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

by Bianca Blythe

  “Ah, yes. That is very gracious of your family.”

  Lady Cordelia beamed. “Splendid.”

  “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to join.”

  “Your Grace?” Lady Cordelia’s voice squeaked.

  “Please forgive me. But I have many duties—”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “I understand. Completely. I am the daughter of a duke.”

  He nodded, and the ring prickled his tightly clutched fist.

  He was supposed to invite Lady Cordelia to stroll around the garden with him, not that his injury would permit him to do anything that conventional. He was supposed to offer her flattery. He was supposed to confess to having promptly fallen in love with her, even though they’d only just met, and he was supposed to slide his family’s ancestral ring over her finger, as if he just happened to carry it with him.

  Except—even though Fiona’s rejection had been adamant, even though he didn’t deserve her anyway, the thought of dropping to one knee before Lady Cordelia and joining their lives forever seemed like betrayal.

  He sighed.

  “Most men are quicker to shower me with compliments,” Lady Cordelia said, her expression rueful.

  “Then you are a fortunate woman.”

  “Yes.” She lifted her nose, and he had the distinct impression she thought him unfamiliar with the practice of conversing.

  Bernard would have proposed to her by now. Even if Fiona had captured him, he would have found a way to escape, whether in Harrogate or even sooner.

  Were he alive, Bernard would be showering her with compliments with the force of a March storm. He would have understood that she would make the perfect duchess. She was the daughter of a duke, and would be the perfect mother for future ones. Her family’s pedigree was even older than the Carmichaels. Her aptitude in French, watercolor and singing already made her ideal.

  “Lady Cordelia…”

  She fixed him with a serene smile, and his heart hammered.

  He was about to say the words which would change everything. Nothing could be the same after this. He sucked in a deep breath of air. “I am afraid I must tell you that I am in no position to marry you.”

  She blinked, and her gaze fell to his wooden leg. “Your wealth and pedigree show you are in the perfect position to marry.”

  He cleared his throat, clear he’d broken all protocol. “Not that you would marry me, if I . . . er . . . asked.”

  “But you’re not going to ask.” Lady Cordelia frowned, but her voice remained unflappable, and her fingers did not tremble.

  “No.” He heaved a sigh. “Please know that I hold you in the highest esteem. You are a beautiful and accomplished woman.”

  The room seemed silent as she appraised him. Her gaze scrutinized his features as if she thought she might uncover some secret about him from the slope of his jaw. She tilted her head. “Is this about your leg?”

  “I fear I would not be able to devote my attentions to you with the consideration you deserve.”

  “I would find it odd if you were to sit here beside me and proclaim your love to me, given that we have only just met.”

  Percival’s shoulders slumped a fraction.

  “I might be able to assist you through society,” Lady Cordelia continued. “The Duchess of Alfriston practically begged my parents for the match to take place. She said you were quite in love with me.”

  “Without ever having met you?” A bitter taste burned Percival’s throat. He thought of the Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlet Sir Seymour had shown him.

  “I hope this does not come from some misguided sense of honor.” She frowned. “I’m rather accustomed to looking the other way.”

  He tilted his head. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Simply that I know that men are hard-working beings. It is understandable and perhaps even to be encouraged if they decide to indulge themselves from time to time.”

  Percival stiffened. The woman was practically his sister’s age. She shouldn’t be speaking such.

  Lady Cordelia smiled, perhaps taking his silence as approval. “I am also an accomplished pianist.”

  “So you can pound keys while I pound whores?”

  “Your Grace!” Lady Cordelia widened the distance between them. Her tranquility was finally ruffled, and she glanced around the room.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  After a pause she shrugged. “I suppose you conform to your roguish reputation. You needn’t apologize for that.”

  “No?”

  She laughed. “Virility is an admirable trait. Everyone says so. They also say that with your looks and mine, our children would not lack in beauty.”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose it’s too much exertion to have a child with unsymmetrical features.”

  “You tease me. Just know that that there were rumors you were at a ball with the daughter of some dead country squire.” She sniffed, as if the fact that Fiona’s father was dead heightened Fiona’s negative reputation.

  “I am sorry you had to hear from someone else.” He sipped his hot drink, and the faint hints of clove and nutmeg reminded him of Fiona. “The rumors are true.”

  “Your behavior indicated that.”

  They were silent, and the cheery sounds of the violin quartet sounded jarring, an improper background to the stilted conversation between Lady Cordelia and himself.

  “I heard you were kidnapped.”

  “That was a misunderstanding. Why, the woman’s family even lives in a castle.”

  “Indeed? How terribly quaint. I suppose the north is filled with all sorts of curiosities.” Lady Cordelia laughed, though Percival didn’t bother to join her this time.

  Feigning joy was difficult in any situation, but his chest had never felt so hollow. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them, nothing had changed. He didn’t love her, he didn’t think he ever could, and he wouldn’t settle for anything else. Not after he’d met Fiona.

  Percival was not going to propose. Hades himself couldn’t force him to. Not after spending the past few days with the most fascinating woman he’d ever met. It didn’t matter if that same woman had sent him away, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t deserve to beg for her forgiveness.

  He had a conscience, and by Zeus, he was going to listen to it.

  ***

  “The Duchess of Belmonte told me that you did not propose to her daughter.” The dowager’s voice was firm.

  “Sternness doesn’t suit you, Aunt Georgiana. You should try being happy for a change.”

  “Simply being happy?” The dowager sucked in a deep breath of air and then exhaled loudly. She waved her hand in a frantic motion before her chest and was about to repeat the process when he sighed.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  “So you can rest?” Her gaze swung to the void where his leg should be, and he stiffened. “No. You don’t get to rest. I chose the perfect woman for you, one willing to overlook your flaws.”

  “I don’t want a woman who will overlook my flaws.”

  “Then you don’t want any woman at all.”

  His fists tightened. “I want a woman who will embrace my strengths.”

  She sighed. “My son would never have—”

  Percival’s chest constricted. The wrong Carmichael had died. He knew that. Not that he could do anything about it.

  He raised his eyebrows, and his aunt’s voice wobbled. “On a purely theoretical level though, your cousin was more trained to take on the responsibilities of the dukedom. That’s all I mean.”

  “You’re correct.”

  “Then you will marry Lady Cordelia?”

  He turned his head toward the ballroom and then shook his head. “No.”

  The dowager stiffened. “This is a simple task, Percival. If you can’t do even this, how are you supposed to accomplish any of the tasks of the dukedom? Running an estate is not something you should abandon to your estate manager. The incomes of many people depend on you. And with your leg—�
�� She pointed her fan toward it, flashing the item with as much derision as any schoolmaster. “You’ll be under more scrutiny than ever before. It won’t be easy to find another woman for you. You’ve already proved yourself untrustworthy, breaking the understanding—”

  He swiveled, and his heart pattered an unsteady rhythm in his chest. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, and he tightened his grip on his cane. The dainty silver head was more suitable for show than for practicality, and his fingers slid over the rounded dome.

  Losing a leg meant more stress on the other portions of his body, and even standing seemed a challenge now. The candles continued their relentless gleam, dazzling his eyes, and the fire leaped and lurched in the stone fireplace. The heat continued to brush against him, and sweat continued to prickle his clothes.

  The dowager glanced at his cane. “Perhaps you should sit.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shrugged. “Just as long as you resist any urge to fall. You’ve rather disgraced us enough already, and I’m sure Her Grace’s footmen are sufficiently occupied managing this marvelous ball without having to haul you from the floor.”

  In the past he would have suggested they continue their conversation in the courtyard, and in a few moments they might be enjoying the crisp air and remarking on the winter garden and the beauty of the bare branches. He had no desire now to hobble before everyone, and he would endure the heat and the curious glances from the other party-goers.

  Exhaustion struck him. The journey to London had been rough, the coach jostling as it sped over poorly maintained roads. He longed to close his eyes. “There was no understanding.”

  “You were fetching the family jewels. Why you wouldn’t just let a servant do it…” She shook her head. “It’s not like you could be any help to protect them. As evidenced by what happened.”

  He stiffened. Perhaps he had used the jewels as an excuse to escape London. He was tired of the false sympathy from the other members of the ton. Their condolences seemed often mixed with the glee of seeing the man who had soared to a position of prominence so suddenly with so few qualifications to redeem him.

  “You’re tired,” the dowager said, her voice lowered to a mollifying note. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll go to Her Grace and explain the misunderstanding. I’m sure you really meant to propose, but you were simply overwhelmed by Lady Cordelia’s undeniable beauty and charm and overly conscious of your lack of a second leg.”

  “I—”

  The dowager’s lips spread into a smile, one he recognized from his childhood. “It will be fine. You can go home and rest. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring you here in your position.”

  “You mustn’t speak with her. My mind is determined. Let us depart.”

  “But—”

  This time he smiled. “The Duchess of Belmonte might find our presence unwelcome.”

  The dowager slammed her fan shut, and her hand tightened around the grandiose material. “Very well. But do not believe me to be the least bit content.”

  “No.” He sighed. “You’re right. I will depart now, and if you choose to remain here, you may naturally do so. But I am not going to marry Lady Cordelia, and you need not arrange any other wife.”

  “Are you saying you have someone else in mind?” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “Because a wife is of the utmost importance if you desire to be a good duke, as you claim. I’m sure I needn’t explain the usefulness of a wife in procuring legitimate children. Your cousin did not die in order to see the estate divided or given to a person even less lacking in merits than you.”

  The image of Fiona flitted before his mind. The woman was warm and amusing and of more intelligence than even the much-lauded Lady Cordelia.

  But she’d never sought to be a wife. She’d stated the fact to him, and well, he had to believe that. Fiona struggled to attend one provincial ball. She wouldn’t have any desire to manage a household and host her own balls. She’d pretended to be a highwaywoman, for goodness’ sake. She was suited for a life that consisted of digging up old ruins and avoiding high society.

  He bowed his head. “I have no one in mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Fiona had pushed her colored dresses further into her wardrobe and shifted her attire to black. The servants removed the Christmas adornments, and bare walls surrounded her. The period reminded of her when her parents had died, except now Grandmother could not console her.

  Grandmother’s body was buried. Fiona hadn’t been permitted to attend the funeral, but she’d heard servants muse of the blessing that Grandmother’s death had preceded any possibility of her learning of Fiona’s disgrace.

  Perhaps the gossips were justified, though Fiona would have gladly accepted any discomfit or embarrassment, were Grandmother only to have lived a little while longer.

  The magistrate never imprisoned her. She’d received a stern warning instead.

  She deserved to be punished. Had her family not had a reasonably good name, she would have experienced a harsher penalty.

  Graeme did appear, telling her it was a crime she was allowed to roam the countryside still. He did return Ned to her though he didn’t explain what had compelled him to return the animal.

  Fiona did not press him.

  She reminded herself that Percival was a distant memory, an aberration in her life. Yet even though five months had passed since Grandmother’s death, even though more snow had fallen, only to now melt, she could not forget him in the least. The crisp white snow of winter, followed by the pummeling of rain and hail in spring, had finally lulled. Bluebells pushed from the ground and cheerfully spread their vibrant blossoms.

  In vain she reminded herself those three days in his company should not feel longer and more real than anything else in her lifetime.

  Percival had been a fantasy. She’d told him, and he’d left, and that was that.

  She stared at her rows of trunks. Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia were moving in tomorrow. Their current manor house was pleasant, but not a castle, and Uncle Seymour had said he’d postponed his inheritance long enough.

  “I’ll send a footman to help you with your cases, Miss Amberly,” Evans said. “It will be strange without you.”

  She gave the butler a tight smile.

  She’d miss him. She’d miss everyone. Soon she would move in with Rosamund. She pressed her lips together. Living in the midst of her sister’s marital bliss was not Fiona’s vision of happiness. Not when a similar happiness would always be denied her.

  “Everyone’s dying,” Evans said, uncharacteristically talkative, perhaps moved by the fact they would rarely see each other again. “So tragic.”

  “Someone else died?”

  Instantly she thought of Percival, and she struggled to remind herself that it would be highly unlikely for her butler to be musing about a man he hadn’t seen in months. Her heart hammered.

  “Lord Mulbourne is dead. I would have thought you would have—” He paused and shifted his feet, and his cheeks darkened. “Forgive me. I don’t believe there’s been a formal announcement yet. Word spread through the servants.”

  The man didn’t need to say that he thought Madeline would have informed Fiona herself. Her shoulders shrank together. She hated this conflict between her and her cousin. “How horrible. He wasn’t even that old.”

  “Ah, yes. There was something sordid about the whole business. Rumors are swirling about. But who’s to say? He wasn’t young either.” Evans shook his head in a somber motion suited to his profession. “His wife is so pretty and never had a child.”

  A hollow pit formed in her stomach. Madeline was a widow. They hadn’t always gotten along, but Madeline didn’t deserve to have her husband snatched from her. No one deserved that.

  Fiona couldn’t imagine the anguish she’d feel if Percival died. And he wasn’t even… She drew in a sharp breath. “Thank you. You were right to tell me.”

  She’d been a fool these past few years. An absolute fool.


  She headed outside and trudged through the thick grass that swayed under the slight breeze. She lifted her skirts and proceeded into the ever denser area. Lambs leaped and played in the adjoining field, and birds chirped from trees. The sun shone in full force, and she slid her head up to bask in the warmth.

  Madeline’s manor house adjoined the property. She’d avoided seeing her for months, too humiliated after the ball. Madeline had called on her after Grandmother’s death, but their exchange had been limited to platitudes.

  Now she needed to speak to her cousin. Fiona had spent so long decrying the ton. But she’d been as narrow-minded and quick to judge as everyone else. Fiona was tired of keeping to herself and assuming the worst of people.

  The Dales were at their finest now. The once-white, once-brown hills were green, and lavender and blue flowers dotted the steep slopes. A blue sky spread over the arching hills and smatterings of trees; no clouds marred the horizon, though athletic birds dipped and swirled above.

  It was late afternoon, and some children shouted with glee, apparently amused by the prospect of rolling down the hill, something which they were already putting into practice. Fiona hesitated for a moment, and then pushed further over the trail, until, five miles later, she reached the elaborate manor house.

  She sucked in a deep breath. The last time she’d approached these steps, Percival had been at her side. She could almost feel the coarse wool of his great coat beneath her fingers. Her chest tightened, but she continued up the steps.

  Madeline’s butler widened his eyes when he saw her, and he led her to the drawing room.

  The manor house was impeccable. More paintings than ever lined the rich garnet walls, their gold frames sparkling.

  Elegance soared through the manor house. Roses arched from opulent vases. At one time Fiona might have been intimidated, but instead she waited for Madeline to arrive.

  Her cousin’s face was tight, and Madeline’s golden hair was arranged in a rigid knot. The vibrant frocks her cousin favored, oft-embellished with lace and satin ruffles, were replaced with a dull ebony dress that drained her face of color.