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

by Bianca Blythe

  He clutched hold of the banister and gingerly made his way down the marble steps to greet the formidable woman pacing the entry.

  “Your Grace!” The dowager exclaimed, her gaze flickering to his unwaxed hair.

  “How surprising to see you,” he said in his frostiest voice, swooping his torso into a bow.

  The dowager curtsied. “I wanted to warn you that I have heard the most horrific rumor.”

  “Indeed?”

  “But you needn’t worry. I told everyone it was incorrect.”

  Percival’s face tightened. “And what was the rumor?”

  “People are saying that you are married. To a former highwaywoman. The daughter of a county squire.”

  “That’s correct.”

  The dowager blinked. “Indeed?”

  Percival nodded solemnly. “Most definitely.”

  “Then you must annul the marriage!”

  “Impossible.”

  The dowager’s gaze drifted to his leg. “I think in your position, you might be able to convince people of the need. Perhaps if you reference your injury—”

  “No.”

  “Your masculinity need not suffer. People will understand that you are injured.”

  “I love her,” Percival said. “With all my heart.”

  “Oh.” The dowager’s gaze flickered down.

  Percival sighed. “You have been so helpful to me over these past few months. I’m afraid I haven’t told you how grateful I am. But please, do not worry. I may have never planned to be a duke, but I am committed to being a good one. Your son would have been an excellent one, and it is unjust that he is not here now instead of me.”

  The dowager bit her lip.

  “I cannot bring him back,” Percival continued. “But I cannot either lead my life imagining what he would have done in my position. You will get to know my wife more, and you will also see her many charms.”

  The duchess rubbed a hand though her hair. “Thank you. Perhaps I was foolish to barge in like this.”

  Percival shook his head. “You cared. As someone who also now cares about this estate, I can understand and appreciate that.”

  The dowager flickered her eyes to the door. “I suppose I should go.”

  Percival shook his head. “Nonsense. Not after your long journey. Let me introduce you to my wife. I have a feeling the two of you might get along. She was very fond of her grandmother.”

  Epilogue

  December 1816

  Yorkshire

  Fiona hadn’t prepared herself for such joy.

  Her life wasn’t supposed to be like this. Any joy was supposed to be reserved for the heroines in Loretta Van Lochen’s romances.

  She wasn’t supposed to have married a duke. She was supposed to while away her time in Yorkshire, helping her sister with her child, and reading up on the Romans when she could.

  And she might have eventually found contentment doing that. But this—this was more.

  Branches of holly spread from vases throughout the bedroom. The scarlet berries countered the silky azurean blankets, gold-framed mirrors, and sumptuous oriental carpets. A large bay window dominated the room, revealing views of the towering Dales, their slopes whitened, glistening under the outside lanterns. The servants had scraped away the snow in preparation for the guests’ arrival.

  Most of the year needed to be spent at Wentworth Place, but they were spending Christmas in Yorkshire, at one of Percival’s smaller estates.

  Her husband strode into the room. The man was growing increasingly at ease with his cane, and his blue eyes brightened when his gaze found hers. Higgins had clearly managed to convince Percival to allow him to tie one of his more elaborate cravat knots, and her husband was a vision. His black trousers tightened around his muscular thighs, and his chestnut hair glimmered against his black coat.

  Warmth never failed to rush through her at the sight of him. “You look like a complete Corinthian, my dear.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment, given your obsession with everything Classical.”

  “I’m afraid I must bore you dreadfully.”

  “Not bore. Not for one second. You enchant me.” Percival grasped her hands in his, and warmth soared through her. He nodded and lifted his chin, and in that moment he looked every bit as grand as the most impressive statues in the new British Museum. He winked. “Appropriate for the Scarlet Demon.”

  She chuckled, but she knew the fact was true. Despite Percival’s once easy dismissal of art, the man enjoyed discussing her finds and the historical significance.

  Carriage wheels ground against the frozen cobblestones, and Percival squeezed her hands. “They’re arriving.”

  Fiona inhaled. There’d been a time when she’d hidden from the world, seeing each social occasion as an unwanted intrusion and scrutiny into her life.

  “Come, sweetheart.” Percival offered her his arm. “We have a ball to attend.”

  Fiona slid her fingers against his velvet tailcoat. She tilted up her face, and he brushed his lips against hers. He uttered a moan, or maybe she did.

  Percival withdrew and he flickered his gaze to the bed. “I would be quite happy if Evans told the guests we’d both gotten sick and that they should enjoy the festivities without us.”

  “That would be most inappropriate.”

  “If you insist, sweetheart.” Percival opened the bedroom door, and they exited. “I’m forever being captured by you.”

  Fiona giggled. “Our children are going to roll their eyes at you.”

  “Children?” Percival swallowed hard.

  “Well, the plural might be premature.”

  The noise of the ball was louder, and the scent of Christmas grew stronger as they proceeded down the hallway. The servants had draped garlands of greenery over every arch and looped the luscious leaves from the ceiling.

  Fiona had spent so many years dreading large celebrations like this, but now she was hosting her own.

  She smiled at all the people gathered there. She wanted them all to feel welcome, even the shyer wallflowers, and more awkward bluestockings.

  They greeted Arthur, Rosamund and her husband, and a swarm of new people she was enjoying becoming acquainted with.

  “Are you perhaps—” Percival ran his hand through his hair. The man’s tongue did not seem to function as well as it normally did, and his gaze lingered again on her stomach.

  Fiona laughed. A footman offered Percival and her some appetizers. She sniffed and waved the platter away with a smile.

  “Darling.” Percival inhale. “Can you be—”

  “Ah, Fiona.” Uncle Seymour’s voice boomed in her ear. “So . . . er . . . delightful to see you.”

  “Uncle.” She smiled and allowed him to kiss her cheek.

  Percival still looked somewhat stunned, but he managed to raise his eyebrows.

  “My niece, the duchess,” Uncle Seymour continued, his voice maintaining its consistent fortissimo.

  “Her uncle, the baronet.” Percival bowed.

  “How is Cloudbridge Castle?” Fiona asked.

  “Ah, yes!” Uncle Seymour said. “Very nice. You should consider visiting some time.”

  “And sleep in the tiny guestroom?” Percival asked.

  Uncle Seymour shifted his legs. “No, ah, that won’t be necessary. We—well I could offer my room to you. It would only be proper. It would be an . . . er . . . great honor to see you again.”

  Percival’s mouth twitched, and Fiona murmured gratitude for the invitation.

  Uncle Seymour took a deep sip of negus. “And . . . er . . . if you happen to still be interested in the apple orchard . . .”

  “Oh?” Fiona swiveled her head to him.

  Uncle Seymour shifted from side to side, and he rubbed his cravat, rumpling the flourishes. “Well—my wife was reading about your latest discoveries in Chester. It seems lots of people are actually interested in stones that come up from the ground.”

  “Ah, yes,” Percival sai
d. “The general population is rather more intelligent than they are often given credit for.”

  “Well.” Uncle Seymour coughed. “My wife was curious if you were right and if there might indeed be treasures of some sort in the orchard. And since you’re so famous, it didn’t seem right to bring just anyone to dig through the garden.”

  Fiona had missed Cloudbridge Castle, but she was glad the world now extended beyond the manor house’s constraints. She smiled at her uncle’s hopeful gaze. “I would be honored to work on the project. Though I won’t be doing much digging either.”

  “Ah . . . I gather you’ll be bringing in your own crew again,” Uncle Seymour said. “Quite good. We’ve been able to give some of them jobs.”

  Fiona nodded. “So I heard.”

  “I reckon you’ll be busy with your museum,” Uncle Seymour said.

  “Oh, indeed,” Fiona responded. “I have no plans to give that up.”

  Italy might be postponed, but one day, certainly, she would make her way there. In the meantime, there was still much to be discovered here.

  “Suppose even becoming a duchess couldn’t change you much,” Uncle Seymour sniffed.

  Fiona raised her eyebrow, and her uncle’s face reddened. He made his excuses and hastened in the direction of the punch table.

  “My dear . . .” Percival didn’t mask the tremble in his voice. “Just what is keeping you from digging around in the ground as well?”

  A jolt of happiness surged through her. “Next Christmas, there will be another person here.”

  “Sweetheart.” Percival beamed.

  She smiled and entwined her hand with his, enjoying the warmth of his palm and the knowledge her life with him was merely beginning.

  THE END

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  About The Author

  Wellesley graduate Bianca Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

  She credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. Thank goodness for blustery downpours.

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  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 Bianca Blythe

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