How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (9 page)

Percival scratched his head and rather feared that all the intelligence his teachers had praised him for at Harrow and Edinburgh had vanished. Because this—this didn’t make sense.

“So this has nothing to do with my position?” Percival spoke slowly.

“Of course it does.”

His head swiveled to her.

“You’re a gentleman. You’ll be very suitable.”

He relaxed his shoulders.

“I would be most appreciative if you could tell them that we are betrothed—”

“You want me to pretend to adore you?”

Percival scowled. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

“Please though? Could you pretend you didn’t despise me?” Fiona thrust her eyes down, and the pink on her cheeks transformed to a definite red shade. “The story is that we met in London four years ago, two weeks into my season, and you proposed. We decided to keep the engagement secret because you were going to fight Napoleon, and that’s the reason I abandoned my season. I called my fiancé Captain Knightley.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Like a medieval knight?”

She stiffened. “I suppose.”

“Do they expect me to appear on a white horse as well? Just who do you think is good enough to be your impostor fiancé? Are you only after princes? Kings?”

“Please?”

“Find another pretend husband,” Percival growled.

He could have escaped, he could have protested, and he’d been too fearful to do so. She wasn’t a criminal. She was just a spinster, one too meek to find a husband for herself. And Zeus, she’d barged her way into his most private musings. “I’m not going along with your preposterous plans.”

“You won’t do it unless I give you a reason?”

“I will never agree!”

She sighed. “I have your jewels.”

“Excuse me?”

“The packet… The one you kept touching.”

His breath stopped.

“I took them while you were sleeping,” Fiona continued.

“So you are a thief.”

“I’ll give them back to you.
After
.”

Percival’s hands twisted with the urge to destroy something. Stomping both feet would feel wonderful right about now. He’d met women intent on having him for their fiancés before, but never a woman who wanted him to pretend to be someone else. He wondered whether this was some elaborate scheme for an actual marriage, but the woman seemed completely unaware he was a duke and far more worthy of romantic idealizations than some captain with an absurdly heroic name.

“Please?” Fiona’s face took on a mournful expression he abhorred. “It need not be for long. I only want to introduce my Grandmother to you.”

“And why didn’t you ask me this when you met me?”

“Would you have helped me?”

He sighed. He wouldn’t have. He would have laughed and waved her away, leaving her standing on the side of the road. “But pretending to be a highwaywoman—”

“It was an accident.” Fiona’s thick eyelashes swung down. “The driver assumed I was one, because of my dirty clothes, but really, I was just trying to warn about the tree. I didn’t put it there.”

“You sure?”

Her voice quieted. “Naturally.”

“But I heard gunshots.”

“Peasants. Shooting for Christmas dinner.”

With effort, Percival swallowed the anger surging through him. He relaxed his shoulders and strove to emulate the nonchalance of a man approaching a country party, and not that of a man discovering some spinster had kidnapped him.

The solution to not having a fiancé was
not
to kidnap an innocent passerby.

Percival crossed his arms. He’d been outwitted. He’d have to face the dowager, have to apologize for arriving late. He’d have to listen to her tell him that her son, the man who would be Duke if he hadn’t saved Percival in a moment of insanity, would never have been late like this.

And she would be correct.

Percival exhaled. Loudly
.
“Is there anything else I should know?”

Fiona shook her head. “The main thing is to keep Grandmother happy. You can speak in moon-like tones about gardening or about setting up some parish somewhere. You needn’t mention anything glamorous, and if Lady Mulbourne is here, I’m sure she won’t be particularly impressed, but that doesn’t matter.”

“It seems like just the fact you have a fiancé will be sufficient cause of rejoicing for them,” Percival said.

Fiona stiffened.

“And just who is Lady Mulbourne? And what absurd standards does she possess?” Percival normally prided himself on his calm, but normally he wasn’t faced with maniac women of means in want of fiancés.

“Oh, she’s very important.” Fiona nodded. “She’s my cousin and she thinks she’s in charge of this district, though that’s not entirely incorrect. But she’s married to a baron. He’s of great importance. He’s one of the greatest art critics England has ever had. You should read the reflective, thoughtful articles he composes on a range of subjects that would astound you.”

Percival scowled. “I see nothing worthy of laudation in a person who devotes himself to the study of inanimate objects.”

“Even important objects of cultural significance? Possibly historical significance?”

“There’s nothing important about art.”

Fiona stiffened. “One favor. A few minutes. Please? And then I’ll tell the groom to prepare the coach for you and give you back the jewels. You’ll be able to travel to London in far greater style than that mail coach.”

“One day later,” Percival grumbled.

“Please. If you could be so kind.”

Percival raised his eyebrows.

Fiona’s face fell. “Forgive me, I was absurd to link ‘kind’ and ‘you’ in a single sentence.”

“Yes.” Percival smiled tightly. “Rather unfortunate for you that I’m not more suitable for your needs. You don’t know what kind of uncultured louts lacking gallantry you find in carriages these days. Damned shame.”

“Please?”

“I won’t be subjected to some strange child’s play.”

“I’m not a child!” Fiona’s voice was outraged.

Good.

“You are worse than a child!” Percival declared. “A child contents herself to demand pretty dresses.” He paused to scan her ragged cloak. “You haven’t even the sense to ask for the latter.”

Percival laughed, or at least attempted to. “So I’d . . . er . . . better get going then. I’ll just drive this sleigh back to the inn and get a horse from there to go to London. I don’t need your coach.”

“But just a few minutes—” A pink tinge lined the woman’s cheekbones. “Please.”

Her voice quivered, and Percival tightened his fists, as if that gesture alone would be sufficient to tighten his resolve. “You cannot force me. I’ll go back to London and—”

“Propose? Won’t you need a ring?” Fiona’s voice was all innocence.

“I—”

Blast.
His shoulders sank. She was right. He needed to do this.

“You bloody bastard,” Percival swore, not caring that he was breaching all rules of propriety. “Where the hell is it?”

Fiona blinked. “I hope you don’t mean to speak like that in front of my Grandmother.”

Percival stiffened and scrunched his fists together. His heart thundered against his chest. He’d begun to care for her; his gaze pulled to hers with too much frequency, as if she were the bloody sun.

But she was not a highwaywoman, not desperate in the traditional sense, not in the least. The manor house enlarged as the horses trotted on, oblivious to the tumult in the sleigh. The façade was more intricate and the statues more sophisticated than even his family’s original estate, had dear old Bernard not died and left him a whole dukedom.

She was a wallflower. Even after they’d kissed, after the world had tilted and swirled and it took everything in him to pretend that nothing between them had actually changed after their lips touched, she hadn’t confided in him. She’d stayed up in the night instead and stolen his jewels, proving that the dowager was right, and he wasn’t a man anymore. He couldn’t protect a tiny packet from a chit.

“Look.” Fiona swallowed hard. “You pose as my fiancé, and I’ll give you your ring and those other jewels back. Just introduce yourself to my grandmother as Captain Knightley and say you’ve been away at war and that you’re looking forward to our impending marriage.”

“I hope you haven’t arranged that already, too,” Percival grumbled.

“Of course not,” Fiona exclaimed. “But if she asks, say we’ll need to delay our wedding. Maybe you can make another excuse?” She tilted her head. “I suppose you don’t think it’s likely that Bonaparte will make his escape from St. Helena?”

Percival narrowed his eyes. “No.”

She sighed, and he tapped his fingers against the edge of the sleigh. Finally, he smiled. He was practiced at smiling after all. He excelled at turning his lips up when greeting pompous people, and on feigning a pleasant demeanor even when his leg ached from standing. When one smiled long enough, eventually one was even prone to believing the veracity of one’s joyous demeanor. “Very well.”

Fiona exhaled in obvious relief. The sleigh neared the manor house. She glanced to him, her forehead crinkling. Clearly the woman was more discerning than he’d given her credit for. “Most people would be complimenting the stone facade and the fountains now.”

Fiona pulled the horses before the entrance, and Percival staggered from the sleigh and offered his hand to her. In the old days he might have given her a bow, but at the moment he felt sufficiently courteous. His other arm rested firmly on the side of the sleigh. “Let me escort you, my betrothed.”

She hurried from the sleigh, decidedly not grasping his hand. “I’m not asking you to be my fiancé for any personal reasons.”

Of course she wouldn’t really want him. His leg was ruined. He forced his mind from lingering on searing lips, a gentle touch, and soft, luscious curves.

He abhorred her. Utterly and completely.

He followed her gaze to the manor house. A stout, stone fish with well-defined carved scales and speckled with spots of green discoloration squatted in the center of an icy sheet. His head—Percival didn’t want to ascribe such an unattractive appearance to a female fish—was directed upward to the grey, cloudy sky. One could almost imagine water spurting from the thick lips of the statue’s mouth.

“It is perhaps more stunning in the summer,” Fiona said.

“It’s divine.”
A house like that was sure to be filled with people.

Servants peeked from the windows with their heads tilted and their eyebrows raised, and Fiona’s heart sped. Sweat prickled the back of her neck, and though she’d kidnapped him for just this moment, fear spread through her.

Percival stumbled beside her, and a strange gleam shone in his eyes, seeming to grow stronger with each step toward Cloudbridge Castle.

Goodness. What in heaven’s name had she done?

“Don’t attempt anything,” she murmured through gritted teeth.

He answered her with a laugh, a low relaxed rumble the man was probably accustomed to emitting in smoky clubs filled with copious supplies of brandy.

Drat.

She needed to speak to Grandmother before this man entered. She hurried forward. Or as fast as one could dash while still attempting to maintain a portion of one’s dignity, conscious of various curtains being drawn back in the house. The maids were cleaning, and clearly her late appearance was of greater interest than poking about sooty fireplaces.

She hitched her dress up an inch and proceeded faster. Her cloak billowed in the wind, and strands of hair were flung against her face. Her boots crunched against the sheets of snow that sparkled from the dim sunlight. The servants had attempted to shovel some of the lane, but it was a large job, and she skidded and swerved over icy patches.

Until she fell.

The world veered downward, and her nose squashed against the snowy surface. She pushed her hands against the snow and forced herself up, striving to maintain some semblance of dignity as the wind whirled about her coat and dress.

“I trust you’re uninjured?” Percival shot her a cocky grin. His steady pace, even hampered by his injury, placed him at the entrance to the manor house.

The man grasped the cast-iron door knocker and pounded on the bright red door that never quite matched the mourning Grandmother had thrown herself into.

He was not going to speak with the servants before her.

Who knew what story he would tell them.

Like the right one.
The pit in her stomach hollowed, and she was only a few paces behind him when the door opened.

Not to a servant.

Grandmother.

Her knees quivered, and it was only focusing on the door that kept her moving forward, because certainly Fiona’s natural inclination was to topple forward and pray for the earth to swallow her.

Grandmother peeked her grey head out, and Fiona knew without a doubt that she had seen everything. Fiona was with a man, all alone. Fiona had traveled with him by herself. If she were the type of woman who believed in being ruined, Fiona would have been devastated, though right now she only desired Grandmother to believe her story.

“You must be Captain Knightley.” Grandmother extended her hand toward him.

Percival paused.

“You can take her hand, my dear!” Fiona forced a laugh. “He’s a bit shy, Grandmother. I should have said.”

“I—” Percival swung his head around and glared at her.

“Oh, that’s quite alright.” Grandmother tilted her head. “My Fiona is very shy too. As you no doubt know well.”

A vein throbbed from Percival’s temple. “I would not have used that term to describe her.”

“My dear, you must come in. It won’t do to have you shiver in the English winter, as nonexistent as some people claim it to be.”

Percival brushed past Fiona’s grandmother. “England isn’t supposed to have a winter. It’s supposed to be blustery and sometimes damp. That’s all.”

“My dear Captain Knightley.” Grandmother smiled fondly at the man. “How much shock it must be for you now to return to your home country after so many years of fighting.”

“You mustn’t call me that. I’m just a man who—”

“Adores my niece.” Grandmother’s smile widened. “You are much too humble, my dear. I can call you that, can’t I? I feel you are like family to me. I have heard so much about you.”

“I have not heard anything about you—”

“—that has not been pleasant.” Fiona hastened to the man’s side and then halted. It felt too natural to stand beside him, and she had a strange urge to stand even closer to him, as if her body missed his. She frowned. The sleigh had been too tight.

Percival opened his mouth. “I am afraid that this woman captured me!”

Fiona froze. She steeled herself for Grandmother’s reaction, and Percival gave her a smug look, not befitting a man whose jewels she had stolen.

“She held me up at gunpoint and demanded I be her fiancé.”

Grandmother tilted her head and smiled. “True love is rather like that. I do envy you both.”

“She captured me! Completely against my will!”

Grandmother laughed, though Fiona did not join her.

“One doesn’t know when love will strike.” Grandmother leaned closer. “But when it strikes hard, when it is so strong, it bodes well for your future. Too many people settle for simple, mutual non-hatred. Even hatred can be more of an indication of true passion.”

“But—” Percival’s face reddened, not as if the extra color could decrease from the man’s handsomeness. He glanced at the butler, and Fiona hastened to slip her hand underneath his arm.
Blast convention.

“My fiancé finds amusement in jesting about the force of our passion. I’m sure he was about to demand you call the magistrate and notify the local gentry.” Fiona tilted her head up at Percival’s ever more bemused countenance.

“You take the words out of my mouth,” Percival said stiffly.

“My darling.” Fiona allowed herself to rest her face against Percival’s chest. The woolen fabric of his great coat scratched against her cheek, but her cursed heartbeat still quickened.

Percival tensed against her, but thank goodness, the man didn’t push her away. She ignored the sudden warmth that soared through her with inexplicable force.

Though that was absurd. It was Grandmother’s scrutiny that brought on her excitement. Nothing else.

Obviously.

Evans’ countenance appeared less stern than normal, and she remembered that the butler was himself married to the housekeeper in a match so well-suited that it had produced seven children, despite the discouragement of household staff to create families.

“Where’s your sister?” Grandmother inquired.

“She’s . . . er . . . still at her estate.” She stretched her lips into a wide smile, even though there wasn’t anything pleasant about this moment. She resolved to send Rosamund a note at once and inhaled. “Forgive me, I know that it was improper to ride without a chaperone—”

Grandmother waved her hand, and Fiona noticed that her appearance was slightly more frazzled than customary. Her makeup was unevenly applied, as if her grandmother had seen fit to do some touch-ups herself.

“The mail coach was waylaid.” Percival scowled.

“I’m sorry!” Fiona squeaked to Grandmother, conscious of Percival’s arched eyebrow and his steely eyes fixed on her.

“You mustn’t worry, my darling. I’m so happy to see you. And to meet your captain.” Grandmother laughed and peered closer to Percival. “Your appearance is quite extraordinary. Most aristocratic. Has anyone told you that you look just like the old Duke of Alfriston? He was quite a handsome fellow in his time. Dead now. And his son after him. So tragic.”

Percival stiffened, and Fiona tilted her head. She hadn’t wanted to know anything about Percival, but suddenly she regretted it.

“The straightness of your nose and that shade of blue in your eyes… And your chin, such a perfect shape. It is quite extraordinary to find all those features in one person, so much younger than the duke. Perhaps he is one of your ancestors.”

Percival opened his mouth, and Fiona stammered. “Most curious. Unfortunately, my darling fiancé will need to leave very soon. But you can see that we are engaged and happy.”

She avoided directing her gaze anywhere in the direction of Percival.

“Yes.” Percival nodded with such vigor that people might have termed the gesture frantic. “I would not want to encroach upon your hospitality.”

“Impossible.” Grandmother shook her head. “Your cousin’s Christmas Ball is in two days, and my niece must have an escort.”

“But!” Fiona’s voice trembled, and she shot a glance at the butler who seemed amused by the unaccustomed appearance of a stranger. “The dear captain will be able to escort me to events for the rest of our lives.”

“Starting today!” Grandmother nodded firmly and turned to Percival, who was definitely scowling now. “You would not believe how much my poor granddaughter missed you. Locking herself up all day long in her work room.”

“Oh?” Percival’s cool, impersonal question caused the back of Fiona’s neck to prickle.

“I will not let you venture out in this dreadful weather. I forbid it.”

Percival sighed. “But I am afraid the weather will become more dreadful—”

“En route.” Grandmother shook her head. “Just when you don’t want it to become worse. That’s why I favor staying inside. Unless you are willing to risk your good health when you have just arrived from the devastation of battle.” She flickered her gaze to his wooden leg, “In order to abandon my granddaughter—”

“Of course he wasn’t!” Fiona cut in, forcing a laugh, and ignored the manner in which Percival’s jaw tensed, and his scowl deepened. “My fiancé has a dreadful sense of humor.”

“Clearly he makes up for it in other respects,” Evans said slowly, his gaze scanning Percival.

“Indeed, Evans. Please have the maids prepare the Green Room.” Grandmother seemed to be amused. “Let us have tea now.”

They strode to the drawing room, and Percival settled stiffly into an armchair. He crossed both arms around him and glared at the furniture of the room with a vigor unsuited to a fiancé.

Fiona’s throat dried. “I’m afraid my darling captain is exhausted.”

“The Green Room is in the old men’s quarter, even though we seldom have male guests now. Some of my brother’s old hunting trophies are there. Men have expressed fondness for that.” Grandmother paused, and a lascivious grin Fiona rarely saw spread over her face. “Fiona’s room is located on the first door on the right of the women’s corridor.”

“Grandmother!” Fiona straightened her back, and refused to make eye contact with Percival, though she was conscious of the melodic, low-pitched sound of his laugh. “Captain Knightley will not require any directions.”

“Forgive me!” Grandmother said, and Fiona inhaled, even though she could not bring herself to glance at the gentleman. “I forgot that you were a captain. You are probably talented at finding your own way about things. Fiona was telling me that you’d led troops into Russia.”

“And the maps there are very difficult to read,” Percival said gravely. “They even use a different alphabet.”

Grandmother nodded. “You hear that, Fiona? He is impressive.”

“I’m sure the captain was able to make use of translated maps!”

“My beautiful fiancée is correct.” The captain smiled, and Fiona’s heart fluttered despite herself. “Though I confess that I do speak Russian.”

“So you could have used one of their maps,” Grandmother breathed. “Well done. And how on earth did you learn it?”

“The captain does not need to outline his entire life experience.”

“Of course not. It is seldom one comes across a person with such extensive knowledge of the world, and I am confident it would take longer than I have to live to hear all of it.”

Percival dotted Fiona a confused glance, and her shoulders shrank together. She hadn’t told Percival about her grandmother’s illness, hadn’t mentioned the ever steadier stream of doctors, and the bowls of blood for the servants to wash, after they’d drained her grandmother yet again, to yet again no avail.

Grandmother seemed more alert than Fiona had seen her for years, and though the fact made Fiona happy, she felt sad that it was all for a lie. Grandmother had reassured her that she needn’t worry about leaving the season without a husband, but once Fiona had brought a man back who promised to be a husband, she seemed overjoyed.

Percival cleared his throat. “I am of course happy to oblige you on anything that might bring you pleasure.”

Grandmother smiled, and Percival glanced at Fiona.

“Within reason of course.” He tapped his finger against the arm of the armchair, tracing the bold blue and white striped pattern.

She wasn’t sure which words the man would say next. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know just what to say to charm her grandmother. The horrible thing was she had a dreadful suspicion that he was charming her as well.

And that couldn’t happen.

Because the man before her might be flesh and blood, but his presence was invented more from her desperate imagination than anything else.

Fiona’s nose crinkled. “My dear captain, don’t you have another battle to get to?”

“I am on Christmas leave, my darling,” the man said. “And we’ve conquered our worst enemy.”

Fiona sipped some tea. The water was too hot, and the liquid burned her throat as she forced it down. “But didn’t you mention to me that you were getting sick? Sudden, unexplainable nausea?”

“No,” Percival said simply. He turned to Grandmother. “What beautiful paintings you have.”

Grandmother’s cheeks pinkened, and soon she and the imposter captain had entered into a discussion on art, and the overwhelming sadness that the war had closed off much of the continent, so people had had to make do with visiting Cornwall instead of the Mediterranean, which had historic landmarks in addition to a pleasing natural light.

“One day the captain and you will visit Italy together,” Grandmother declared.

Fiona swallowed down more hot tea. The two spoke so naturally, as if—as if the man were her real fiancé, and as if he were really interested in everything about her. Right now her grandmother was regaling him with stories of holidays with Fiona and her sister, Rosamund, to the south coast.

“I wish I could have joined,” the man said.

Fiona sputtered and coughed. Her chest constricted, and heat prickled the back of her neck. He played the role of her fiancé too well.

“Oh my poor girl!” Grandmother looked at her as if Fiona, and not her grandmother, were at death’s door. “Perhaps it is good if you rest.”