How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) by Bianca Blythe Page A

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