How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Read online

  A plaid blanket draped over the man’s legs in perhaps an attempt to appear casual, but his furrowed brow and tight lips denoted a less than lackadaisical sentiment.

  What she was doing was wrong, but it would all be over in a few hours. She sucked in a breath of air. “You’re not really in a rush.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I think I can judge that.”

  “There’s no dying parent you’re hastening to see. No wife in labor.”

  “Would you call off your ruffians if I had one?”

  Fiona folded her fingers on her lap. She’d never been in a space this small, this confined with any man, much less a specimen of masculinity, the very sort her art instructors would laud. Fiona’s breath quickened, and suddenly she had absolutely no problem with the cold winter air. She forced her gaze from the satisfactory width of the man’s chest and lifted her nostrils. “Is that—brandy?”

  Her voice shook. It wouldn’t do for the man to realize just how much his presence affected her.

  “Indeed. Should I compliment you on your sniffing abilities?” Sarcasm riddled through his velvet voice.

  “I—” Fiona’s mouth dried. She lifted her gaze toward him, meeting his blue eyes. They had a knowing look to them as if accustomed to seeing women’s eyes melt. She dropped her eyes to her lap, focusing on her thick cape. The worn fabric was convenient for outdoor pursuits, but the plain material differed from the luxurious appearance that the man opposite, only slightly rumpled from his journey, managed to convey.

  “Get to the point, woman. Or are you in awe of being in such a glamorous place?” The handsome man’s tone was sultry, and he moved his hand toward Fiona.

  “Stay right there!” she cried.

  His hand wavered in the air, and she was conscious of the size and breadth of each finger. The man’s skin was bronzed, and dark curls encircled his wrists. She wondered whether the dark curls trailed up the rest of his arm, and whether his chest was bare or not.

  She swiveled her head toward him, and his hand brushed against hers again. Her heartbeat quickened, as if her whole body yearned for more of him, even though she didn’t know anything about him, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t even very nice.

  Before she had a chance to berate him for affecting her with his presence to an extent she would be mortified to admit, he was gone. He relaxed against his seat, and a smile played upon his lips. “Please be comfortable.”

  “Right.” She cleared her throat and tried to channel one of Loretta Van Lochen’s bravest heroines. “You’re a gentleman.”

  He smirked. “It must be an unusual pleasure for you to be in such splendid company. But I’m afraid I don’t have time for much chit-chat. What do you want?”

  “You.” The word escaped her lips before she had a chance to hold it back.

  His eyebrows rose, but the cocky grin she expected never appeared. Instead his shoulders sank a fraction, and his jaw firmed.

  “I mean…” Fiona forced a laugh, “Not really you. Of course not.”

  “That would be insane,” the man offered.

  “Yes,” Fiona hastened to reply.

  “What on earth would you do with me?”

  For one moment she was tempted to tell him everything. For one moment she wanted to share with someone just what a mess she had managed to get into. For one moment she desired to laugh and maybe cry and hopefully be told she wasn’t entirely mad.

  But instead she lifted her chin up. “Never mind.”

  She could tell him who she was later. Right now she needed him to be intimidated of her. Maybe no one would do a favor for Fiona Amberly, the woman too frightened to finish her season, the woman no man had wanted to dance with. But displaying the most fearful highwaywoman from Loretta Van Lochen might be more convincing.

  She leaned forward. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “You don’t seem the type to maintain noble standards of decency.”

  The man was perfect, and that seemed reason enough to despise him. His complexly tied cravat, perfectly styled hair, and immaculate cane represented everything she abhorred. Except… Her gaze drifted back to the man’s cane. It looked almost like it was actually meant to be used. A silver dome rested on it, but the black rod was imperfectly polished, the length longer than average, and grass clung to the end of the cane, as if—

  “What in the Lord’s name are you looking at?” the man practically growled.

  “I—”

  “Leave, highwaywoman.” The man’s brusque voice interrupted her thoughts. “If you were aiming at seduction, you should have been prettier.”

  Any spell, any attraction she may have felt vanished at this moment. She bit her lips and strode from the coach.

  She couldn’t do this. She needed to be back at home, where she belonged, and not in a coach with a strange man.

  It didn’t matter. He never would have agreed to her plan anyway. She’d just get Ned and ride away. She stepped into the cold air, bracing for the harsh words from the coach driver.

  But only silence greeted her.

  Chapter Five

  The door swung back open, and the woman glared at him. She raised her hand, and that blasted blade glinted again in her hand. “Your man is missing. Where is he?”

  His heartbeat quickened, and he resisted the temptation to pat his great coat in which the jewels were hidden.

  “Put that down.” It was easy to make his voice sound commanding; he’d never had to struggle to make his soldiers obey him.

  The woman wavered, then raised her chin.

  “He’s gone.” She tramped toward him, and he stiffened as her skirt swept against the woolen blanket he’d taken to carrying with him. The woman’s voice held the same unflinching resolve of the severest army commander. “Rise.”

  “I—”

  “Now.” Her emerald eyes hardened.

  “I will not be threatened by a woman.”

  “You only allow yourself to be threatened by men?” She raised her eyebrows and moved the blade toward him. “Out.”

  “Careful with that.” Percival attempted a laugh.

  “Out,” she repeated.

  The knife was large and all too menacing. But moving would mean revealing his secret to her, and that would be—

  The blade inched nearer his neck. If this were the past. By Zeus, then he would have just stood up and defended himself, blade or no blade.

  His life was no longer the same now, and he was at the mercy of this red-headed woman who brandished a knife with the same enthusiasm that other women took to sewing work.

  The wind rattled the carriage, sneaking in through the coach’s fissures and cracks, and fluttering the edges of the blanket.

  If only his cousin hadn’t been killed. If only Percival had veered more to the left on that one day, all those months previous, he wouldn’t be in the mess he was now. He hadn’t survived the Napoleonic Wars to become a victim to some woman on some God-forsaken road. So he rose.

  The process was inelegant. Perhaps one day he might be able to rise in a smooth, sweeping gesture befitting a man of his station. But now he still stumbled, because blast it, he still felt his leg, and still expected it to be there when he needed it.

  He gritted his teeth together and braced his hand against the cold wall of the coach. The wooden stump provided balance, and he turned to the highwaywoman.

  Her stony gaze softened, and his heart sank. “Not you, too.”

  “But your leg—”

  “Is of no concern of yours.”

  “I didn’t notice—”

  “I thought you did.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide.

  He sighed. “Everyone expects everyone to have two legs.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “How sympathetic of you. I wouldn’t have thought a robber would care much about the leg count of the people she attacks.”

  “Very amusing.” She sighed and lowered her weapon. She leaned forward, and a surge of vanilla waft
ed toward him. “Where did your driver go? Is he getting the magistrate? Lord, he’s getting help!”

  Percival’s breath quickened, and he forced himself to remain calm. This was just like being at war. He’d battled enemies with success dozens of times. He hadn’t risen through the ranks solely on his father’s commission. He’d been publicly commended for his efforts, charged with leading other soldiers.

  But back then he’d been armed with weapons. Back then all his limbs had been intact.

  Percival sighed. “He must be here. Royal mail and all.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and it occurred to Percival that Graeme just might have concocted a heroic plan all by himself. Perhaps the driver had gone to fetch help. Hope jostled through him, and he managed to shrug, maintaining an expression of neutrality well-honed from hours of card playing in officers’ tents.

  “Maybe he’s relieving himself.” Lord knows the man had drank sufficient ale before the journey, and likely during the drive as well, if his constant singing had been any indication.

  “He took Ned,” the woman declared. “I went to fetch him, and he was gone.”

  “Graeme’s captured one of the ruffians? I wouldn’t have thought him capable.”

  “My horse!”

  “Oh.” He rubbed his hand through his hair and stumbled from the coach, his wooden stump clicking against the floor. The wind howled through the open door, and he grimaced as he stepped outside. He glanced down at the tiny metal steps. Blast.

  The sounds of horses stomping their feet and snorting greeted him. It was bad enough to descend these steps when a driver was there to calm and steady the animals.

  He gritted his teeth, and by some happiness of fate that had not graced him at Waterloo, managed to reach the frozen ground without toppling downward in an inelegant situation the highwaywoman might take advantage of.

  “Graeme!” His voice barreled through the wilderness, but there was no rustle through the trees, and certainly no answer. He studied the road, but there was no sight of his driver. “Lucky man.”

  “Oh, this is dreadful.” Mournfulness shook the woman’s voice. “My poor Ned.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken a woman of your sort to care about a horse.”

  She jutted her chin out. “It would be a mistake to underestimate me.”

  “Graeme’s already succeeded in getting the better of you.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. Something that he might have termed fear if he weren’t dealing with a woman who stole money from travelers for a living.

  He shrugged and found himself reassuring her. “Graeme’s a driver. He knows how to take care of a horse. Better than the life you could provide for it.”

  She stiffened.

  He glanced at her. “You should have chosen an honorable profession.”

  “We have to go.” She turned to him, and her arms dropped down. She glowed under the wobbly light of the lantern, and she appeared far more regal than a thief had any right to appear.

  “I’ve no desire to be dragged to whatever low-level place you frequent.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “You can steal from me here!” He removed a satchel. “No need to travel with you to do it. Just . . . er . . . let me take the coach somewhere. I don’t fancy my chances of standing here in the cold.”

  “I don’t want your coins.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and her cheeks flushed.

  “I mean I can steal from you later.” She glanced toward the road, and her teeth pressed against her bottom lip. “Let’s go.”

  He followed her glance to the empty road and then understood. She probably worried that Graeme would drag the magistrate and all the magistrate’s burliest helpers with him in pursuit of her. She was probably overestimating Graeme’s heroism, as much as he claimed to admire the army.

  But maybe—maybe if he managed to stall. Maybe Graeme might venture into the forest with help after all.

  “Your colleagues aren’t here,” he said.

  “They’re here. Though maybe you’re right. Maybe they went after Graeme.” She leaned toward him, and her eyes were round. “If they haven’t killed him already.”

  He stiffened, and she brushed his cravat with her knife. “You drive. I trust your arms are still sufficiently strong to handle reins.”

  “Of course.” And he’d take them right back to the nearest inn.

  “I’ll sit beside you.” She tapped the handle of her knife. “With this.”

  “You’re mad!” he murmured, taking her in.

  She laughed and tossed her hair. “Maybe.”

  Chapter Six

  The cold wind brushed against Fiona, and she pulled her hood over her head. Pink and orange streaked the sky, and the trees cast long shadows on the dirt lane. She stepped into the coach, flickered her eye over a stack of suitcases, and grabbed a blanket. She rushed back outside and dangled the bright fabric between two trees that arched over the road. Hopefully it would serve as a beacon to warn any other people of the tree.

  She sprinted back to the coach as her locks tumbled and blew around her. She pulled herself up onto the seat, and the handsome man slid away. His eyes rounded, and he flickered a nervous glance at her.

  “You can drive a carriage, can’t you?”

  “Woman, I battled the French. Of course I can.” The man grabbed hold of the leather reins, and with a jerk the horses trotted forward.

  “You’ll need to rotate the coach. The tree—”

  “I’ve heard enough about that tree,” the man growled, but he coaxed the horses to turn, maneuvering the reins with deftness. “Your men shouldn’t have cut it down.”

  Fiona remained silent and fixed her gaze on the horses. They were good and solid, sturdier built than the sleek Arabians she rode at Cloudbridge. The carriage wheels crunched over the fallen leaves, and she swiveled her gaze back, half-anticipating the coach driver to re-appear, gun cocked.

  They had to leave.

  If only the tree hadn’t fallen. They couldn’t return to the manor house the way she had come. Certainly this man would be of little assistance in moving the tree. Fiona’s desire was to flee as far from here as possible. They would need to take the long way to Cloudbridge Castle.

  The cheerful forest she remembered from the summer, filled with lush green grass, a multitude of flowers, and trees bearing pleasing shades of leaves, had vanished, and this place, filled with naked white and brown branches jutting from muddied ground, was still foreign to her.

  Feet pattered behind her, and she tensed. Graeme.

  She swung around, but the sound swishing over the ground was only a badger. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax yet.

  Not now, not until she’d introduced this strange man to Grandmother, so she might send him from her life with as much swiftness as he’d entered it.

  Fresh air swept around her, and the carriage jostled over the lane. Something tinkled and chimed beside her, and she frowned when she spotted the offending item.

  The man followed her gaze to the bell, and a small smile grew on his stubbled face. “Not an admirer of Christmas?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Some wassailers with poor pitch? A bad mulled wine experience?” He chuckled, and her shoulders relaxed.

  The bells rang out beside her, an up-tempo melody that matched the speed of the coach. The sound was festive, lacking in seriousness. She sighed. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps the man would be less likely to attack her that way.

  For as much as she strove to mirror the appearance of a true highwaywoman, she would not be using a weapon on him.

  She concentrated on the horses and how their sturdy forms tramped steadily. The orange and pink streaks sank, abandoning the sky to darkness and stars that twinkled in familiar clusters she recognized but hadn’t seen in a long time.

  Though Harrogate lay nearby, its pump-rooms and assembling halls attracting people from much farther distances, Fiona ventured th
ere infrequently. Her parents’ last lesson to her had been of the dangers of coach travel, and Fiona was too timid to enjoy the bustle of a large town.

  She clutched the knife in her hands and allowed her gaze to wander to the heavens above. The outside world was grander than she remembered.

  She mulled over the manner in which the man beside her held the reins. The action was gentler than she had anticipated, not as if he lacked control, but as if the welfare of the horses was actually of concern to him.

  Goodness, spending time with a man was an unfamiliar practice. Certainly she had no regular acquaintance with any man who wasn’t gray with age, proudly displaying a hoary beard, or employed to serve her family’s needs.

  But this wasn’t one of her pompous uncles. This wasn’t the meek, round-faced cleric who frequented Cloudbridge Castle in the guise of checking up on his congregation, only to spend more time finding delight in Cook’s sugar concoctions. This person resembled the smartly dressed men she’d seen during her one, shortened season. This was the type of man she’d seen from afar, the type of man who would dance with women like Madeline, but who would never deign to dance with her.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d ridden with a man. She’d ridden in a carriage in Hyde Park before with a man more interested in racing than in her. She recalled the sharp swerves, the pounding of galloping horses’ hooves, and the blur of men and women in expensive clothes unsuited to the muddy park. Many women wore white despite the weather, flaunting the light garments as badges to display they had maids to sufficiently clean the delicate fabrics, despite the stains that might be cast on them by London’s infamous rain.

  “You’re cold.” The man’s deep voice, velvety and warm like chocolate, interrupted her musings.

  She shook herself. “Nonsense.”

  “Your teeth are chattering. I can hear you.” His tone sounded more amused than it should. Didn’t he realize she was kidnapping him?

  “I’m fine.” She glanced up at him, but his gaze was once again focused before him.

  The man must be frightened, but his posture was more relaxed now, and he radiated a quiet calm. Her gaze flickered to his foot. It must be hard to have a leg missing. She couldn’t imagine the physical agony he must have experienced as the army surgeon sawed off the leg. And here she was dragging him into the unknown.