-conceptions. She’d been braver, more intelligent, and more passionate than the ladies of the ton with whom he’d been familiar, and he’d claimed her for his own.

  He closed his eyes as the memory rose of the day before, of soft curves pressed against him, of a woman unperturbed by his wooden leg. He directed his gaze at the offending appendage.

  Maybe it wasn’t his injury that had made her oust him from her side. Maybe she’d simply despised London, despised the ton, or found his company tiresome. Clearly it didn’t matter—she was gone from his life. She’d made it clear that this was a time for real family and real friends, and not the ones caught along the way.

  Percival sighed and thrust open the curtains. Tall white buildings flanked both sides of the carriage, and men rode on horses. Top hats perched on their heads, and their great coats spilled over both sides of the horses’ rears.

  It would be difficult to rejoin the ton. The woman had showed him what it was like to truly live, and he wasn’t ready to live the dull, staid, responsible life he should.

  He massaged his fingers over his aching leg. The long drive had done little to ease the pain. Sleep had been a rarity on the journey. They’d spent the night at another tavern, another blasted reminder of Fiona and all the wonder he’d thought he’d gained in his life, only to lose it.

  A bird squawked outside, and Arthur rubbed his eyes. “Good grief, Percival, this is the absolute last time I’ll rescue you. You look appalling.”

  “I feel appalling.”

  “At least you’re honest with yourself. That’s the first step to recovery.”

  Percival scowled, and Arthur heaved a heavy sigh. “Don’t worry, old sport. You’ll be back to your old dastardly self soon enough.”

  He laughed, but Percival did not join in.

  Yesterday at this time he’d had Fiona on his lap, had gazed into the liveliest eyes in the world and dreamed of their lives entwined together.

  Now he sat rigid in an uncomfortable carriage meant to take him to the finest neighborhood in the finest country in the world, and he couldn’t feel more miserable.

  He wrapped his arms together. Fiona’s grandmother had died. Even though war had tried to teach him that the fact a person was there one moment was no guarantee he’d last until the next one, the news still shocked him. Death always did.

  Percival sighed. His brother appeared bleary-eyed; it had been decent of the man to come after him. “I’m sorry for dragging you away from London.”

  Arthur stretched his arms over his head and eased his legs into a new position. “Gives a chance for the chits to miss me.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  Arthur tilted his head at him. The two weren’t prone to discussing much beyond gambling halls and horses. “I prefer widows. They don’t get their hearts broken as easily.” He grinned. “Though married women are even better. They never confess to getting their hearts broken at all.”

  “You’re enjoying being a rake.”

  “It’s the perfect life.” Arthur smiled, but something in his face flickered, and the words lacked his characteristic enthusiasm.

  Percival tilted his head. He was older than Arthur, and by the time his younger brother had mastered talking, and playing without toppling over, Percival had been ushered off to Harrow.

  “What’s Lady Cordelia like?”

  “Feeling romantic?” Arthur winked.

  “Hardly,” Percival growled.

  Arthur shrugged. “Impeccable. She’s a Belmonte after all.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “She’s fluent in French, just perfect when you want to take your European tour. And quite knowledgeable about horses, if her brother’s passion for them is any indication.”

  “Splendid,” Percival said, though the thought of dragging his leg around Napoleon’s former empire or buying horses failed to conjure an immediate rush of pleasure.

  “And her watercolors are divine,” Arthur continued. “The dowager was quite raving about them.”

  Percival narrowed his eyes. “Have you even met her?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I met her last season. She’s too proper to have spent time in London when parliament wasn’t in session.”

  Percival grinned wryly. “I know. And what does Louisa think? Did she meet her on her short visit to London last year?”

  “Our sister found Lady Cordelia intimidating. And the woman hadn’t even debuted then. I believe they just played some pall mall.” Arthur shrugged. “Though Louisa seems to say that about everyone.”

  “She’ll grow out of it,” Percival said. “If our parents ever do send her back to London.”

  “And then we’ll be doomed,” Arthur replied.

  Percival laughed. The one good thing about his parents’ enjoyment for travel meant they hadn’t sent his sisters for their season yet. They were holed up in Boston now.

  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.

  “She’s over there.” The marquess extended his hand. “The woman in the gold dress. Not that you would have any difficulty finding her, since she considers herself the most desirable woman in England.”

  “You disagree.” Percival raised his eyebrows, for a moment puzzled by the vehemence of the man’s dislike of her.

  The marquess shrugged. “From what my brother has told me, you will be well suited.”

  “Indeed.” Percival didn’t want to hear any more sarcasm, no matter how much he deserved it. He gave a curt bow and headed in the direction of his fate.

  He observed with a bizarre impartiality that Lady Cordelia was beautiful. No one had exaggerated this woman’s appearance. Her face was as symmetrical as any statue’s, and her eyes appeared as cool.

  “Allow me to introduce you.” The marquess strode to the woman, who gave him a stiff bow from her shoulders. The marquess winked at Percival, and his heart ratcheted as he made his way to them.

  “Lady Cordelia, this is His Grace, the Duke of Alfriston. You might find him most entertaining. He’s in the habit of adopting new names at a whim.”

  “I am sure I will find him enchanting,” Lady Cordelia murmured. Her voice was low, almost sultry, and irritation flashed over the marquess’s face.

  “Splendid,” Highgate mumbled, before disappearing into the throng of finely clad guests.

  “Your Grace.” Lady Cordelia glided toward Percival, every bit the goddess, and when she reached him she curtsied deeply. A diamond necklace sparkled on her chest, and he wondered at the necessity of fetching the jewels for a woman who clearly already possessed priceless ones.

  Her voice was perfect. Calm and contained, and it didn’t shake. Her cheeks were no pinker in his presence. Her gait was poised, her expression serene. She was unperturbed at meeting the man who would become her future husband. She couldn’t be more different from Fiona.

  Good. All the better to forget her.

  He bowed. “I am no longer one for dancing, but perhaps we might find a quiet alcove.”

  She nodded her head, her eyes gleamed. His heart grew heavy as she steered him to a corner of the ballroom. Some wallflowers sat nearby, their gazes focuse
d on the eligible men who ignored them. Lady Cordelia did not acknowledge them.

  “So.” She sat down and smoothed the folds of her elaborate, silky dress. “I heard you had some adventures these past few days. You must regale me.”

  His smile tightened.

  From across the ballroom the dowager gestured to him. She pointed her peacock-feathered fan in a manner she probably considered discreet, even though the green and purple feathers could not be more ostentatious.

  The gold ring burned in his pocket, and he moved his hand there. Lady Cordelia’s lengthy black eyelashes swooped up, and a smile flickered on her perfect rosebud lips.

  The chit likely thought he was about to propose. His heart dropped, an unpleasant sensation, since his stomach also seemed to want to rise. He stiffened his fingers and forced his breath to keep a steady beat.

  Lady Cordelia ran her fingers over a sapphire bracelet. The stones seemed cold, despite their beauty.

  He searched for something, anything to say.

  “I’ve always wondered what a London garden looks like,” Lady Cordelia chirped.

  “Indeed?” He pressed his handkerchief to his lips. The woman might be from Hampshire, but he considered it highly unlikely that Lady Cordelia had never seen a garden in London before.

  She peered at the French windows near them. It would easy to stroll there, despite the cold. He tilted his head. Did Lady Cordelia think him shy?

  His aunt glanced in his direction with frequency, and he shifted his position on the bench and tried to ignore meeting the gaze of the dowager.

  “Have you had a pleasant time in London?”

  She laughed. “It was dreadful waiting for you to arrive for so long. No one is in London during Christmas. The Serpentine is frozen, Hyde Park is muddy, and even the horses seem unwilling to venture far.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But surely you must know that.”

  “I am familiar.”

  “But there are many wonderful house parties at this time. If one can’t go outside, one wants to at least have an enormous manor house in which to wander.” She hesitated. “My mother mentioned to you that you are welcome in Hampshire.”