How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (8 page)

“Like someone I might like.” He gave her a harsh laugh. “Forgive me. I just needed a reminder of your motivations.”

He glanced at her hand, and her throat dried as she remembered the knife on the floor. She returned it hastily.

“I’m not a thief,” she repeated, but she knew he didn’t believe her.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “Fiona.”

“We’re on a first name basis?”

“That’s all I knew about you.”

He blinked and then averted his gaze. He settled down, his movements stiff yet determined.

“You’re sleeping on the bed?” Her voice faltered and squeaked.

“I have no plan to sleep on the floor.”

“But—”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I thought you would be a gentleman,” she said, her voice softer.

He frowned. “There’s a snowstorm outside and no fire inside. Now is not the time to be gallant.”

She fixed her gaze on him.

The man was right, confound it. She didn’t dare to speak of propriety to him. He’d just laugh.

He slid underneath the thick blankets.

It was no use protesting. They were spending the night together; everyone would assume it would be more. She slinked in after him, staying at the edge.

“By Zeus, you’re trembling like a leaf.” He chuckled.

“I—”

“You’re not afraid I’m going to harm you?”

“Please d-don’t.”

He smirked. “I’m engaged to the prettiest woman in London. Practically, at least. You won’t need to be in any fear.”

The words should have made her relaxed, yet the happiness and relief failed to arrive.

The man was engaged. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in a woman like her, even if it was late at night, and even if they shared a room by themselves. Likely his fiancée was everything Fiona was not. Likely his intended was pretty, actually pretty, and not just if one imagined that curves had a certain charm. Likely she had hair that did not stray all over the place, and likely if she were to stop a coach to warn it about an impediment in its path, the driver would not assume her to be a highwaywoman.

Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, and fought to keep her breath steady and not to dwell on the fact that she was alone with the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and he was spending the time utterly uninterested in her.

They’d kissed, but only after a man had implied he wasn’t masculine enough to do so. It hadn’t meant anything at all to him.

Loretta Van Lochen’s women had to fight to keep their virtue, but that was a burden Fiona would not experience.

The warm scent of vanilla wafted over him. He nestled closer into soft curves, lulled by the even breathing of—

Someone who wasn’t him.

His eyes flickered open. A cascade of auburn curls met his eyes.

Fiona.

The events from last night swirled in his mind, and he gazed at the highwaywoman, the cause of all this dreadfulness, as she slept.

Except—

She wasn’t dreadful. Not really.

That kiss had certainly not been dreadful.

Though he’d known that already, had fought the urge to rest his gaze on her too often yesterday.

She was a highwaywoman, one who had introduced herself as The Scarlet Demon, and yet his mind compared her favorably to other women he had met. His cock twitched at a memory of warm lips against his own.

Blast.

Better not to linger on her much more. He forced his gaze away, though his mind was still filled with the image of the soft curves of a woman’s body.

His arms encircled her, pressed against her rounded body. And his rod—Zeus, his rod stood firm to attention, like the most formidable soldier. Its helmet pressed against her bottom, and he longed for nothing more than to free it of the constraints of his pantaloons, and to lift the woman’s dress and—

His chest constricted as images of him plunging into warm flesh soared through his mind. Long legs would spread, rounded thighs would part, and his rod would lunge into her silky folds. The urge to groan, to sweep her curved body closer against him, and—

He craved her.

The thought was ridiculous. A fantasy born of having been too long without a woman. Simple proof that he should marry Lady Cordelia, so his life could mold to the demands of the
ton
, and he would be relieved of these strange, unwanted urges.

By Zeus, the woman called herself the Scarlet Demon. She was nothing to be yearned for. And yet—he struggled to resist his desire.

She was so bloody near. She lay in his arms, the picture of innocence. His fingers grazed her chest, and images of luscious mounds surged through him. Would her peaks be tawny or rosy? Would they be thick or slender? And what—Zeus, what would they feel like in his mouth? He wanted to suck her rounded breasts. He wanted to lick his way to her zeniths, and to feel them tighten inside his mouth.

Blood surged to his rod. It was thicker, firmer than ever before. His soldier strained inside his pantaloons, and he fought the urge for friction.

Her breasts tantalized him. Would she wake if he pressed his hands against them? If he traced their shape with his fingers? If—Zeus—he slipped them inside her dress, so he could cup bare globes, brush his fingers over her peaks? Delve his fingers further under, so he might pierce her most sacred mound? Thrust them into her flesh as she arched and moaned against him?

The vision nearly shattered him, and he forced a space between their bodies, even though every part of his being seemed to scream at him that his action was foolish. He’d promised that he wouldn’t take advantage of her, he’d scoffed at the very notion that he would want to, and yet even then, ever since their kiss and perhaps before, he’d been frustratingly aware of her every movement.

She challenged him. That was it. Simple. Obviously it was perfectly natural that his mind might leap toward the forbidden. He waited for relief to surge over him at the realization, but it never came. Nothing about the woman beside him was simple.

His rod ached and his ballocks tightened. He yearned to spill his seed inside her and tangle his fingers in her long locks.

His stomach stiffened. Obviously the dowager was right. How could he attempt to fulfill all the responsibilities of being a duke if his mind was occupied with conjuring up illicit acts?

He pressed his lips together and glided his arm from underneath her head, removing himself from all possibilities of pleasure. The woman swiveled her head toward him for a moment, and he froze.

But she was still asleep. Thankfully.

She’d removed the shabby cloak, and at some point she must have scrubbed her face.

His gaze roamed the planes of her face. Pink tinged the apple cheeks he longed to trace, and long lashes swooped downward. A liberal distribution of freckles scattered around the well-formed composition of her face. Her nose swung up slightly, lending her an almost innocent air, and now that she no longer directed a knife at him, he could see that she must only be in her early twenties. Plump lips, slightly parted, were inches from him, and he longed to narrow the space between them. He longed to swoop his lips against hers, continue where they’d stopped last night.

Instead he yanked his arm away from her.

She woke up.

Green eyes flickered open, and he scrambled away, wobbling as he remembered his wooden leg too late. He rolled from the bed, and his body slammed against hard floorboards.

“Percival!”

The next moment she peered over the bed, and he forced his gaze to rest on her widened eyes and rounded mouth.

Not the sweet dip of her cleavage as she dangled over him.

Not at all.

He would not peek at the tops of her rounded breasts.

No matter how terribly tempting they were.

He refused to.

The woman’s grey dress had seemed everything proper, absurd for a highwaywoman, though he supposed the cold and an urge to blend into the night may have influenced her choice of attire.

But there was absolutely nothing proper about the vision before him. His rod ached, and he rolled over. He would not let the woman see how she affected him. Sheets rustled above him.

“You fell off the bed.”

“Yes.” His heartbeat quickened, and he waited for his erection to subside.

“Let me help you.”

“No need.” He uttered an unmanly squeak.

She clambered from the bed, and for a blissful moment slim ankles flashed before him. Fiona bent down, offering him a hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to contemplate every vile vision he’d seen at war, before he allowed his hand to press against her warmer one.

Heat prickled against the back of his neck, moving toward his cheekbones, and he swiveled away. He clutched hold of one of the thick dark beams that crisscrossed the room, as if the timber protected it from tumbling onto the floor below, and he flung his gaze. Sunshine lit up shabby tables and flimsy lace curtains, and dust fluttered in the long rays.

A faded painting of a buxom milk maiden and her shepherd suitor hung in the room, reminding him that this was meant to be the nicest room in the whole bloody tavern. The milk maiden and shepherd seemed to look adoringly at each other, oblivious to the manner in which long strands of uncut grass clung to their clothes.

“I suppose that’s a way to wake up.” She let out a throaty laugh, and he swiveled to find the scarlet-haired woman—
Fiona—
peering at him.

Her red hair swept over her shoulders now, crowning her head in a manner more striking than the finest hairstyle of any of the swarm of blonde and brunette debutantes, their locks tamed into a familiar array of shapes. A strand of auburn hair fell over her eyes, and he fought a strange urge to brush the strand away and an instinct to ponder whether the lock might feel silky beneath his touch.

His jaw set. Of course it would feel like hemp, he reminded himself. Only with none of the otherworldly advantages of the sometimes drug.
Of course.

His unwanted thoughts twisted his stomach, and his heart pulsated with the vigor of one of those Russian pianists, pounding the keys into a thrilling melody.

“How was your night?” Fiona smoothed her dress, unaware of the manner in which her hands caused her curves to be emphasized.

He forced his gaze away. “Uncomfortable. I’ve always favored a proper bed to blankets on a floor. But shouldn’t you know that, dearest wife?”

He chided himself at once for teasing her.

For a moment she stiffened, but her expression soon relaxed. Her eyes twinkled, and she brushed a piece of straw from his coat. “I can be so absent-minded.”

A knock rapped on the door.

“Enter.” Fiona’s voice was clear and strong.

Mr. Potter appeared. “The reunited couple, I see.”

“Thank you again for your assistance last night,” Fiona chirped.

“Always eager to help a damsel in distress.” The man did a short bow, and Percival scowled. Fiona seemed utterly oblivious to the man’s interest in her.

“Let’s go, darling wife.” Percival smiled tightly and fought to ignore the sudden heat that flowed through him, when Fiona slipped her fingers under his arm, as naturally as if they truly were married.

“Let me just tip this man.” Fiona removed the bag of coins he’d given her last night and slid one to the man.

Mr. Potter’s eyes rounded. “Thank you, missus.”

Percival’s eyebrows rose a fraction at the woman’s liberal distribution of her newfound money.

“Ready to go? Or do you want to stay longer, dear?” Fiona smiled sweetly at him.

He swept his gaze over the faded furniture and sentimental objects. “I will strive to recover from the sadness of leaving this place.”

“How very brave of you.” Mirth filled her eyes, and her lips spread up.

Percival wished he could put more smiles on her face.

Except that was a ridiculous thought.

Percival’s steps were careful as he followed the man down the rickety stairs, and his brow remained furrowed, his mind consumed with unwanted thoughts.

“Is that our sleigh?” Fiona exclaimed. “How marvelous.”

Percival followed her gaze.
Zeus on Olympus. 

A bright red sleigh that conjured up thoughts of all things sentimental and romantic sat outside.

The burly chap beamed. “There it is.”

“I’ll send somebody back with it. We won’t be long.” She held up her hand and slid into the sleigh. Her hair glistened under the sunlight.

A rosy flush graced her cheeks, and Percival clenched his hands together. No need for her to see them tremble.

Mr. Potter tilted his head. “I figure you need help.”

“Nonsense.” Percival gritted his teeth and clambered inside, ignoring the sharp pain from his leg. The sleigh was far too small, and he was conscious of the way in which her long skirts brushed against his good leg. His nostrils inhaled that sweet vanilla scent, and he forced his head away rapidly, hoping the warmth rising on his cheeks was not as visible as it felt.

He shouldn’t have kissed her last night. He shouldn’t have been goaded by the comments of the other men. The thought of reliving that ecstasy invaded his mind, and he should be focused on fleeing her, nothing else.

He sighed. At least he might cause her some discomfit. He pulled her closer to him, enjoying the way in which her green eyes widened and her black lashes swooped up, as if she were truly some innocent chit. “This is not so horrible, dearest.”

Mr. Potter waved as they drove off.

“Care to share where we’re going?” Percival whispered.

“I live nearby,” she said.

“I warrant you’re set up in some God-forsaken house.”

“Some people might say that.” Fiona had the indecency to turn her lips up, as if she didn’t recognize his insult.

Percival rubbed his leg. “That blasted floor . . .”

She grabbed the reins from him. “Let me drive.”

“No, I—”

“I’ll want you nice and refreshed.” The woman was matter-of-fact.

“What do you have in store?”

“You’ll find out.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I demand that you declare your plans.”

“That’s all?” She smirked, and her green eyes sparkled.

“And release me!” he stammered. “I demand you release me as well.”

She laughed. “And leave you on this road? You wouldn’t survive very long. You have absolutely no idea where you are.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve traveled throughout the continent!”

“Ah, so has my grandmother.”

“Leading troops!” He scowled

Fiona squirmed. She no longer pointed a knife in his direction, and he supposed he could direct the sleigh in whichever direction.

For some reason, he didn’t want to, and he despised it. Snowflakes fell more rapidly, a curtain of coldness. They fluttered down in thick, decadent shapes, toppling this way and that, oblivious to the havoc they caused.

“I’m not a thief.”

“So you’ve told me,” Percival remarked dryly.

“One year ago I made a mistake.” Fiona’s voice quivered.

“We’ve all made mistakes.”

“My mistake was telling my grandmother and sister that I was engaged.”

“So tell them you’re not engaged.”

The horses rounded a corner.

And then his mouth dropped open.

A huge castle sat in the valley. Snow covered the sloping roof and turrets, but it was impossible to avoid seeing just how fine the place was. Gargoyles perched underneath the gables, and classically beautiful statues dotted the yard.

Everything was immaculate, and everything differed completely from the abode he’d imagined she’d take him to.

If a criminal lived here, it was not someone who’d made his money robbing travelers. By Zeus, maybe she wanted to steal from the place. Except that seemed unlikely since his leg forced him to be an imperfect accomplice. “What is this place?”

“Cloudbridge Castle.” The woman tucked a strand of loose hair over her ear. “I live here.”

“As a—maid?”

“Only the unmarried kind.”

He tilted his head, and her cheeks pinkened.

“I’m an ordinary spinster.”

“Not a criminal.”

She shook her head. “I’m not quite as exciting. My name is Miss Fiona Amberly. Perhaps you’ve heard of my brother-in-law Lord Somerville?”

Percival coughed. “The earl?”

She nodded. “From the Worthing family. His older brother is the Marquess of Highgate.”

Percival rubbed his hand in his hair. “So when you said you wanted to kidnap me and bring me somewhere—”

“I wanted to bring you here.” The woman spoke matter-of-factly, as if what she was doing was completely obvious and self-explanatory, as if loads of women were in the habit of capturing men and dragging them to their castles.