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

by Bianca Blythe

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Fiona said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Madeline nodded. “Thank you.”

  The words were trite, and Fiona flickered her gaze to Madeline’s strained face.

  A maid arrived with tea, and Madeline’s shoulders remained rigid as the maid placed the gleaming silver cake stand on the lace table cloth.

  “I only just learned,” Fiona said.

  Madeline shrugged. “He died two days ago. The paper hasn’t printed anything yet.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Madeline tensed, but her voice was calm when she spoke. “He was in London.”

  Had they possessed more semblance of a family relationship, Fiona would have learned right away. Yet Madeline hadn’t sought Fiona for comfort, and for the first time, Fiona despised this. They were cousins and neighbors. They should share more.

  Perhaps she might never see Percival again, but he’d taught her not to make quick judgments. Just because a man was handsome did not mean that he took advantage of it, nor that he’d always lived a comfortable life.

  Madeline should not be seen as less worthy because she interested herself in fashion. Perhaps some of her snide comments might be excused. Fiona had been so willing to see signs of Madeline’s untrustworthiness, she should not be surprised when that was what she’d found.

  Madeline had never truly harmed her, only contributed to the gossip of the other girls during their season, leaving her betrayed when Madeline laughed with others about Fiona’s failure to grasp whether something was fashionable or not or when she spoke too long about the Romans.

  Perhaps in her own way Fiona had acted as childishly as her cousin. She was determined to apologize. She inhaled. “I haven’t been a good cousin.”

  Madeline fixed her perfect blue eyes on her. Fiona stiffened, the motion automatic, but her cousin simply shook her head.

  “I fear I haven’t been either.”

  “I lied about Captain Knightley,” Fiona said. “He didn’t exist.”

  “I never thought he did.”

  Fiona tensed.

  “Until you arrived at the ball,” Madeline said. “Then he seemed rather alive. Not quite a figment of your imagination.”

  “I’m sorry for ruining your ball.”

  “Oh, I think you made it quite memorable for people.” Madeline smiled. “That’s a good thing, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  Madeline tilted her head. “So I’ve been so curious—how did you manage to find a duke willing to masquerade as your fiancé?”

  Fiona shrugged. “He was scared of my knife.”

  Madeline giggled, and Fiona joined in.

  “So all that time he was saying nice things, he was forced to say them.” Madeline’s eyes were round.

  “But he seemed so genuinely caring,” Fiona stammered. “After a while. I mean after he stopped escaping. I even offered to release him at one point, and he didn’t go.”

  Madeline laughed. “Definitely a foundation for love.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened, and she smoothed her fingers over the folds of her dress, hoping her cousin would neglect to notice the tremble of her fingers. “You mean because he pretended to be my fiancé?”

  “Because of how he looked at you. I could tell. All the way on the other side of the ballroom, it was obvious.”

  Fiona shifted her legs. Her heart pattered uncomfortably in her chest. “He was acting.”

  “I don’t think so,” Madeline said. “And he was so desperate, so devastated when you were hauled away.”

  “But he didn’t stop them.” Fiona picked up her cup.

  “He tried to. And if he hadn’t argued so passionately for you . . . Well, Barnaby would like an excuse to prosecute a member of the ton. It would give him the illusion of fairness when he is overly vigilant with all the peasants.”

  Fiona’s hand shook, and she set the cup back on the table.

  “Didn’t you wonder why you never went to prison?”

  “Grandmother died…”

  “If a death in the family was all it took to be released from prison, the cells would be much less full. You’re fortunate the magistrate had a sufficient appreciation for aristocratic order to not contradict the duke’s wishes.”

  “Oh.” She flickered her eyes down.

  “He seemed quite devoted,” Madeline said. “What did he say after?”

  “Many things. But at the end—that he wanted to be there for me. To comfort me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That I never wanted to see him again.” Fiona’s voice was miserable.

  Madeline’s eyelashes flickered up. “And that’s what you wanted?”

  “No.” Fiona wrapped her arms around her chest.

  “Then why—”

  “I thought he was being polite.” Anguish racketed through her, and the words resembled a howl.

  Madeline leapt to her side and wrapped her arms around her. The contact was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. Even if they’d stopped being close, they were still cousins.

  “And now he’s married.” Fiona sniffed and hot tears spilled from her eyes.

  “He’s not married.”

  “He is! He had the ring. I saw it. He was going to propose to Lady Cordelia.”

  “I very much doubt that,” Madeline said. “No engagement has been announced.”

  “Oh.” Fiona ceased her sniffling. She stared at her cousin. Finally, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I ruined things for us.”

  Madeline scrutinized her. “Then you need to stop thinking of him.”

  Fiona nodded, even though the advice was absurd. She’d long ago realized that her thoughts would always include Percival.

  “So I heard that Rosamund is taking you in.,” Madeline said.

  Fiona nodded. “But I want more from life.”

  Madeline tilted her head. “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” The word tumbled out.

  “And what does this more consist of?”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life reading books on how a great civilization lived, when I could be exploring how great my own civilization is. I want to still do archaeology.”

  “Hmph.” Madeline took a long sip of tea. “My dream is to visit Italy.”

  “Truly?” Fiona leaned forward. “I love that dream.”

  “You wish you could still speak with the baron?” Madeline’s smile wobbled.

  Fiona hesitated, but she shook her head. She remembered her cousin’s interest in her project during the ball. “I have an idea.”

  ***

  Uncle Seymour squinted at Fiona as the footmen hauled in trunks, and Aunt Lavinia fluttered her arms around, directing the servants where to place everything. “I expect you are going to beg to stay here.”

  “I’m not.”

  Uncle Seymour’s eyebrows lifted up, but he then shook his head. “I expect you are going to beg to still dig up the apple orchard.”

  Fiona sighed. This part was more difficult, and she fought to resist her natural inclination. “I’m not.”

  “Oh.” The baronet’s face darkened, as if she’d halted a speech he’d practiced giving. He shifted his feet. “It doesn’t matter. You still won’t be in our good graces. Not after the way you behaved at the Christmas Ball. You’re mad if you think my dear wife and I will ever forget.”

  “You’ve made that fact clear on other occasions.”

  “Always good to repeat things, that’s what I say,” her uncle mused. “Doesn’t do any harm and always drives the point through. You don’t use a hammer and nail without banging the nail multiple times, no matter how thick and obvious the hammer should be.”

  “Most enlightening. I had no idea how gifted you were at carpentry.”

  “I’m a man of many strengths.” Her uncle’s skin finally returned to a shade of red more normal for him, even if for no one else. “That was an . . . er . . . metaphor. Never touched a hammer in my life. Never wanted
to and never will.”

  Fiona smiled. “I wanted to thank you.”

  “Ah, yes,” the baronet said. “What . . . er . . . for?”

  Fiona tilted her head, and her uncle rubbed a beefy hand against his brow. “It’s hard to keep track of all the good I’m doing in this world.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’m going to grow up.”

  “Thought you came of age when you were thirteen,” her uncle grumbled.

  “I’m not going to stay at home anymore, reading about all the interesting things people did ages ago.”

  “I never thought the Romans were that interesting,” her uncle said.

  “I know.”

  He sniffed. “I suppose you can’t follow all my words of wisdom.”

  “That’s most understanding of you.”

  “So you’re moving in with your sister? Good thing she’s got her life sorted, even though she’s younger than you.”

  Fiona smiled. “It’s wonderful she’s happy, but—no, I won’t be doing that.”

  “You’ll be homeless?” Her uncle’s eyes bulged. “You won’t—you won’t really take on the life of crime? Be that—what was it—Scarlet Devil?”

  “Scarlet Demon,” Fiona corrected. “I’ll overcome that temptation. I’m going to become an archaeologist.”

  Uncle Seymour blinked. “I don’t think that’s a real occupation.”

  “It will be. One day,” Fiona said. “Grandmother gave me a small inheritance.”

  “I think she intended that so you didn’t have to debase yourself.”

  “I’m not debasing myself.” Fiona lifted her head. “I have an outside supporter too and a plan to excavate some promising sites throughout England.”

  Uncle Seymour sputtered, and Fiona laughed.

  “You needn’t worry, uncle. I won’t make you wish me luck. I have a feeling I won’t need it.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Home. He was home.

  The season had ended, and here he was.

  Percival made his way expertly from the coach, knowing just where to place his cane to best support him.

  A long row of servants waited to greet him. Their postures were stiff, though he didn’t miss the curious glimpses they fixed on his foot.

  He shrugged. He would do the same if he were them. The wooden leg was bloody well unusual. He strode toward them, limping somewhat on the uneven terrain.

  He’d been to Wentworth Place before, but as a child. The long mansion had been the home of his crotchety grandfather and demanding grandmother, and he’d only seen it as a somewhat frustrating experience. What good were long acres of a green lawn if one wasn’t allowed to play on it?

  His lips turned up. He wouldn’t be doing any sort of playing in this place either. Places like this didn’t manage themselves, as the dowager frequently reminded him, and the war hadn’t helped matters. The former Duke had indulged his belligerent side through frequent and large donations to the war effort. His generosity had secured him invitations to the finest wartime balls and allowed him the opportunity to wear his finest regalia from battles decades before.

  Now the estate was suffering, and nobody could quite be certain if the former Duke had needed to be quite so extravagant in his funding of cannons and other arms for Bonaparte to have never attempted to invade England again. It didn’t help that the weather rarely cooperated, and crops everywhere were failing this year.

  “Ah, your prison,” Arthur’s voice boomed behind him.

  “Remind me why you’ve come?” Percival asked.

  Arthur straightened his cravat. “Because you wanted someone to distract you from your bloody misery.”

  They strolled toward the entrance and paused to meet the servants, who issued them their deepest bows and curtsies.

  “This place is enormous,” Arthur remarked.

  “And expensive.” Percival flickered his gaze back to the legion of servants who manned the place.

  “Right.” Arthur shifted his legs. “Let’s see the library, shall we? Perhaps your predecessor left us some brandy.”

  Percival followed Arthur in his search for liquid delights.

  The butler had already arranged for brandy and he’d also ironed a newspaper. Percival picked it up curiously, skimming the headlines. They’d traveled at a more leisurely pace, stopping at various taverns to indulge Arthur’s curiosity in the local ales and ciders.

  “You need a wife,” Arthur announced.

  Percival’s eyebrows jolted up, and he set the newspaper aside. “I’m not accustomed to you being the advocate for marital bliss.”

  “Hah. What marital bliss?” Arthur shrugged. “Mere practicality. You’re going to be stuck in this God-forsaken place half the year, and it’s good to have some female company.”

  “I could have a house party.”

  “Female company that will permit you to do your work. Who will give you greater peace than a wife? You just need to add some nocturnal duties to your list of other responsibilities, and you’ll give her a brood of yowling Carmichaels in no time.”

  “I don’t know…” Percival rubbed his hand over his leg.

  “Lady Cordelia is still available.”

  “I thought the Duke of Carlisle was courting her.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Apparently he died.”

  “Dreadful.”

  “I imagine he was grateful he lasted so long, what with all his indulgence for vices.”

  Percival nodded, though his jaw was decidedly more tightened than it had been earlier in the conversation. “I’m not marrying Lady Cordelia for anyone.”

  “Naturally.” His brother leaned forward. “But are you sure you shouldn’t marry her for you?”

  “I—” He tilted his head and blinked.

  His brother gave a cocky grin and poured some more brandy into his tumbler. “I must say the very best brandy comes from France. Don’t you agree?”

  “Why would I want to marry Lady Cordelia?”

  “Because despite all your protestations against the match, she remains very suitable.”

  “She cares about balls.”

  “And you claim you don’t anymore.” His brother smiled. “You complement each other perfectly.”

  “We should have somewhat more in common.”

  “You would have your future wife, the mother of your children, take an interest in gaming halls and racquetball?” Arthur tsked, and warmth prickled the back of Percival’s neck. “Hauling that wooden leg around does seem frightfully cumbersome. Might be nice not to have to go from house party to house party to court someone.”

  Percival nodded. The leg was a blasted pain. Sometimes he still felt it, still woke up and felt it aching. But more often he felt his thigh, and the way his wooden stump pressed against the remainder of his leg. He didn’t like to complain about the pain and the irritating necessity to clean it. After all, he was lucky.

  “Your jaunts about Europe are behind you. You know that. What you need is a nice, sweet woman who will manage your household and your friends, so you won’t need to.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Or I could compile a list of other suitable matches?”

  Percival shook his head. He was tired of all of it. “Wouldn’t want to delay the process of living happily ever after.”

  Arthur laughed. “You sound like you’ve been reading fairy-tales. But I don’t like seeing you unhappy. A pretty woman will ease your troubles, and a marriage will ease your conscience.”

  Arthur was right, and Percival slumped his shoulders.

  Perhaps he’d protested Lady Cordelia’s qualities, but he’d never attempted to truly get to know her. He’d been too quick to see in her all the qualities of the ton he despised, but he’d also not taken the time to appreciate her good qualities.

  He certainly hadn’t fallen for any debutantes that season. When he lay in bed, his mind dwelled on soft, rosy cheeks, curly red hair and emerald eyes. He reached for a curved figure beside
him who was not there. Would never be there.

  His face tightened. “I need to prepare for tonight.”

  “I’ll join you,” Arthur said. “It’s always amusing observing your struggle with Higgins.”

  Percival made his way upstairs, clasping the banister firmly. He swept his gaze around, taking in the high ceilings and the view of the estate.

  Arthur was right. This place was too large for just him. It needed a family.

  His valet cleared his throat. “Shall we commence?”

  “You may torture me.”

  His valet’s eyes glinted, and he chose a starchy cravat.

  Percival shuddered. “Perhaps you needn’t torture me to such an extent.”

  “It’s very fashionable, Your Grace. Clean, crisp lines.” Higgins fixed him with an expression of bemusement.

  “The man’s right,” Arthur said cheerfully, passing him some brandy.

  At least his brother had had the foresight to carry the crystal tumblers upstairs. Arthur stretched out on Percival’s armchair, swung his legs onto a velvet ottoman, and read the butler’s carefully ironed paper.

  Percival narrowed his eyes as Higgins approached with the cravat. “I wore that bloody concoction last Friday.”

  “For the Dowager Duchess’s ball. That was very good of Your Grace. But the locals might expect a similar degree of formality.” Higgins leaned closer. “I’ve heard the Prince Regent is rumored to make an appearance.”

  “Well if he is,” Percival replied, “I can guarantee he’ll be looking at the bloody food, and not my cravat.”

  “Your Grace! I’m not sure one can speak of the future king in such a manner.” Flustered, the man fumbled for a silver tray and handed him an envelope. “I believe, Your Grace, that this is an invitation to Brighton.”

  “My word.” Percival grabbed hold of the stiff envelope and he glided his fingers over the embossed gold letters and the red seal depicting the Royal Pavilion. “Already getting mail here? I suppose I really am a duke now.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Higgins’ smile faltered somewhat.

  Percival nodded, not for the first time wondering how easy it had been for Higgins to switch from calling him My Lord. Percival hadn’t found the transition nearly as easy. He sighed. “Bernard would have been so much better at this.”