How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (22 page)

“I believe they will travel on their own, Your Grace.”

“Right.”

Higgins placed the cravat round Percival’s neck. “I’m sure they’ll take care of each other, Your Grace.”

“Let’s hope!” Percival released another strangled yelp when Higgins tightened the knot that earned him a raised eyebrow from his valet. “But—”

His valet’s carefully groomed eyebrow arched higher, and he narrowed his eyes, holding each end of the snowy-white monstrosity.

She would be in Italy, right in the home of the Romans. He couldn’t offer her that. Any travel was painful for him, and he was tied to this blasted estate. Unlike Cloudbridge Castle, he hadn’t heard any rumors of ancient ruins in this vicinity.

“Here’s the mirror, Your Grace. You’re all set for this evening.”

Percival picked up the carved handle gingerly. The gold sheet glimmered in a manner he couldn’t strictly describe as masculine, but he obediently peered into the looking glass.

The knot was splendid. Elaborate and tied with a real flourish.

“You’ll have all the ladies eye you at the ball, Your Grace.” Higgins’ voice was filled with pride.

“It’s a shame that the other men’s valets won’t be there to admire your good work.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Higgins bowed his head.

Percival brushed his fingers against the knot, running his finger over the crisp edges. It was perfect. It always was.

“You look like a proper duke,” Higgins said.

Percival sighed. “I rather fancy that you’re correct.”

He could act the part of duke. He could marry Lady Cordelia, just like his aunt wanted, and receive more and more praise for conforming to the expectations of his role.

Soon people might forget about Bernard and think Percival had always been duke, and he’d never been the hastily installed cousin, criticized for spending too much time outside the
ton
.

He tore off his cravat, observing as Higgins’ face transformed from bemusement to horror as the man’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. Percival flung the now-wrinkled linen on the bed.

“But your Grace!”

“Please inform the groom to prepare the carriage.”

Percival pressed his lips together, and Higgins nodded. “Ah, yes. You needn’t worry. It’s being prepared for the ball.”

“No.” Percival gripped his cane with vigor. “I rather fear I have another destination in my mind. A place somewhat farther removed.”

“You’re going after Lady Cordelia after all?” Arthur beamed. “Such a romantic.”

Percival was on the verge of something. He was sure of it. If Fiona could go traipsing around Italy, looking at art with a person Percival remembered her despising, Percival could make some changes too.

He considered Fiona.
Lord, she’d been brave.

“I will not attend the ball tonight.”

“But, the Prince Regent!”

“He can be there without me. Please pack my things. I am going to settle my life.”

He loved her.

And he’d never told her. She didn’t know, and now she was off to the southern-most tip of all of Europe.

He clenched his fingers together. But there was no one he could fight. Only himself.

The whole thing was absurd. It would be easy to go to the local ball, meet all of Sussex’s most prominent men and women, and chat with the Prince Regent. That’s what he was supposed to do.

He certainly wasn’t supposed to direct his driver to head hundreds of miles in the opposite direction. Traveling from London had been sufficiently painful.

But if there was a single chance Fiona might return his affection—by Zeus, he’d be the largest fool on earth if he didn’t try to plead for her. His chest clenched, but he ordered a servant to put his still unpacked valise in the carriage.

“Should I come with you to see the fair Lady Cordelia?” Arthur asked.

“No.”

“You’re not much of a host,” Arthur complained.

Percival tried to chuckle. He was doing the most exciting thing he’d ever done. Possibly also the most foolish, but it was far too easy to imagine Fiona beside him.
For the rest of their lives.
He blinked. He wanted to brace himself for the pain of her likely dismissal, but he’d been doing that in London the entire winter and most of the spring. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t live in a world where he hadn’t attempted everything to see if they could be together.

Likely he’d need to live in a world where she’d tossed him aside. Later he would deal with that.

He scrambled outside, dragging his bad leg over the uneven cobblestones.

The groom scurried to swing open the door to the carriage.

“You got it ready quickly,” Percival said, noting the new horses. “Thank you.”

The groom nodded. “Where would you like to go, Your Grace?”

“Yorkshire.”

The word was ridiculous. They’d just traveled practically all the way to the south coast, but he’d have to leave gazing at the ocean for another day. There was only one being, one wonderful, wonderful person he wanted to gaze at now.

The groom’s facial muscles flickered, but he retained a stoic expression. “Then we’d better get moving.”

***

Of course they hadn’t been able to drive the whole night. The horses required rest, and even with switching horses, the trip lengthened to a multi-day journey. Percival had never felt more that he lacked control. He attempted to tell himself that Fiona would be accepting of him, but all he remembered was her hardened face the last time he’d seen her.

He’d been a fool then.

Perhaps Fiona would think Percival not worth the inconvenience of being chained to a man who was required to make frequent appearances in society, who needed to spend significant time in Sussex, and who suffered from a deformity.

He gritted his teeth. Fiona was wise, and if she thought those things, she would be right to.

Percival might be strong now, but he didn’t want to consider the future. Most men clung to canes in their old age; he did it now. What would he be like later on? His chest tightened, and a familiar jolt of pain surged though his leg.

He pushed the velvet curtain aside. The Dales loomed outside, their dark green peaks reminding him of places he couldn’t venture anymore. He scrunched his fists together.

He’d told the driver to go to Fiona’s cousin’s home, and he struggled to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. He brushed his hand over his cheeks and met rough stubble. He hadn’t dared to take the time to shave at the last coaching inn they’d stopped at.

I may have already lost her.

He pressed his lips together in a firm line. Some things were too horrible to contemplate, and he exhaled when the carriage pulled into the baroness’s estate. The wheels rolled over the meticulously kept lane.

He inhaled and checked that his cravat was in a decent state. He was a duke. The baroness would tell him where Fiona was. The coach stopped before the elaborate portico, and Percival grabbed his cane and climbed down the carriage steps.

One of the gardeners gave him a surprised glance, but he continued on. Probably the man’s reaction could be attributed to not seeing dukes often.

A curtain flickered in a window, and then the main door swung open. He hurried his pace to greet the butler.

Except it wasn’t the butler.

A round woman wearing an apron greeted him. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her arms were grubby. “No one is here. Most of the staff are setting up a residence in Italy.”

I’m too late.

Percival sucked in a breath of air, but this time he struggled to calm himself. He’d lost her. He’d waited too long, and he’d never see her again.

“When did she leave?”

“This morning.”

Percival’s shoulders sank. “She’s already on the way to Italy with Miss Amberly.”

The maid nodded. He sank his shoulders down, and he had the curious sensation that someone had just hit him.

“Though they were stopping at one of Miss Amberly’s new archaeological sites on the way.”

He squared his shoulders and hope spread through him, despite his best intentions to protect himself from further disappointment. “Where is it?”

“Ah . . . Just four miles north of here. Near the old mill. You can’t miss it.”

I hope not.
He smiled, thanked her, and sped back to the coach as quickly as his foot would allow.

“Carry on,” he shouted, repeating the housekeeper’s instructions. He tapped his foot inside the coach, willing the driver to move more swiftly past the baroness’s manicured lawns, faux-Greek temples, and elaborate rose garden.

The driver urged the horses on, and the coach dipped and swerved in an uncomfortable fashion over the dirt lane. Thick hedges lined the road, reminding Percival of the night he’d first met Fiona.

The coach barreled through a village and passed the
Old Goblet Lodge.

And then finally the coach slowed. Percival craned his neck from the window, but no aristocratic carriage, flourished with a golden crest, blocked the drive. His heart tumbled downward.

The coach halted, and he scrambled out, cane in hand. He swept his gaze over the field.

She’s not there.

A group of men was digging, and he headed toward them. They might know where Fiona was.
Zeus, they were his only hope.

Something about them seemed familiar. The ground was squishy, and his steps were more uneven than normal.

“Hullo there!” He waved both hands above his head.

Some of the men turned to him, including a man with white whiskers. A man he recognized. His stomach toppled downward.

“Mr. Nicholas!” Percival’s eyes widened, and the older man smiled.

“Ah . . . Mr. Percival.” He turned around and shouted, “Mr. Potter!”

Percival tensed and gripped his cane more tightly. A burly man whom he’d vowed to never see again turned his head. He might have been a dozen feet away, but Percival could still see contempt flicker across the man’s face. He strode toward them.

What on earth was Fiona doing with these men?

A younger man nudged Mr. Nicholas and whispered in his ear.

Mr. Nicholas raised his not-insignificant brows. “Apparently you’re actually a duke.”

“I am.”

Mr. Potter wiped dirty hands on his buckskin breeches. “If I was a duke, I wouldn’t pretend to be a man who’d abandoned his expecting wife.”

Percival flashed a tight smile. He needed their help. “Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Percival?”

Mr. Nicholas chuckled. “She don’t go by that name anymore, Your Grace. I would think you would know that.”

“Seems you don’t have to be very smart to be a duke,” Mr. Potter chided him. “I could be a duke. I would be good at being a duke.”

The other men murmured assent, and Percival sighed. His eyes flickered around the field. Poppies swayed in the wind, and a bright sun shone from the blue sky above. A large pit sat in the middle, and some of the men pored over it.

“What are you doing here?”

Mr. Nicholas grinned. “Archaeology!”

“Better than hangin’ round the tavern.” Mr. Potter flexed his forearm. “I’m getting me muscles back!”

Percival eyed him. He wasn’t convinced the man was in any need of more muscles. The man rather epitomized brawniness. That said, the men did appear content. He’d regarded them poorly before, scoffing that they seemed to spend their entire lives in a public house. But work was likely hard to come by. The torrent of returned soldiers clamoring for work hadn’t helped anyone, and crops were failing all over Europe because of an onslaught of frigid temperatures.

Mr. Potter jutted his thumb out at Mr. Nicholas. “We dig, and this man labels and records everything.”

“Then that makes you all very important,” Percival said gravely, and the men beamed.

“Miss Amberly’s talking about putting all our work in a Museum of Yorkshire.”

Percival blinked. “That sounds wonderful.”

“We’re making history,” Mr. Nicholas declared. “This ‘ere soil is filled with Roman and Medieval treasures. It will all look right nice in a museum. Makes one right proud of being a Yorkshire man. Sorry, Duke—I know you’re not one.”

Percival smiled. “You must be a great help to Miss Amberly.”

“Now what brings you here?” Mr. Nicholas asked.

Mr. Potter laughed. “It sure ain’t to dig things up, not with your foot there.”

Percival lifted his chin. “My arms have never lacked for strength. And I believe that arms are the chief appendage used when digging.”

Mr. Potter’s face reddened.

“Anyway,” Percival said, “Where is Miss Amberly?”

They were sure to tell him that the housekeeper had been wrong, and that she hadn’t even visited the site. Or if she had visited the site, it had been hours ago. He tensed.

“Ah . . . She’s on her way to Italy.” Mr. Nicholas nodded sagely.

“Never seen a woman so excited,” Mr. Potter declared, and some of the men guffawed behind him.

“Is she far away?” Percival’s heartbeat quickened, and time seemed to still as he waited for the answer.

“Ah . . . Quite far away by now.”

“Oh.”

So it was over.
He tightened his grip on his cane.

Mr. Nicholas tilted his head and offered a benevolent smile. “But I reckon we could take you to her. That contraption you’ve arrived in won’t make it, but I know a shortcut.”

“That would be wonderful,” Percival stammered.

“I rather am wonderful,” Mr. Nicholas mused. He flickered his gaze to Percival’s wooden leg. “Can you ride a horse?”

Percival broadened his chest. “I can indeed.”

“Good.” Mr. Nicholas pointed to some horses tied to a wooden fence. “Let’s go.”

Percival smiled and scanned the field. Shovels and axes flickered in the bright light, and the rest of the men returned to work.

The coach jerked to a halt.

“Oh for goodness’ sake!” Madeline tapped her boot against the carriage floor. “The driver knows we’re going a long way. We can’t start taking our time now.”

Murmurings sounded outside. An image of a tall, chestnut-haired man with striking, chiseled features and bright blue eyes pervaded Fiona’s mind. She pulled the velvet curtains of the carriage aside and stared into a thick cluster of trees.

Some things were best not pondered.

Percival was in the past. Firmly in the past. He’d be in London or Sussex or perhaps at a house party at some grand estate. He wouldn’t be here.

Lord, the man refused to be forgotten. The man was braver than any she’d ever met. He’d been kind to Grandmother, kind to her. He’d been handsome and brave, smart and funny, just like Captain Knightley. He’d been everything she’d ever desired, and far more than she’d ever hoped for.

It would be impossible to forget his noble figure, and the pleasing composition of firm, straight lines that composed his face. It would be difficult to forget arguing with him, but more impossible still to forget his kindness, and the way they’d laughed over things together. Even when he’d been most exasperated with her, she’d always sensed he’d understood the ridiculousness of the situation and had never entirely dismissed her. And that morning in her workroom—goodness, it would be impossible to forget that.

Sometimes she even imagined she heard his voice. Sometimes it seemed to ring in her ears. Deep and rich and velvety, like the sound of everything reassuring.

Something rustled in the bushes. “Fiona!”

She bit her lip.
Lord, it sounded just like him.

The voice called again, and she told herself that it wasn’t him. Perhaps the driver had an assistant or friend or acquaintance she didn’t know about. Not that that would explain why he was calling her name. Perhaps—perhaps she should have had a second cup of tea after all, and was simply exhausted after yet another night of poor sleep.

That didn’t mean she was crazy. Just that she was a bit sleepy.

Slightly delirious.

Really, completely normal.

Almost.

“Fiona!” the voice echoed again, and her heart sped up, even as she tried to tell it that there was no need to because it absolutely couldn’t be—

Him.

She leaned back in her seat. She would not look. She refused to look. She would not deign to see if her imagination had concocted him.

There was no earthly reason in the world why the Duke of Alfriston would be outside.

“Most irritating,” Fiona found herself saying. Madeline raised her eyebrows, and she hastened to add, “The carriage stop, I mean. It’s taking a while.”

“Probably a loose cow. Or little lambs. As if they don’t know they’re there for eating and not for prancing around the middle of the lane.”

“Madeline!”

“I’m jesting!” Her cousin settled back into her seat. “Somewhat.”

Fiona sighed and poked her head from the window. The fresh air brushed against her, and the scent of spring flowers and grass caused her nostrils to flare. In fact—it almost seemed like she could smell cotton and pine needles, though that was ridiculous. Madeline and herself were firmly clothed in linen, and deciduous trees dominated the scenery: no pine needles were about. “Driver! What seems to be the trouble?”

Something that sounded like a muffled cry answered, and she shivered. She raised her voice. “Excuse—”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep voice wafted into the coach. The voice was wonderful, and the deep notes reminded her of all things splendid. “You are being attacked.”

“Attacked?” Fiona squeaked.

She swung her gaze toward him, but the man, whoever he was, wore a black mask.

“By the very worst highwayman.” The strange man whispered, and for some absurd reason, her skin prickled.

“Are you very terrible?”

The man laughed, and Lord, it sounded like
his
laugh. Rich and melodious like velvet. “I hang out with the likes of the Scarlet Demon.”

“Truly?” Her heartbeat fired, beating wildly.

“Truly!” he said, lowering his voice, “And I have plans to spend increased time with her.”

A sound rustled behind her, but all she concentrated on was him. The man was tall, and his dark great coat hung from broad shoulders. She wondered what would happen if she were to trace her fingers over his mask, whether she might find the well-formed nose, the sturdy jaw, the high cheekbones of
him.

She extended her hand from the carriage, as if she were in a trance.

A footstep creaked behind her.

Thump.
The man toppled down from the side rail.

“I did it!” Madeline’s triumphant voice soared behind Fiona.

“You didn’t—you didn’t shoot him?” Fiona’s eyes stung with tears that didn’t have time to fall. She jiggled with the door handle, exhaling when it swung open.

“I’m not some violent creature.” Her cousin called after her, in a voice that almost seemed affronted. “I simply threw my valise at him.”

Fiona scurried toward the highwayman.

“I’ll check the driver,” Madeline chirped, and Fiona nodded weakly.

She stared at the lumpy heap before her. At least no blood was visible, though she knew that didn’t eliminate the possibility of the most advanced injuries. The man’s great coat sprawled out, the edges rippling over the muddy ground. The mask still sat firmly on the man’s face, and she knelt down beside him. Her eyes roamed to his legs. The man just had one.

It’s him.

Though maybe he’s dead. 

She reached trembling fingers toward the man’s mask. A sour taste invaded her mouth, and she swallowed hard. She grasped hold of the edge of the mask, and jerked the fabric upward, trying to prepare herself for pimpled-skin, a full beard, or anything else that could signify that this was not, in fact,
him.

A regal brow, firm nose, and even firmer chin appeared before her. She resisted the urge to trace the planes of his face. The man was most definitely, most assuredly him.

Her heart thumped against her ribs, as if it were trying to pound the sounds of Handel’s Messiah for all the world to hear.

Percival’s dark eyelashes were fixed downward, and his skin was pale. Given his fondness of the outdoors, she could not blame the weather. A bump formed on his forehead.

“Please, please be fine.” She grabbed hold of his cold hand. Her heartbeat quickened as she stared at his ashen face.

He’d been in her thoughts every hour of every day, and yet she’d done nothing. And now it was too late. She pushed her hand toward his mouth. Warm air puffed against her fingers, and she exhaled.

He was alive.

She peered at him again.

Barely alive.

She loved him. She truly, completely loved him.

“The driver’s fine! Some highwaymen waylaid the coach,” Madeline called, and footsteps squished over the mud. And then a gasp sounded.

“It’s His Grace!” Madeline exclaimed.

“Whom you took out.” Fiona pressed her lips together.

“Not permanently I hope.” Her cousin bent down. “Oh my goodness.”

The man’s eyes—Percival’s eyes, darling Percival’s eyes—fluttered open. “You needn’t fret on my behalf.”

His voice was hoarse, and Fiona wanted to kiss his cheeks. She settled on stroking them and running her fingers through the soft curls of his blond hair.

Percival turned his head toward her, and his eyes expanded and softened all at once. “Am I in heaven?”

“Oh don’t tell me it feels like you’ve died!” Madeline exclaimed.  “Forgive me, Your Grace. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m looking at the most beautiful angel.” Percival’s tone was reverent, and his gaze didn’t depart from Fiona’s.

“I assure you you’re not!” Madeline said.

And then she paused. And coughed. “Oh.”

Percival’s lips turned upward. “Baroness, please give me some privacy.”

“I’m not sure that’s proper, Your Grace.”

“Now.”

Madeline scampered back up the steps of the carriage, and Fiona stifled a giggle when the door slammed shut. Percival grinned and brushed a strand of her hair under her ear.

“Are you quite sure you’re fine?” Fiona asked.

Percival nodded. “It’s dangerous spending time with the Scarlet Demon.”

“Mm-hmm.” Fiona swallowed hard. “What were you saying?”

“Before I got cobbled with your cousin’s valise?”

Fiona nodded, her throat dry.

It was too much to hope that this was anything more than a moment’s spontaneity. Likely he saw their coach and wanted to amuse himself.
That’s all.

Except—she hadn’t been traveling in her own coach. She’d been in her cousin’s.

Except—his family estate was in Sussex now. He shouldn’t be huddled behind trees, waiting to have a laugh.

Except—he was looking at her with something that looked very much like adoration, very much like something more than adoration.

Her heartbeat escalated, as if it were galloping through the lanes like a very real highwaywoman.

Though it needn’t look for treasure, for she’d already found it.

It was him.

“What on earth is going on?” Mr. Potter’s voice boomed.

She swung her head toward some trees. “I—”

Mr. Potter brushed through a thicket. Mr. Nicholas stomped through some bushes after him.  Both men glared at her.

“We heard the commotion,” Mr. Nicholas said. “Came straight back.”

“We were tree-cutting,” Mr. Potter boasted. “Not quite as intellectual as archaeology, but it’s good to be well-rounded. Aye, aye, good for the ladies.”

“The gentlemen were careful to only cut down a tree which would be highly visible to coaches,” Percival said.

“Aye, aye. We pride ourselves on being very safety-conscious highwaymen. When we pretend to be.” Mr. Potter darted a nervous glance.

Fiona smiled. “I think you’d better move the tree.”

“Right, right.” Mr. Potter scowled, and he and Mr. Nicholas scampered away.

“We’re in a hurry,” the coach driver called out.

Percival’s jaw tightened, and Fiona tensed.

Madeline shook her head. “We can delay our journey. We cannot fail to help this man. It’s my fault that he’s injured. He requires a doctor.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to find one,” grumbled the driver.

“I’ll come with you.” Madeline turned to Fiona. “Will you be able to remain with His Grace? It’s best not to move him.”

Fiona nodded, and her cousin scrambled back into the coach. The driver hastened up and urged the horses to turn around. The glossy black coach grew fainter as it rolled toward the horizon, leaving Fiona alone with Percival.