How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (10 page)

Percival rose and nodded. “If I may retire as well…”

“Of course.” Grandmother smiled.

“You are an extraordinarily understanding woman,” the captain said.

“You flatter me,” Grandmother said. “Though I am sure that any good qualities I might have are already known to you, reflected by my brilliant granddaughter.”

The captain smiled at her, and Fiona’s cheeks flamed.

“Your fiancé is quite charming, my dear.”

Fiona nodded, and her throat dried. “I am pleased you should find him so.”

***

Percival was not amused.

He was many things: furious, angry, frustrated… but no, decidedly not amused.

His annoyance had started once he’d met the blasted woman, and it had not halted after, though it had grown to anger many times.

It didn’t matter that the butler had led him into a decent sort of room, with olive green velvet curtains and maple furniture. It didn’t matter that a fire was leaping and swirling in the medieval stone fireplace, as if Fiona’s grandmother had ordered a servant to light it at the first sighting of him struggling through the blasted snow.

The two women were probably conspiring together.

He needed to get to London. The dowager was depending on him. He turned to the butler, who was obsequiously pulling out all the spare blankets. “Look here, Evans.”

“Sir.” The man paused, holding onto a fuzzy red woolen blanket that looked damned tempting.

“I need to get to London. At once.”

The butler smiled politely.

“Please prepare a horse for me.” Percival glowered at the man.

“Her ladyship was clear that your presence is requested elsewhere.” Evans continued placing the blankets on the bed.

“This is all a great mistake. I was captured. I never intended for this to happen.”

Evans tilted his head. “There is no allowing for when Cupid’s arrow strikes.”

“Then Cupid was wielding a knife!” Percival muttered.

“Sir?” Evan’s lifted his grey eyebrows.

Percival shook his head. “Nothing. Cupid has not struck me.”

“And yet you’re about to be married.” Evans tilted his head, and Percival groaned. He slid into an armchair.

He tilted his head. He should correct the man. He wasn’t a sir. He was—well, he was Your Grace. Which had more of a ring to it, one he wasn’t yet fully accustomed to hearing.

And at this rate one that he would completely forget about.

He scrunched his eyebrows together. But even though he did rather want to emphasize his title and intimidate the man into arranging a horse for him, he didn’t really want it to be known that the Duke of Alfriston had managed to get himself captured by some chit claiming to be a highwaywoman.

That was definitely gossip fodder. But blast it, he needed to get to London. He swung his head in the direction of the outdoors.

The sky had grown grayer, and though he had a wild moment of hope that the heavens might open up with some very English rain, washing every last flake of snow away, it was really far more likely—far more his luck—that it would snow more.

His shoulders sank. His luck had left him long ago. He was stuck here. “I don’t suppose I can send a message?”

“Why of course.”

“Of course?” Percival tilted his head at the butler. His esteem of the man had ratcheted up abruptly, and he now considered how he’d ever managed to not see the man’s definite intelligence and decency.

“Naturally if you require to get in touch with somebody, we could of course arrange to send a message—”

“Good God, Evans, you’re a miracle worker!” Percival grinned wide. “Has anyone told you you’re bloody amazing?”

“Her ladyship has been effusive on various occasions, and Fiona’s kindness is of course well known among the staff—”

Percival waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you to number her accomplishments.”

“Ah, I see!” Evans gave him a knowing glance. “You clearly are already familiar with her outstanding qualities.”

“Er . . . yes.” Percival tried to smile at the man. Something seemed to twinge inside him, and he shoved the thought away. It would be good to be rid of this place, and with Evan’s help in sending a trusty note, that should be soon. “Anyway, I should find some paper.”

Evans nodded. “I’ll fetch some. Fiona always has plenty.”

“Ah, I wager she’s a letter writer.”

Everything appeared much rosier. Even the bed started to look tempting, despite or perhaps because of the piles of blankets.

Evans tilted his head. “I suppose she sent letters to you when she was in town.”

“Ah, yes.” He shuddered.

Evans narrowed his eyes at him, and he forced himself to smile. Mustn’t make the man suspicious.

He had a plan now.

He tapped his fingers against the cherry desk. Evans disappeared down the hallway, but he soon reappeared with some paper.

Percival raised his eyebrows when he spotted that Evans’ black jacket was speckled with dirt. He didn’t want to ponder what sort of mess Fiona’s work room must be in. The less he knew about the mysteries of Cloudbridge Castle, the better.

He flexed his fingers and wrote a quick note to the dowager. Writing the words down was every bit as embarrassing as he’d anticipated. He told her there was no need for her to exert her full force, but he would very much appreciate it if a carriage could be sent for him. People shouldn’t be allowed to kidnap others. In fact, he was pretty sure they weren’t allowed to do so, and by Christmas-time he hoped to be celebrating with his new family and perhaps even his new betrothed.

Soon all of this would be a distant memory.

The wild rush of triumph she’d expected didn’t appear. Grandmother was happy, and that was wonderful, but it was only more indication that Fiona had failed before in making her happy.

She sighed. How she felt didn’t matter. It only mattered how her Grandmother felt, which was, fortunately, better.

After retiring for a bath and nap, the latter of which she devoted more to worrying than sleeping, Fiona was contemplating whether she might do some archaeology after all, when a knock sounded on the door.

Percival.

She rushed to answer it, barreling over the cold wooden beams as she threw on her nicest robe and smoothed her hair frantically. She cursed that Grandmother had revealed the location of her room to Percival, but when she swung the door open, it was only Maggie, one of the maids.

Warmth prickled the back of her neck and furled over her face.

“Miss Fiona…” Maggie bent her stout body in a brief curtsy, evidently flummoxed to find Fiona personally opening the door. Her bird-eye gaze flickered over Fiona’s no-doubt flushed cheeks, and Fiona was conscious of her quickened breath.

Maggie had been a maid in the house for as long as Fiona remembered, and running in her room was not a general pastime for Fiona.

“I’m not sure if today is the best to help with the archaeology,” Fiona said.

Maggie shook her head. “Mrs. Amberly told me I should help you with dressing.”

“Oh.” Fiona widened her eyes.

“She also said it was fine with her if you wore one of your dresses from the other side of the wardrobe.”

Fiona must have appeared puzzled, for Maggie shifted her legs and fixed her gaze on the wardrobe, not meeting her eyes. “The side with the colors. I think she thought that you might be more adventuresome on account of your captain.”

“Oh.” Fiona settled onto her bed as Maggie slid the wardrobe door open, pulling out colorful dresses Fiona had not worn since her parents’ deaths. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s been several years,” Maggie said gently, and Fiona nodded.

She was right.

Four years ago her parents had died when rushing home for Christmas, to celebrate Fiona’s favorite holiday.

Perhaps the coach always would have crashed into that boulder, but it was all too easy to imagine her father’s forceful voice in encouraging the driver to hasten, even though it was dark, even though the coach only had a hanging lantern to depend on.

She swallowed hard. When she’d briefly had her season, she’d worn the frilly, vibrant dresses the occasion required, retreating back to half-mourning only later.

The grey dresses, sometimes tinged with lavender, had seemed comforting. If she retreated from the world of fashion, she could not be subjected to the whispers and gossip of others when her bow failed to be the correct width and her hat clashed with her hair.

“I’m not sure.” She bit her lip.

Maggie pulled out various dresses, laying them over the bed. Blue and green gowns draped over the plain sheets like jewels. “Mrs. Amberly said that you might be reluctant, but that I was to insist.”

“I see.” She brushed her hand over glossy fabric. “I suppose I could…”

“Good,” Maggie said matter-of-factly, sweeping up the dress Fiona had touched. “You can wear this.”

Fiona’s gaze flickered to silky green ribbons and puffed sleeves.

“You’ll look wonderful,” Maggie said encouragingly. “And green is very suitable for Christmas. Mrs. Amberly also said Sir Seymour and Lady Lavinia are coming for dinner with their son.”

“Cecil!” Fiona’s heart thundered, and she tore her hand through her still damp hair.

Maggie nodded, her eyes narrowed. “She said it was good your fiancé will be able to meet some of your family. She was under the impression that he might not be here for long.”

“I see,” Fiona said, though in truth, meeting her extended family was unpleasant enough without having a man reluctantly playing her fiancé to contend with.

She acceded to Maggie’s attentions, as the servant struggled to summon up how best to arrange Fiona’s hair.

“Now your sister used to prefer to sweep her hair up, but with your lovely locks, I think it might be nice to display your hair more.”

Fiona scrunched her eyebrows together. Her locks weren’t lovely.

Maggie pursed her lips, twisting and pinning her hair.

“Can I see?”

“When you’re dressed.” The maid picked up the vibrant dress and assisted Fiona into it, fussing over the clasps and folds, and then painting Fiona’s face.

Finally, Maggie beamed. “All set.”

Firm hands guided Fiona to the gilded mirror, and she prepared herself for the worst. She would look absurd. A crow forced to adorn itself with the feathers of a peacock. Outrageous.

And yet—

She didn’t appear outlandish. There was nothing ludicrous about her appearance. In fact, it even appeared . . . appealing.

The emerald fabric of the dress enhanced the green of her eyes and complemented her auburn hair. Her normal grey clothes had cast a sickly pallor over her face, and her freckled skin had seemed garish against her somber outfit. But now her freckles only magnified her brilliant coloring. She lifted a hand to her hair, brushing her finger against a carefully arranged curl.

“I didn’t think I could look like this.”

“You never tried,” Maggie said. “You look lovely.”

Fiona dropped her gaze to her dress. The glossy fabric gleamed in the mirror, and curves that she had thought made her body appear bulky looked elegant.

“Thank you.” Fiona smiled at the mirror, still awe-struck by her appearance.

“Now go see your young, handsome captain.”

Fiona hurried downstairs.

No good risking leaving Percival wandering the castle. When she reached the drawing room, Percival was reclining in an armchair.

Goodness, he was handsome. He was everything anybody had ever dreamed of. He’d looked nicer than she cared to dwell on before, but now that he was not swathed in a great coat, nor displaying his stained cravat and clothes, the man was magnificent. Evans had evidently laid out clothes for him, and he was attired in silk and velvet. The clothes might be out of fashion, just like her dress, but that didn’t stop the gold in the buttons from accentuating the gold in his hair, and it didn’t stop the blue of the jacket from setting off the blue of his eyes.

His gaze flickered over her, and for a moment a satisfactory feeling rushed through her, though the man’s eyes soon clouded, and he fixed a haughty smile she distrusted.

“I trust the accommodations are tolerable?” Her words were stiff and overly formal, more suitable to a conversation with her uncle than to a man she’d spent the past twenty-four hours with.

He inclined his head in a polite gesture. “Indeed.”

The smirk did not disappear from his face, as if he knew something she did not.

Fiona fixed a fierce stare in his direction, though her furious glaring could not remove the manner in which the attractive planes of his face had arranged themselves into a smug expression. “What are you thinking?”

Percival’s shoulders rose and dropped in a nonchalant fashion. His lips smirked, as if he found her distress amusing. The candlelight shimmered over him, sheathing him in a golden light. “Just enjoying the castle.”

“Good,” Fiona said uncertainly.

She’d expected the man to tell her he wanted to leave again, but he seemed content to lounge in the armchair.

Well. That was good, wasn’t it?

Fiona swung her gaze, but no one was in the hallway. Grandmother was not a very vigilant chaperone.

“My . . . er . . . family is coming for dinner tonight.”

“Your parents?” His words were casual, and she stiffened.

Her heart raced, and she dropped into the armchair opposite.

The smug expression on his face vanished immediately, replaced by something resembling worry. Percival’s eyes were wide, and he leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re dead,” she said.

“Oh.” He leaned back, and his expression sobered. “I’m sorry.”

She forced herself to laugh. “You didn’t know. It happened a while back.”

“Both of them?”

She shifted her legs, tucking them under her chair, and smoothed her dress. The dark green fabric seemed fanciful, the forest color matching the greenery excessively. The satin ribbons gleamed, the bows were too festive, the cut too daring.

She missed her predictable grey gowns that honored her parents.

“Forgive me.” Percival’s velvety voice was deep and reassuring.

She lifted her gaze.

The man’s blue eyes had darkened, and she squirmed under the intensity of his expression.

Her eyelashes fluttered down. It had happened so long ago, and it should have stopped being painful, but it wasn’t. Her parents had died, and it was all her fault. Their coach had been driving too quickly, bounding into a boulder that shouldn’t have been there, but which the driver would have seen if he hadn’t been hastening.

She’d loved Christmas, and her parents had known it. Even though not everyone celebrated the holiday, she’d loved the scent of yule logs, loved the music of the wassailers, even when their voices were imperfect, and she’d loved the mistletoe and holly dangling from every archway in the castle.

“It was a coach crash,” she said. “It happens all the time. A boulder was in the road, and that’s all it took.”

She felt his eyes resting on her and looked up.

“You said a tree was blocking the road yesterday.” Percival’s face was paler than before, not that it hampered the man’s handsomeness.

“Yes.”

“You really did just stop the coach to warn us,” Percival said.

Fiona nodded. “I was surprised when your driver pointed a musket at me.”

“I see.” Percival shifted his lanky leg and rubbed his hand along the other one.

The thin material of his pantaloons gleamed under the flames from the red candles that sparkled from rod-iron chandeliers and sconces. The light accentuated his powerful thighs, until the material became loose at one of his knees, and a wooden leg poked from the bottom of his pantaloons.

“I shouldn’t have pretended to be a highwaywoman,” Fiona said, keeping her voice low. “I panicked when I saw the coach-driver’s musket, and when the shots from the peasants fired, I took advantage of the situation. I wanted the driver’s help in moving the tree. I thought I could explain everything to you in the coach, but when he disappeared, I panicked.”

“I’m sorry.” Percival’s eyes softened, but then he cleared his throat. “Who’s coming to dinner?”

“My Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Seymour. He’s a baronet and acts like he owns the home. I suppose once Grandmother dies, he will.”

“She’s very sick?”

“Yes.” Fiona said, unsettled by the tenderness in Percival’s voice, and the manner in which his blue eyes rounded, as if he were concerned.

Sometimes it was all too easy to believe he really was her fiancé. Underneath all the man’s bluster, he was sweet and gentle. She’d been willing to assign every bad quality of the
ton
to him. His concern for her was real. He understood her. And goodness, perhaps she understood him.

Just because a man possessed aristocratic features did not mean he didn’t care about others. Percival had suffered. He’d lost his cousin and his leg. He could easily be wallowing at whatever apartment or estate he lived at, but instead he was independent. He traveled by himself, while Fiona, who had the advantage of excellent health, was too timid.

He was vivacious, easily charming Grandmother. Though Fiona found his symmetrical, sturdy features more fascinating than she cared to admit, it was the man’s other qualities that most enchanted her.

A pang of sadness thrummed through her, and she shifted in her seat, as if the action might diminish the realization that Percival would never be her fiancé, and if this action was discovered, no man would ever be.

She straightened her shoulders, and strove to smile, no matter how foreign the gesture felt on her face. “Tell me about your fiancée.”

Percival pulled his leg back, and his demeanor grew more formal. “She has a high reputation.”

“Marvelous,” Fiona chirped, sending him another wide smile that she didn’t feel in the slightest. “How brilliant for you.”

“Er . . . yes.”

“And I imagine her hair is not red and curly.”

“It is blonde and straight.” Percival tilted his head, and she averted her eyes from his gaze.

“Like silk!” Fiona clapped her hands. “That’s the best kind.”

“So people say.”

“They’re right.”

She tried to reflect on something else besides the copious charms of Mrs. Percival-to-be.

“I haven’t actually met her,” Percival said.

Fiona’s eyelashes swooped up.

Carriage wheels scraped against the snow outside, and Fiona groaned. This was too soon. Far too soon.

Fiona’s heartbeat quickened. She jumped to her feet and smoothed her dress frantically.

“You look beautiful,” Percival said.

“Oh.” She dropped her hand and stared at him. A faint tinge pinkened his cheekbones, as if he’d shared rather more than he’d intended, but he did not break his gaze from hers. His jaw was steady, and he nodded. “Green suits you.”

“Thank you.” Her voice wobbled, and her chest felt far too tight.

Percival gripped his cane and rose to his feet. “Now tell me, what should I do if they recognize me?”

“Why would they recognize you?”

He looked at her strangely. “They’re members of the
ton
.”

“But so are ten thousand other people. And you’re from Sussex, and they live in Yorkshire. And you’ve been fighting in the Napoleonic Wars.” She laughed. “Uncle Seymour has definitely not been doing that.”

“Fiona…” A vein on Percival’s temple throbbed. “I am a duke.”

“Really?”

“I told you.” Percival threw his arms up in an exasperated gesture. “I told you last night. I’m the Duke of Alfriston.”

“But—” Fiona swallowed hard. “I didn’t believe you. I thought that was just something you said to avoid being captured.”

“I told you the truth.”

“Oh.” Fiona wound her arms together, holding them in front of her stomach. The hollow pit feeling spread.