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

by Bianca Blythe

  “Your cousin was gifted.”

  Percival removed the seal and scanned the invitation. A summer at the Brighton Pavilion with the Regent himself. What could be more pleasant?

  He attempted to draw up some of the joy that he was sure Bernard would have been feeling at such an invitation. But the only thing he could think about was that Brighton was bloody far removed from Yorkshire. Which was ridiculous, because he had no need to be in Yorkshire again. Being a duke did not come naturally to him, and his estate would hardly be helped were he to be coupled to an anti-social wife who was open in her dislike of the ton and modern society.

  Fiona had agreed it was for the best that the two never saw each other again. And since Fiona displayed a definite dislike of London that seemed like a very firm possibility.

  “But perhaps you would like to be more adventurous during the summer.” Higgins buttoned Percival’s waistcoat. “Now that the war has ended, people are returning to Europe.”

  “Yes, must be filled with lots of middle-aged men reliving their Grand Tour.” Percival sniffed, though in truth the idea didn’t sound half bad.

  “Perhaps, Your Grace, they are congregating there because they have already visited and possess familiarity with its charms.” Higgins picked up a white linen.

  “My generation’s experience there was imperfect.” Percival said, envisioning the sprawling battlefield in Waterloo. Normally he would shut his eyes tight or demand a glass of brandy, but instead he attempted to control his breaths. One day perhaps the images of carnage, the pangs of killing, and the guilt for surviving when abler men than he had fallen would fade. He bit his bottom lip. “I suppose Europe has its charms.”

  “I’ve heard quite good things about Paris, Your Grace.”

  Percival shrugged. “That blasted Corsican’s former capital? Not for me.”

  “But the architecture—”

  “By Zeus, this isn’t something my younger sister has put you up to, is it?”

  “No, no,” Higgins sputtered.

  Percival relaxed his shoulders. His sister had a habit of over-idealizing Paris.

  “I’d adore the chance to go to Italy,” Arthur mused. “Venezia. Firenze. Roma.”

  Percival swung his head over to Arthur. The man’s accent was surprisingly good. Sometimes he underestimated his brother.

  “Why just today I was reading in the newspaper about two ladies who were planning to travel,” Higgins said. “If ladies can do it, you can consider it. Even with your foot.”

  Percival smiled. “I am pleased at your confidence in me.”

  “Yes, one of the ladies was a bit of an archaeologist. That’s what she called it. Sounded most interesting. She’s been finding all sorts of interesting things in the ground over here.”

  “A female archaeologist?”

  Percival’s heart lurched. Fiona. His heart hammered, and he attempted to snatch the newspaper from his brother. For a moment he forgot about his leg, and he grimaced when he failed to find his footing the first time.

  “What female archaeologist?” He said hoarsely, taking another swig of brandy.

  “Some chit’s been digging near Chichester.”

  “Oh.” Percival slumped back into his armchair. He closed his eyes. Clearly archaeology was simply spreading at a more rapid pace than he’d expected. Fiona wouldn’t have found herself on the south coast. She was a Northerner to the core. She’d told him even going to Harrogate was an unusual event.

  He sighed. He’d hoped that she’d been able to secure her uncle’s permission to dig up the apple orchard. He wanted her to receive the renown she deserved.

  “Yes. She’s going up north next. Should be there now. A Miss Fiona Amberly…”

  “Fiona?” Percival dropped the crystal tumbler, and brandy splattered on the floor.

  “I say!” Arthur rubbed a hand though his hair. “Just because you’ve inherited everything doesn’t mean you need to go around smashing it all.”

  Percival snatched the newspaper from his brother and scanned it furiously until he saw Fiona’s name. His heart lurched in his chest. It was her. His Fiona. She’d been in Sussex.

  The woman who abhorred leaving the confines of her family’s estate was digging up a site, just like she’d always dreamed of. It wasn’t Cloudbridge Castle, not the place she always dreamed of excavating, but it was amazing.

  He perused the newspaper. She’d discovered things. And what’s more, she’d been developing a system of measuring where the items were found and labeling them to help future researchers. She wasn’t just interested in getting her hands on a pretty Roman vase to display. She was interested in the cultural history of the objects, and her research was developing a new way to look at the Romans in Britain.

  She’d gone out and changed her life even though he couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do so. No one dug up ruins, least of all women.

  He sighed. He still missed her. He’d miss her every day of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that it wasn’t to be.

  “Ah . . . I see you’re interested, Your Grace. Apparently they’re both going to Italy soon.”

  Percival dropped the newspaper, and the cream-colored pages fluttered downward. Higgins dove to catch it.

  “They’re not planning to visit alone?”

  Surely they possessed a modicum of sense. Fiona was content wiling away her days digging in the dirt behind Cloudbridge Castle. She couldn’t even stand London. She had told him that.

  And Italy—Italy was far away. Why, one had to first cross the channel, and then make one’s way over France—an experience probably filled with scowling peasants glaring over battered vineyards, and then one had to traipse over the Alps in whatever ridiculous contraption the Europeans called a carriage, staying at horrid inns. And after doing all of that, one’s reward was being in Italy, which had just survived a war.

  If she went, would she ever want to face the journey back?

  He rubbed his chest, deciding to ignore the manner in which Higgins’ bottom lip toppled down, as if Percival had declared a preference for pink pantaloons or Scottish kilts.

  “I believe they will travel on their own, Your Grace.”

  “Right.”

  Higgins placed the cravat round Percival’s neck. “I’m sure they’ll take care of each other, Your Grace.”

  “Let’s hope!” Percival released another strangled yelp when Higgins tightened the knot that earned him a raised eyebrow from his valet. “But—”

  His valet’s carefully groomed eyebrow arched higher, and he narrowed his eyes, holding each end of the snowy-white monstrosity.

  She would be in Italy, right in the home of the Romans. He couldn’t offer her that. Any travel was painful for him, and he was tied to this blasted estate. Unlike Cloudbridge Castle, he hadn’t heard any rumors of ancient ruins in this vicinity.

  “Here’s the mirror, Your Grace. You’re all set for this evening.”

  Percival picked up the carved handle gingerly. The gold sheet glimmered in a manner he couldn’t strictly describe as masculine, but he obediently peered into the looking glass.

  The knot was splendid. Elaborate and tied with a real flourish.

  “You’ll have all the ladies eye you at the ball, Your Grace.” Higgins’ voice was filled with pride.

  “It’s a shame that the other men’s valets won’t be there to admire your good work.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Higgins bowed his head.

  Percival brushed his fingers against the knot, running his finger over the crisp edges. It was perfect. It always was.

  “You look like a proper duke,” Higgins said.

  Percival sighed. “I rather fancy that you’re correct.”

  He could act the part of duke. He could marry Lady Cordelia, just like his aunt wanted, and receive more and more praise for conforming to the expectations of his role.

  Soon people might forget about Bernard and think Percival
had always been duke, and he’d never been the hastily installed cousin, criticized for spending too much time outside the ton.

  He tore off his cravat, observing as Higgins’ face transformed from bemusement to horror as the man’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. Percival flung the now-wrinkled linen on the bed.

  “But your Grace!”

  “Please inform the groom to prepare the carriage.”

  Percival pressed his lips together, and Higgins nodded. “Ah, yes. You needn’t worry. It’s being prepared for the ball.”

  “No.” Percival gripped his cane with vigor. “I rather fear I have another destination in my mind. A place somewhat farther removed.”

  “You’re going after Lady Cordelia after all?” Arthur beamed. “Such a romantic.”

  Percival was on the verge of something. He was sure of it. If Fiona could go traipsing around Italy, looking at art with a person Percival remembered her despising, Percival could make some changes too.

  He considered Fiona. Lord, she’d been brave.

  “I will not attend the ball tonight.”

  “But, the Prince Regent!”

  “He can be there without me. Please pack my things. I am going to settle my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  He loved her.

  And he’d never told her. She didn’t know, and now she was off to the southern-most tip of all of Europe.

  He clenched his fingers together. But there was no one he could fight. Only himself.

  The whole thing was absurd. It would be easy to go to the local ball, meet all of Sussex’s most prominent men and women, and chat with the Prince Regent. That’s what he was supposed to do.

  He certainly wasn’t supposed to direct his driver to head hundreds of miles in the opposite direction. Traveling from London had been sufficiently painful.

  But if there was a single chance Fiona might return his affection—by Zeus, he’d be the largest fool on earth if he didn’t try to plead for her. His chest clenched, but he ordered a servant to put his still unpacked valise in the carriage.

  “Should I come with you to see the fair Lady Cordelia?” Arthur asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re not much of a host,” Arthur complained.

  Percival tried to chuckle. He was doing the most exciting thing he’d ever done. Possibly also the most foolish, but it was far too easy to imagine Fiona beside him. For the rest of their lives. He blinked. He wanted to brace himself for the pain of her likely dismissal, but he’d been doing that in London the entire winter and most of the spring. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t live in a world where he hadn’t attempted everything to see if they could be together.

  Likely he’d need to live in a world where she’d tossed him aside. Later he would deal with that.

  He scrambled outside, dragging his bad leg over the uneven cobblestones.

  The groom scurried to swing open the door to the carriage.

  “You got it ready quickly,” Percival said, noting the new horses. “Thank you.”

  The groom nodded. “Where would you like to go, Your Grace?”

  “Yorkshire.”

  The word was ridiculous. They’d just traveled practically all the way to the south coast, but he’d have to leave gazing at the ocean for another day. There was only one being, one wonderful, wonderful person he wanted to gaze at now.

  The groom’s facial muscles flickered, but he retained a stoic expression. “Then we’d better get moving.”

  ***

  Of course they hadn’t been able to drive the whole night. The horses required rest, and even with switching horses, the trip lengthened to a multi-day journey. Percival had never felt more that he lacked control. He attempted to tell himself that Fiona would be accepting of him, but all he remembered was her hardened face the last time he’d seen her.

  He’d been a fool then.

  Perhaps Fiona would think Percival not worth the inconvenience of being chained to a man who was required to make frequent appearances in society, who needed to spend significant time in Sussex, and who suffered from a deformity.

  He gritted his teeth. Fiona was wise, and if she thought those things, she would be right to.

  Percival might be strong now, but he didn’t want to consider the future. Most men clung to canes in their old age; he did it now. What would he be like later on? His chest tightened, and a familiar jolt of pain surged though his leg.

  He pushed the velvet curtain aside. The Dales loomed outside, their dark green peaks reminding him of places he couldn’t venture anymore. He scrunched his fists together.

  He’d told the driver to go to Fiona’s cousin’s home, and he struggled to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. He brushed his hand over his cheeks and met rough stubble. He hadn’t dared to take the time to shave at the last coaching inn they’d stopped at.

  I may have already lost her.

  He pressed his lips together in a firm line. Some things were too horrible to contemplate, and he exhaled when the carriage pulled into the baroness’s estate. The wheels rolled over the meticulously kept lane.

  He inhaled and checked that his cravat was in a decent state. He was a duke. The baroness would tell him where Fiona was. The coach stopped before the elaborate portico, and Percival grabbed his cane and climbed down the carriage steps.

  One of the gardeners gave him a surprised glance, but he continued on. Probably the man’s reaction could be attributed to not seeing dukes often.

  A curtain flickered in a window, and then the main door swung open. He hurried his pace to greet the butler.

  Except it wasn’t the butler.

  A round woman wearing an apron greeted him. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her arms were grubby. “No one is here. Most of the staff are setting up a residence in Italy.”

  I’m too late.

  Percival sucked in a breath of air, but this time he struggled to calm himself. He’d lost her. He’d waited too long, and he’d never see her again.

  “When did she leave?”

  “This morning.”

  Percival’s shoulders sank. “She’s already on the way to Italy with Miss Amberly.”

  The maid nodded. He sank his shoulders down, and he had the curious sensation that someone had just hit him.

  “Though they were stopping at one of Miss Amberly’s new archaeological sites on the way.”

  He squared his shoulders and hope spread through him, despite his best intentions to protect himself from further disappointment. “Where is it?”

  “Ah . . . Just four miles north of here. Near the old mill. You can’t miss it.”

  I hope not. He smiled, thanked her, and sped back to the coach as quickly as his foot would allow.

  “Carry on,” he shouted, repeating the housekeeper’s instructions. He tapped his foot inside the coach, willing the driver to move more swiftly past the baroness’s manicured lawns, faux-Greek temples, and elaborate rose garden.

  The driver urged the horses on, and the coach dipped and swerved in an uncomfortable fashion over the dirt lane. Thick hedges lined the road, reminding Percival of the night he’d first met Fiona.

  The coach barreled through a village and passed the Old Goblet Lodge.

  And then finally the coach slowed. Percival craned his neck from the window, but no aristocratic carriage, flourished with a golden crest, blocked the drive. His heart tumbled downward.

  The coach halted, and he scrambled out, cane in hand. He swept his gaze over the field.

  She’s not there.

  A group of men was digging, and he headed toward them. They might know where Fiona was. Zeus, they were his only hope.

  Something about them seemed familiar. The ground was squishy, and his steps were more uneven than normal.

  “Hullo there!” He waved both hands above his head.

  Some of the men turned to him, including a man with white whiskers. A man he recognized. His stomach toppled downward.

  “Mr. Nic
holas!” Percival’s eyes widened, and the older man smiled.

  “Ah . . . Mr. Percival.” He turned around and shouted, “Mr. Potter!”

  Percival tensed and gripped his cane more tightly. A burly man whom he’d vowed to never see again turned his head. He might have been a dozen feet away, but Percival could still see contempt flicker across the man’s face. He strode toward them.

  What on earth was Fiona doing with these men?

  A younger man nudged Mr. Nicholas and whispered in his ear.

  Mr. Nicholas raised his not-insignificant brows. “Apparently you’re actually a duke.”

  “I am.”

  Mr. Potter wiped dirty hands on his buckskin breeches. “If I was a duke, I wouldn’t pretend to be a man who’d abandoned his expecting wife.”

  Percival flashed a tight smile. He needed their help. “Do you happen to know where she is?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Percival?”

  Mr. Nicholas chuckled. “She don’t go by that name anymore, Your Grace. I would think you would know that.”

  “Seems you don’t have to be very smart to be a duke,” Mr. Potter chided him. “I could be a duke. I would be good at being a duke.”

  The other men murmured assent, and Percival sighed. His eyes flickered around the field. Poppies swayed in the wind, and a bright sun shone from the blue sky above. A large pit sat in the middle, and some of the men pored over it.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Mr. Nicholas grinned. “Archaeology!”

  “Better than hangin’ round the tavern.” Mr. Potter flexed his forearm. “I’m getting me muscles back!”

  Percival eyed him. He wasn’t convinced the man was in any need of more muscles. The man rather epitomized brawniness. That said, the men did appear content. He’d regarded them poorly before, scoffing that they seemed to spend their entire lives in a public house. But work was likely hard to come by. The torrent of returned soldiers clamoring for work hadn’t helped anyone, and crops were failing all over Europe because of an onslaught of frigid temperatures.

  Mr. Potter jutted his thumb out at Mr. Nicholas. “We dig, and this man labels and records everything.”