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

by Bianca Blythe

  Not that he could leave her.

  “Fiona.”

  She spun around, and relief flooded her face. “But—”

  “Let’s go back,” Percival said.

  “But—”

  “We’ll make your grandmother happy. If I’m to be your fiancé, let me at least be a good one. Let’s go to the ball tomorrow. I want to be remembered fondly.”

  “That would be . . . wonderful.” Fiona smiled at him. “But you’re in a rush to go to London.”

  Percival shrugged.

  The dowager would be upset at his continued absence. He would send another note to her. His cheeks warmed at the memory of the passionate note he’d sent earlier, calling Fiona a kidnapper. He would send a note to ease any worries she might have. He needn’t be a slave to society’s desires. Not today. Not tomorrow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The fire cooled, and the flames that leaped and swirled in the medieval fireplace before Percival’s bed vanished, replaced by long strips of garnet and orange that crunched the dark logs.

  His mind shifted to the day previous. The sleigh ride from Harrogate had transformed into sipping chocolate in the Great Hall, chatting with her and her grandmother. Chocolate transformed into listening to wassailers, and another sleigh ride late at night, brightened by the moon and the glimmer of frosted leaves and branches.

  Something sounded on the balcony.

  A bird. Or maybe some nocturnal squirrel, unfazed by the vast piles of snow.

  Fiona.

  His heart leaped at the thought, despite its ridiculousness. A woman might pretend to be a highwaywoman, but that did not mean she scratched on the window of a man’s room.

  And yet he still clambered off the bed, even though rising remained a difficult procedure. He still wrapped a robe over himself and he still headed outside, the sound of the clicking of his wooden foot loud in the morning quiet.

  He unlocked the door and stepped onto the stone balcony.

  Naturally she wasn’t there.

  The thought had been foolish, and he told himself he was relieved. His life was planned, and now was not the time for romance.

  The sun journeyed up the horizon, casting long pink and orange rays over the snow-covered landscape. The sharp slopes glistened bright tangerine colors.

  Everything sparkled, at variance with the dour, rain-clogged Dales he’d anticipated, where the sky and ground would share that same, muddied color.

  Crisp air swept over his hair. Snowflakes continued their descents, but they tumbled slowly, twirling under the growing light, their distinctive shapes fluttering before they settled onto the piles of snow, merging forever.

  Tonight was the ball, and after he would go to London. He would meet his perfect bride, adorn her with the perfect jewels with their perfect history. They would have their perfect children and lead their perfect lives.

  They’d spend the season in London, summer at one of their country estates, and when they had the urge to be exciting, they might descend upon Europe, now the war was over.

  He bit his lip, uncertain if Lady Cordelia favored travel. His knowledge of her was limited to her passion for needle work, though he’d never comprehended the delight for stabbing a piece of cloth repeatedly to form a rigid representation of a flower.

  No matter. The sun clambered up the peaks of the Dales, and he padded farther onto the balcony. Soon uniform white buildings would form his view, their facade only varying with the choice of statue to embellish the home. Apollo or Aphrodite, Zeus or Hera, these were soon to be the large questions.

  Some of the servants exited the castle, clothed in dark coats and wielding large shovels. They tackled the snow, bowing their heads down as they lifted up the white powder and flung it to the side. Eventually dark cobblestones poked through the snow, their presence confirming that there would be no cause to delay his return to London.

  It was foolish to be anything else than grateful he’d return home soon. He shivered, but he couldn’t solely blame the cold.

  A woman like Fiona would never be comfortable on his arm. She’d not even lasted a season when she’d been a debutante.

  A door creaked open, and he froze.

  “Sorry—” Fiona’s voice stammered an apology, and he swiveled around.

  She was in her nightdress, a long flowing gown that should have afforded no view of her person, but which managed to reveal her every curve.

  Or perhaps his thoughts found it natural to dwell on every lustful aspect of her.

  It was easy to linger on the delightful manner in which her ivory skin melded against the satin gleam of her gown. It was easy to ponder the charming caramel-colored freckles which dotted her tiny, upturned nose, and it was easy to be drawn in by the shards of emeralds that posed as her eyes.

  Her body curved appealingly, and his fingers itched to trace the line from her waist to her hips, from the curve of her neck to the slope of her bosom.

  And her hair. By Zeus, her hair.

  The rich auburn strands would feel rougher than the straight, silky locks of the ton he was accustomed to. The only joy there was found in undoing their chignons, though the process usually involved copious amounts of pins.

  His fingers tightened, and he averted his eyes.

  “Sorry!” Fiona repeated, as if she had no idea how the throaty tone of her voice affected him. “I thought no one was here. I like to watch the sun rise.”

  “Then we share an enjoyment of the same pastime.” Percival cursed the sudden hoarseness of his voice.

  She pulled her robe more tightly around her, but it only managed to more clearly reveal the curves of her body.

  Percival forced his gaze away. He tried to focus on pink rays that outlined the now-white hills that had occupied his attention so thoroughly before, but the looping slopes of the Dales that men traveled far to see was no competition to the enticing curves of the woman beside him.

  I’m spoken for.

  A small part of him told him he wasn’t spoken for yet, he wasn’t actually committed, he’d simply told the dowager he would agree with what she deemed best.

  She’d lost her son. He couldn’t crush her further.

  “I’ll return inside.” Fiona swiveled, and her auburn locks fluttered in the wind. Large snowflakes had fallen on her hair, sparkling and shimmering as if she were ensconced in a snow globe.

  “Wait.” Percival stretched out a hand to her, and then hastily dropped it, because by Zeus, it wasn’t appropriate to even speak to her like this, much less act like the thought of her leaving pained him.

  After all, he was counting the hours to his departure. This had been the most inconvenient incident of the year. And that included six months of battling the French. No way would he stand here in the blasted cold and ponder her beauty.

  That would be ridiculous. He shifted on the snowy surface of the balcony. The thought of not spending every moment of the rest of their short time together seemed even more absurd.

  He sucked in a breath of air. “I would like to see your archaeological finds.”

  Fiona blinked. “Are you sure? No one else—”

  “I’m not no one else.”

  Fiona’s long eyelashes swooped down, and her cheeks pinkened.

  Percival cursed his intensity, and he laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. “After all, I’m your fiancé.”

  Fiona’s lips turned up as he expected, but no joy sparkled in her emerald eyes. His heart hammered. When he said things like that, it was all too easy to contemplate what it would be like if his words were real.

  She wasn’t really his fiancée, and after tonight, she would no longer even be an acquaintance. He would divide his time between London and the ducal residence in Sussex. His heart clenched.

  “Besides, archaeology interests me. You interest me.” Heat pricked the back of his neck, as if he weren’t able to cope with the presence of his robe and her presence at the same time. He’d said too much, but he refused to withdraw the word
s.

  The slow smile that spread over her face halted, and her jaw tightened. She placed her hands on her waist. “You should stop that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She strode near him, not seeming to care that the bottom of her robe trailed in the snow. “You must do a better job of displaying your faults. Because right now you seem perfect, and Lord, I’m going to miss you.”

  “Fiona—”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d used her given name in his thoughts, but it was the first time he’d said it to her. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around and returned to her bedroom.

  He followed her, dragging his wooden leg on the unevenly packed snow, before she might close the door.

  He might be losing all sense—very likely he was—but the thought of never having another moment alone with her seemed horrific.

  Much more horrific than it should have been.

  His heart hammered, and he poked his head through the door. He scanned the room, taking in her still unmade bed and the long, dark canopies that hung from the bed posts. Not that there was anything drab about the bed—the place seemed filled with significance.

  He forced his mind from dwelling on the fact that even the smallest pillow was likely imbued with Fiona’s scent, and he definitely refused to ponder what sort of uses a bed might fulfil. He was still in a robe himself, and the long nightshirt underneath scarcely made him decent. Not if his mind was going to ponder—that.

  He didn’t need to think about a womanly body pressed against soft sheets. He gritted his teeth. “May I enter?”

  Fiona paused. “Yes.”

  He wavered, teetering on the threshold of duty and desire, responsibility and bliss, all that was honorable and all that was Fiona and delightful.

  It was almost as if . . . He shook his head.

  Love was something confined to fairy tales for little girls. Love was something that grew slowly, if at all, after a lifetime of attending the same balls and sitting across from one another at the same dining room table. Love was something he might experience with Lady Cordelia in a few years if he were lucky, but most likely not. And that wasn’t supposed to matter. That’s why everyone kept separate bedrooms, that’s why brothels thrived.

  But it was clear: he adored Fiona Amberly. He was in love with her, blast it. And it didn’t seem to matter in the slightest that the fact was bloody inconvenient.

  He’d been happy when the dowager suggested he marry Lady Cordelia and that his future would be settled. Perhaps he’d been more sensitive about his leg than he’d let on. The prospect of courting women, seeing which ones didn’t mind he couldn’t dance with them, and seeing which ones didn’t use his interest to catapult proposals for better, two-legged men, failed to appeal.

  At one time he’d loved London, embraced the order of its grand buildings and the chaotic frenzy near St. Paul’s and Covent Garden. He’d always considered the countryside dull and grumbled at the prospect of spending any time there. Its advantages had seemed limited to the possibilities of pall mall and lawn chess, both games he had little interest in, and its disadvantages had seemed endless.

  And yet now—now nothing seemed duller than the prospect of another season, with trained debutantes sneaking glances at him, assessing whether his vast estates and tolerable good looks were worth his present state of less than wholeness.

  No, he hadn’t wanted to go through that before he’d met Fiona. That’s why he’d rushed into assenting to the dowager’s pleas.

  But now he’d met Fiona, and life was more vivid. She’d cared so much for her grandmother that she’d gone to enormous extents to reassure her. She cherished history and the past. She wasn’t the only person he’d met interested in the Romans, but she was the very first who expressed such passion.

  Love-sick sonnets suddenly made sense. He had a wild urge to throw her on the bed and to ask her to be his wife. It seemed ridiculous he would declare himself her fiancé in public and not in private.

  The world had changed these past few days. Fiona had dragged him from his steadfast life, and he couldn’t be more thankful. It was all he could do now to not recite the poetry his tutors had forced him to memorize. It was all he could do to not fall at her feet. His heart thrummed in his chest.

  Fiona flashed him a wobbly smile. “Unless perhaps you’ve reconsidered. That would be fine. Most people find archaeology tiresome.”

  He squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. “I haven’t reconsidered.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, but she soon swerved around and headed toward a small door in the room.

  “This way,” she chirped, and he smiled.

  Her hands trembled somewhat, and he fought the desire to wrap them in his and reassure her. He brushed some of the snow and ice off and followed her.

  She picked up a torch, sucked in a breath of air and flung the door open.

  Dim light from her torch flickered over the small room. She lit another lantern, engulfing the room in a warm, cozy light.

  He blinked. Pottery sat on thick shelves beside coins and helmets. A mosaic of a woman lay on a large desk beside thick tomes of Roman history in Britain. Gold letters glimmered from the large leather books.

  She followed his gaze. “They’re my vice.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure they don’t count as one.”

  Other ladies of the ton were prone to drinking, smearing slabs of lead paste on their faces so their skin would not betray their enthusiasm for gin. If Fiona’s guilty pleasure lay in reading, he could only praise her.

  He scanned the room and gazed at the rows of impeccably cleaned and labeled finds. “This is—amazing.”

  “You think?” Fiona’s cheeks pinkened, and he nodded.

  “You really found these on the estate?”

  “Yes, near the apple orchard. I suppose the castle has been around for centuries, and even if the current building stems from the middle ages, the site was inhabited well before then.”

  “And I suppose the estate always belonged to people of importance, so it is understandable why the finds would be here.”

  She stared at him. “Exactly. Though I would say that every person is of importance; but yes, families with wealth have always lived here.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Please—sit.” She pointed at a chair and settled onto a more uncomfortable looking bench.

  He sat. His gaze flickered to Fiona, and he imagined her working here, consumed by her dedication to her finds. Her brow would be furrowed and her nose would crinkle in that adorable way.

  “I’ve only excavated a portion of the apple orchard. I didn’t want to dig up the trees. One of the older servants told me about some Roman coins someone had discovered there once, and it made me curious whether there was more underneath.” Fiona shrugged, as if her actions were the most natural thing in the world, even though he’d never met another person who’d done anything similar.

  “What made you want to discover the finds?”

  “I was curious.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s reassuring in a way to know that millions of people have come before me, and that others have been living in this area for generations. And there’s—there’s something magical about touching these objects that no one else has handled for centuries. I like imagining the people they belonged to. And I don’t want their lives to be forgotten. They created this rich, vibrant, beautiful world.”

  He nodded and flicked his gaze back to the art and pottery on the shelves. He pondered whether their lives would be considered interesting by the people who would come centuries after them, or whether any items they had would remain in the ground, with no one spurred to examine them more closely.

  “There were multiple military defenses in the area. The Romans were in York, and they also had fortresses on Hadrian’s Wall. Everyone said any people there were just soldiers, but they had their families, with their dreams.” Her eyes shone as she spoke, sparkling as if they were visiting another land, inha
bited by people in togas who looked different, but perhaps weren’t really all that dissimilar.

  His mind wandered to the ton, and to the men and women eager to assert their favorable characteristics by contrasting them with others. They spoke negatively of the people who grabbed the wrong fork at dinner or tilted their soup bowls in the improper direction, but there was more to life than conforming to a pre-established ideal.

  Fiona was everything he always should have dreamed of, but never had.

  “You’re amazing,” he blurted, and he slammed his teeth onto his tongue before he could also proclaim his love for her.

  The woman seemed sufficiently overwhelmed by his previous statement. Her eyelashes swooped up, and her mouth parted.

  She gave a nervous laugh and bent her head, so her luscious red curls hung over one of her eyes. A rosy flush grew on her cheeks, and she shook her head.

  “I mean it.” Heat prickled the back of his neck, but he continued on. Some things needed to be said, no matter how much they caused his heart to gallop, as if wild horses had taken charge of it. He stumbled from his chair and strode toward her.

  Her eyes were wide. They sparkled and shimmered like emeralds, and he settled onto the bench beside her. Only a narrow width separated them, and the space between their faces lessened. He took her hands in his. A flurry of warmth jolted through him at the contact, and he smiled. Everything about her was wonderful. “Fiona Amberly, you are the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I—”

  He smiled. She had no idea how marvelous she was. He stroked her hands and then leaned toward her. Soft lips touched his, and a sweet sigh escaped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She was being kissed.

  It was ridiculous. Men didn’t go around kissing Fiona. And not handsome men like Percival. Their eyes weren’t supposed to cloud over in something that mirrored desire, and they weren’t supposed to gaze at her in reverence.

  Firm lips caressed hers, exploring the shape of her lips with his own. Just as she was getting used to the tender game of sucking and caressing, even as she debated whether she had the courage to stop this blissful sensation, Percival’s tongue stroked her own in a manner so intimate that warmth catapulted through her body, tightening at her most intimate portion.