How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (21 page)

He sniffed. “I suppose you can’t follow all my words of wisdom.”

“That’s most understanding of you.”

“So you’re moving in with your sister? Good thing she’s got her life sorted, even though she’s younger than you.”

Fiona smiled. “It’s wonderful she’s happy, but—no, I won’t be doing that.”

“You’ll be homeless?” Her uncle’s eyes bulged. “You won’t—you won’t really take on the life of crime? Be that—what was it—Scarlet Devil?”

“Scarlet Demon,” Fiona corrected. “I’ll overcome that temptation. I’m going to become an archaeologist.”

Uncle Seymour blinked. “I don’t think that’s a real occupation.”

“It will be. One day,” Fiona said. “Grandmother gave me a small inheritance.”

“I think she intended that so you didn’t have to debase yourself.”

“I’m not debasing myself.” Fiona lifted her head. “I have an outside supporter too and a plan to excavate some promising sites throughout England.”

Uncle Seymour sputtered, and Fiona laughed.

“You needn’t worry, uncle. I won’t make you wish me luck. I have a feeling I won’t need it.”

Home.
He was home.

The season had ended, and here he was.

Percival made his way expertly from the coach, knowing just where to place his cane to best support him.

A long row of servants waited to greet him. Their postures were stiff, though he didn’t miss the curious glimpses they fixed on his foot.

He shrugged. He would do the same if he were them. The wooden leg was bloody well unusual. He strode toward them, limping somewhat on the uneven terrain.

He’d been to Wentworth Place before, but as a child. The long mansion had been the home of his crotchety grandfather and demanding grandmother, and he’d only seen it as a somewhat frustrating experience. What good were long acres of a green lawn if one wasn’t allowed to play on it?

His lips turned up. He wouldn’t be doing any sort of playing in this place either. Places like this didn’t manage themselves, as the dowager frequently reminded him, and the war hadn’t helped matters. The former Duke had indulged his belligerent side through frequent and large donations to the war effort. His generosity had secured him invitations to the finest wartime balls and allowed him the opportunity to wear his finest regalia from battles decades before.

Now the estate was suffering, and nobody could quite be certain if the former Duke had needed to be quite so extravagant in his funding of cannons and other arms for Bonaparte to have never attempted to invade England again. It didn’t help that the weather rarely cooperated, and crops everywhere were failing this year.

“Ah, your prison,” Arthur’s voice boomed behind him.

“Remind me why you’ve come?” Percival asked.

Arthur straightened his cravat. “Because you wanted someone to distract you from your bloody misery.”

They strolled toward the entrance and paused to meet the servants, who issued them their deepest bows and curtsies.

“This place is enormous,” Arthur remarked.

“And expensive.” Percival flickered his gaze back to the legion of servants who manned the place.

“Right.” Arthur shifted his legs. “Let’s see the library, shall we? Perhaps your predecessor left us some brandy.”

Percival followed Arthur in his search for liquid delights.

The butler had already arranged for brandy and he’d also ironed a newspaper. Percival picked it up curiously, skimming the headlines. They’d traveled at a more leisurely pace, stopping at various taverns to indulge Arthur’s curiosity in the local ales and ciders.

“You need a wife,” Arthur announced.

Percival’s eyebrows jolted up, and he set the newspaper aside. “I’m not accustomed to you being the advocate for marital bliss.”

“Hah. What marital bliss?” Arthur shrugged. “Mere practicality. You’re going to be stuck in this God-forsaken place half the year, and it’s good to have some female company.”

“I could have a house party.”

“Female company that will permit you to do your work. Who will give you greater peace than a wife? You just need to add some nocturnal duties to your list of other responsibilities, and you’ll give her a brood of yowling Carmichaels in no time.”

“I don’t know…” Percival rubbed his hand over his leg.

“Lady Cordelia is still available.”

“I thought the Duke of Carlisle was courting her.”

Arthur shrugged. “Apparently he died.”

“Dreadful.”

“I imagine he was grateful he lasted so long, what with all his indulgence for vices.”

Percival nodded, though his jaw was decidedly more tightened than it had been earlier in the conversation. “I’m not marrying Lady Cordelia for anyone.”

“Naturally.” His brother leaned forward. “But are you sure you shouldn’t marry her for you?”

“I—” He tilted his head and blinked.

His brother gave a cocky grin and poured some more brandy into his tumbler. “I must say the very best brandy comes from France. Don’t you agree?”

“Why would I want to marry Lady Cordelia?”

“Because despite all your protestations against the match, she remains very suitable.”

“She cares about balls.”

“And you claim you don’t anymore.” His brother smiled. “You complement each other perfectly.”

“We should have somewhat more in common.”

“You would have your future wife, the mother of your children, take an interest in gaming halls and racquetball?” Arthur tsked, and warmth prickled the back of Percival’s neck. “Hauling that wooden leg around does seem frightfully cumbersome. Might be nice not to have to go from house party to house party to court someone.”

Percival nodded. The leg was a blasted pain. Sometimes he still felt it, still woke up and felt it aching. But more often he felt his thigh, and the way his wooden stump pressed against the remainder of his leg. He didn’t like to complain about the pain and the irritating necessity to clean it. After all, he was lucky.

“Your jaunts about Europe are behind you. You know that. What you need is a nice, sweet woman who will manage your household and your friends, so you won’t need to.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Or I could compile a list of other suitable matches?”

Percival shook his head. He was tired of all of it. “Wouldn’t want to delay the process of living happily ever after.”

Arthur laughed. “You sound like you’ve been reading fairy-tales. But I don’t like seeing you unhappy. A pretty woman will ease your troubles, and a marriage will ease your conscience.”

Arthur was right, and Percival slumped his shoulders.

Perhaps he’d protested Lady Cordelia’s qualities, but he’d never attempted to truly get to know her. He’d been too quick to see in her all the qualities of the
ton
he despised, but he’d also not taken the time to appreciate her good qualities.

He certainly hadn’t fallen for any debutantes that season. When he lay in bed, his mind dwelled on soft, rosy cheeks, curly red hair and emerald eyes. He reached for a curved figure beside him who was not there. Would never be there.

His face tightened. “I need to prepare for tonight.”

“I’ll join you,” Arthur said. “It’s always amusing observing your struggle with Higgins.”

Percival made his way upstairs, clasping the banister firmly. He swept his gaze around, taking in the high ceilings and the view of the estate.

Arthur was right. This place was too large for just him. It needed a family.

His valet cleared his throat. “Shall we commence?”

“You may torture me.”

His valet’s eyes glinted, and he chose a starchy cravat.

Percival shuddered. “Perhaps you needn’t torture me to such an extent.”

“It’s very fashionable, Your Grace. Clean, crisp lines.” Higgins fixed him with an expression of bemusement.

“The man’s right,” Arthur said cheerfully, passing him some brandy.

At least his brother had had the foresight to carry the crystal tumblers upstairs. Arthur stretched out on Percival’s armchair, swung his legs onto a velvet ottoman, and read the butler’s carefully ironed paper.

Percival narrowed his eyes as Higgins approached with the cravat. “I wore that bloody concoction last Friday.”

“For the Dowager Duchess’s ball. That was very good of Your Grace. But the locals might expect a similar degree of formality.” Higgins leaned closer. “I’ve heard the Prince Regent is rumored to make an appearance.”

“Well if he is,” Percival replied, “I can guarantee he’ll be looking at the bloody food, and not my cravat.”

“Your Grace! I’m not sure one can speak of the future king in such a manner.” Flustered, the man fumbled for a silver tray and handed him an envelope. “I believe, Your Grace, that this is an invitation to Brighton.”

“My word.” Percival grabbed hold of the stiff envelope and he glided his fingers over the embossed gold letters and the red seal depicting the Royal Pavilion. “Already getting mail here? I suppose I really am a duke now.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Higgins’ smile faltered somewhat.

Percival nodded, not for the first time wondering how easy it had been for Higgins to switch from calling him My Lord. Percival hadn’t found the transition nearly as easy. He sighed. “Bernard would have been so much better at this.”

“Your cousin was gifted.”

Percival removed the seal and scanned the invitation. A summer at the Brighton Pavilion with the Regent himself.
What could be more pleasant?

He attempted to draw up some of the joy that he was sure Bernard would have been feeling at such an invitation. But the only thing he could think about was that Brighton was bloody far removed from Yorkshire. Which was ridiculous, because he had no need to be in Yorkshire again. Being a duke did not come naturally to him, and his estate would hardly be helped were he to be coupled to an anti-social wife who was open in her dislike of the
ton
and modern society.

Fiona had agreed it was for the best that the two never saw each other again. And since Fiona displayed a definite dislike of London that seemed like a very firm possibility.

“But perhaps you would like to be more adventurous during the summer.” Higgins buttoned Percival’s waistcoat. “Now that the war has ended, people are returning to Europe.”

“Yes, must be filled with lots of middle-aged men reliving their Grand Tour.” Percival sniffed, though in truth the idea didn’t sound half bad.

“Perhaps, Your Grace, they are congregating there because they have already visited and possess familiarity with its charms.” Higgins picked up a white linen.

“My generation’s experience there was imperfect.” Percival said, envisioning the sprawling battlefield in Waterloo. Normally he would shut his eyes tight or demand a glass of brandy, but instead he attempted to control his breaths. One day perhaps the images of carnage, the pangs of killing, and the guilt for surviving when abler men than he had fallen would fade. He bit his bottom lip. “I suppose Europe has its charms.”

“I’ve heard quite good things about Paris, Your Grace.”

Percival shrugged. “That blasted Corsican’s former capital? Not for me.”

“But the architecture—”

“By Zeus, this isn’t something my younger sister has put you up to, is it?”

“No, no,” Higgins sputtered.

Percival relaxed his shoulders. His sister had a habit of over-idealizing Paris.

“I’d adore the chance to go to Italy,” Arthur mused. “Venezia. Firenze. Roma.”

Percival swung his head over to Arthur. The man’s accent was surprisingly good. Sometimes he underestimated his brother.

“Why just today I was reading in the newspaper about two ladies who were planning to travel,” Higgins said. “If ladies can do it, you can consider it. Even with your foot.”

Percival smiled. “I am pleased at your confidence in me.”

“Yes, one of the ladies was a bit of an archaeologist. That’s what she called it. Sounded most interesting. She’s been finding all sorts of interesting things in the ground over here.”

“A female archaeologist?”

Percival’s heart lurched.
Fiona.
His heart hammered, and he attempted to snatch the newspaper from his brother. For a moment he forgot about his leg, and he grimaced when he failed to find his footing the first time.

“What female archaeologist?” He said hoarsely, taking another swig of brandy.

“Some chit’s been digging near Chichester.”

“Oh.” Percival slumped back into his armchair. He closed his eyes. Clearly archaeology was simply spreading at a more rapid pace than he’d expected. Fiona wouldn’t have found herself on the south coast. She was a Northerner to the core. She’d told him even going to Harrogate was an unusual event.

He sighed. He’d hoped that she’d been able to secure her uncle’s permission to dig up the apple orchard. He wanted her to receive the renown she deserved.

“Yes. She’s going up north next. Should be there now. A Miss Fiona Amberly…”

“Fiona?” Percival dropped the crystal tumbler, and brandy splattered on the floor.

“I say!” Arthur rubbed a hand though his hair. “Just because you’ve inherited
everything
doesn’t mean you need to go around smashing it all.”

Percival snatched the newspaper from his brother and scanned it furiously until he saw Fiona’s name. His heart lurched in his chest. It was her. His Fiona. She’d been in Sussex.

The woman who abhorred leaving the confines of her family’s estate was digging up a site, just like she’d always dreamed of. It wasn’t Cloudbridge Castle, not the place she always dreamed of excavating, but it was amazing.

He perused the newspaper. She’d discovered things. And what’s more, she’d been developing a system of measuring where the items were found and labeling them to help future researchers. She wasn’t just interested in getting her hands on a pretty Roman vase to display. She was interested in the cultural history of the objects, and her research was developing a new way to look at the Romans in Britain.

She’d gone out and changed her life even though he couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do so. No one dug up ruins, least of all women.

He sighed. He still missed her. He’d miss her every day of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that it wasn’t to be.

“Ah . . . I see you’re interested, Your Grace. Apparently they’re both going to Italy soon.”

Percival dropped the newspaper, and the cream-colored pages fluttered downward. Higgins dove to catch it.

“They’re not planning to visit
alone?”

Surely they possessed a modicum of sense. Fiona was content wiling away her days digging in the dirt behind Cloudbridge Castle. She couldn’t even stand London. She had told him that.

And Italy—Italy was far away. Why, one had to first cross the channel, and then make one’s way over France—an experience probably filled with scowling peasants glaring over battered vineyards, and then one had to traipse over the Alps in whatever ridiculous contraption the Europeans called a carriage, staying at horrid inns. And after doing all of that, one’s reward was being in Italy, which had just survived a war.

If she went, would she ever want to face the journey back?

He rubbed his chest, deciding to ignore the manner in which Higgins’ bottom lip toppled down, as if Percival had declared a preference for pink pantaloons or Scottish kilts.