How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (18 page)

Percival nodded. “Then see if you can catch up with it again. Explain things to him. And . . . er . . . tell him that the Duke of Alfriston absolutely does not press charges.”

The man blinked, and Percival shifted. His leg throbbed, and he longed to sit down again. Instead he said, “I’ll come with you.”

“But—” Arthur was quick to protest, but Percival shook his head solemnly.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Percival asked.

The servant’s face tightened, and Percival did not press the man further.

She was dead.

Grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. It was impossible. Grandmother had been there Fiona’s whole life, and it wasn’t supposed to end. Not like this. Not without Fiona being there. Not without the doctors giving plenty of warning.

The magistrate had hauled her from the coach. She’d hoped for a reason to avoid prison, but it hadn’t been this.

Her back was rigid and her jaw was steady as steel, for she thought if for one second she considered what had happened, that Grandmother would never ever wake up, then she’d collapse completely.

They’d told her Grandmother was sick, but when she returned to the castle, the servants were sober-faced. They directed her to the drawing room to wait for the doctor, as if she were a guest.

She’d known then.

Grandmother lay on her bed, her sheet pulled to her chin, as if she were simply sleeping.

Fiona plodded her boots over the hardwood floor, and she slowed as she neared the bed, as if the noise might wake her. But that was another thing she need never worry about again.

Grandmother looked just as she always did.

This
must
be a mistake. She turned to a maid. “Are you sure?”

The maid nodded, and her voice trembled. “Yes, m’lady.”

Any last hope that had ridiculously hovered in Fiona’s chest was extinguished.

This wasn’t like the time when Grandmother had declared the silverware lost, and Fiona had found it, right where it had always been. This was final, forever.

I should have been here.

She hastened over to the bed. But it didn’t matter how swiftly she was by Grandmother’s side now. When it had counted, when Grandmother had swallowed her last breaths, she hadn’t been there. Rosamund was with her husband’s family, and Fiona, who was supposed to be taking care of Grandmother, had attended the ball of a cousin she didn’t even like, when she didn’t even like balls.

She’d paraded her supposed fiancé before all the highest society of the region, but for nothing. What did it matter if a few approving glances were cast in Percival’s direction? Her engagement with him was false. She’d been so consumed with trying to impress people that she hadn’t been there for her grandmother’s last moments.

The only reason she wasn’t in prison now was because her grandmother had died. Any hope of social credibility had vanished, and her name would now be linked with more disparaging laughter and remarks than it ever had been before.

She stared at Grandmother. Grandmother’s
body
, she reminded herself. Or even—
corpse
. The tears that she’d managed to restrain over the long, jostling coach ride finally flooded.

Even though they’d talked about Grandmother’s impending death, joked about it even, nothing had prepared Fiona for this.

Grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. She was supposed to live on, sitting in her favorite chair, worrying about Fiona and her sister, and not fussing about herself at all.

Footsteps sounded from the hallway outside. The door handle turned, and Sir Seymour stepped into the room. He cast a glance at the pale body in the bed, and his face whitened.

“My poor mother,” he murmured, and the wrench in Fiona’s heart tightened. The man had lost his parent. He’d known she was dying, and Fiona had not made his time visiting pleasant.

“I’m sorry.”

He gave her a curt nod. No kindness was in his gaze, and the memory of the evening engulfed her again.

“We’ll have to talk about your future,” he said, and she stiffened. “I think after tonight it’s clear you can’t live with us.”

She blinked.

“You understand?” He scowled.

“Grandmother isn’t even in the ground…”

An expression flitted over his face, but he soon firmed his features. “I would like to be alone with her.”

Sir Seymour’s mother had just died, and Fiona wasn’t permitting him to grieve in peace. Her pain was incomparable to his. “N-naturally.”

She pushed open the thick door, and this time hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked furiously. Some servants scurried from the hallway when she exited the room, and their thick black frocks disappeared behind a corner.

She sighed. She didn’t know what she would say to herself either.

For it wouldn’t be alright. Grandmother was dead, and nothing would return her to her peaceful life. Percival had betrayed her, for a reason which indicated more her lack of morals than his, and her dream of wiling away the rest of her life doing archaeology on the estate was exposed as the fantasy it was.

Fiona’s throat had evidently malfunctioned, for all attempts to frantically swallow, to dislodge the clay that seemed to have stuck there, failed.

She glanced around the hallway. Now every object was familiar: the cast-iron doorknobs adorned with stiff, black, molded grapes that seemed poor replicas of the actual fruit, the caramel-colored paneling, and the black sconces from which candles perched, dripping wax onto the floor, the color depending on the season.

Soon it would all be a dream, the vividness fading. She’d struggle to remember the shape of the stiff grapes, if she remembered them at all, and her onetime home would be demoted to vague recollections. She might visit, were she ever to return to Sir Seymour’s good graces, but Aunt Lavinia, who had never lived in the castle before, would be free to make all the changes she desired.

And Grandmother—dear, sweet Grandmother, was dead. Her chest constricted further, and her legs wobbled as she attempted to walk. She sucked in a deep breath, but the air was thick and stale. The doctor had ordered the curtains shut, and the maids had kept the sooty fireplace going.

Voices murmured from downstairs. Someone was calling on them. She longed for bed, on the off chance that she might wake from her nightmare. She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped, and her heartbeat hammering.

Footsteps padded below, and she recognized the characteristic thump of Percival’s wooden leg. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair, but that couldn’t halt the sobs surging from her.

She didn’t want to see him. The man had gotten her arrested and dragged from the Christmas Ball before everyone. Soon word of her misdeeds would spread throughout the
ton
. Because of him, she would never live at Cloudbridge Castle again. Because of him, she would never be able to pursue her beloved archaeological project again.

The very worst of everything was that he’d made her adore him—love him, and nothing could subdue the burning surge of pain.

Percival’s grim face peeked from the stairs, and rage racketed through her. The man didn’t have the right to act mournful. Not after he’d ruined Fiona’s world. She hurried away.

Her dress swished against the furniture, and startled servants rushed from her path. She tightened her fingers into sharp fists and strode down the corridor. Once in her room she pulled her arms around herself and begged her body to calm.

***

Percival’s leg ached. The ball had been tiring, and he’d spent the past hour on horseback in the frigid winter air, chasing the magistrate, and then finally convincing the man to release Fiona.

“Ah, it’s you again.” Sir Seymour’s voice boomed. “I thought it might be another doctor. Not that anyone was able to save my mother.”

“My condolences. She was a kind woman.”

Sir Sidney’s face tightened. “Indeed. Too kind at times.”

“I wanted to see your niece.”

“Gentleman callers at this hour? I shouldn’t allow it.”

“Please.”

Sir Seymour sighed. “You don’t believe me. You don’t believe anything bad about her.”

“Why do you want to demean her? She’s your relative.”

Sir Seymour shrugged. “I take pride in telling the truth. Perhaps we’d never met before tonight, but my wife did tell me that she’d heard from the Belmontes that their daughter Cordelia was going to marry you.”

Percival stiffened.

“I hope my niece knows.”

“She does.”

Sir Seymour fixed steely eyes on him. “Hmph. And you wonder why I berate her for her lack of morals.”

“It’s not like that—”

Sir Seymour arched his eyebrows up. Finally, he shrugged and picked up a cloak. It was the dark one Fiona had worn when she first met him. “She didn’t want to wear it to the ball. I found a pamphlet in this. The very one I told you about.”

“You shouldn’t search through her things.” Percival gritted his teeth together.

“Don’t you want to read it?” Sir Seymour flicked through the pages. “It’s all about capturing men. Isn’t that what you were—captured?”

“I—”

“And look, it even has a handy list of the most eligible rakes and rogues. And you’re at the top. Because—shall I read to you?”

“You mustn’t—”

Sir Seymour cleared his throat. “No space exists between the body and spirit. If you find an injured man, you find a vulnerable one. No man was more handsome than Percival Carmichael, and now no man is more flawed. He struggles to make it from one end of the ballroom to the other. He’s now a duke, and the prize for his affections cannot be higher, nor can his affections be easier to obtain. Wallflowers, bluestockings, even you can capture him.”

Percival’s heart stopped. His throat dried, and his fingers were numb. “That was—”

“Educational?” Sir Seymour smirked. “You probably didn’t realize why your aunt was so eager to marry you off. She’s probably terrified you’ll marry the first woman who pays you attention. Even one who masquerades as a highwaywoman.”

“I—”

“Tell me. When did you first find my niece attractive? Because I can assure you, no other man did. Was it after you found out that she had respectable blood coursing through her? Or was it before? When you thought her a common criminal?”

Percival’s chest constricted, and he rubbed his hand over it. He’d never felt more powerless, not even when the blood had rushed from his leg on the battlefield.

Everything had been an illusion.

Fiona, his sweet Fiona, had expertly used him. And why not? The woman was clever. He didn’t know how she’d found out that he’d been traveling near her estate, but clearly she had.

And the whole
ton
—did they all see him as this vulnerable? As this destroyed? He fought to keep his breath steady. Sir Seymour continued to sneer.

“I don’t like being contradicted before a vast crowd. You should respect the consideration I’ve shown you.” Sir Seymour tossed the pamphlet to him, and Percival grasped the pages with the automatic reflex of an athlete.

Percival gazed at the pamphlet, wondering if the well-worn quality derived from careful perusing or could be ascribed to a poorer quality paper. “I need to speak with Fiona.”
“Truly?” Sir Seymour shook his head. “Clearly you’re as weak as the pamphlet claimed. My niece is in her room. She’s already a ruined woman. You may see her there. I imagine you don’t need directions.”

Percival flinched and headed toward the steps.

“I trust even you will not be susceptible enough to fall for her trifling charms again.”

The pain in his leg had never been more piercing, more searing, yet all he could think about was Fiona.

***

A sound rapped on the door, and Fiona sprinted up. She ran her hands over her skin. It felt puffy beneath her touch, and her eyes stung from crying.

It was Percival.

Or some semblance of the man.

His face was stern, and his lips were pressed into a tight, unwavering line. His eyes, usually so vibrant and lively, were replaced with a piercing stare, and she shivered.

He brushed past her. “My condolences about your grandmother.”

The words could have belonged to any of her neighbors, any of her servants, any of the local gentry, and she wrapped her arms around the chest.

“You captured me on purpose.”

“I—”

“I’m furious. Or are you going to tell me you’ve never seen this before in your life?” He tossed her a pamphlet.

She took the pages from his hand. The pamphlet was somewhat crumpled, but she recognized the cheerful prints. “It’s mine.”

“I see.” His face seemed to crumple. He shook his head, and any emotion that had been there was replaced with the rigid expression of a stranger.

“My sister gave it to me.”

“She’s in on it as well?” Percival’s eyes widened and flickered back into a dull glare. “You have a horrid family.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait! What?”

He grasped the doorknob. “I don’t think there’s anything more for me to tell you. You don’t even attempt to hide your contemptibility.”

“Me? You had me arrested.”

She glanced toward Grandmother’s room, considering the cold, still body that lay inside. She couldn’t bring herself to think about the ball. She’d been ridiculous, attiring herself in splendid clothes, smiling and chatting with everyone whom she knew she couldn’t trust.

She clenched her fingers together into fists and forced her eyelashes down. She hadn’t changed her dress yet, had headed straight to Grandmother’s room, and the scarlet color was at odds with the sobriety of the moment. The ruffles, wrinkled from the long coach ride with the magistrate, hung limply from her. “Why are you here?”

His features hardened, and she laughed. The sound was ugly, but now was not the time for any pleasantry. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

She stiffened. Against all reason a sliver of her had imagined his presence would ease things, and he could explain away the pains of the night. He would tell her that he hadn’t really seduced her this morning only to call the magistrate to have her arrested before everyone. He would tell her that this morning had meant something.

Instead he was a stranger. Worse even, for he despised her.

“You wanted to rake your gaze over my misery?” Her voice was haughty, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “You? The person who told the magistrate that I’m a highwaywoman? The person who made me the talk of the ball, in the most horrible way imaginable?”

“I—”

“It’s not your fault. I know. It’s mine.”

Percival fixed her with a regal glare. “It is.”