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

Author:Bianca Blythe [Blythe, Bianca]
Language: afr
Format: epub
Published: 2016-01-26T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

The fire cooled, and the flames that leaped and swirled in the medieval fireplace before Percival’s bed vanished, replaced by long strips of garnet and orange that crunched the dark logs.

His mind shifted to the day previous. The sleigh ride from Harrogate had transformed into sipping chocolate in the Great Hall, chatting with her and her grandmother. Chocolate transformed into listening to wassailers, and another sleigh ride late at night, brightened by the moon and the glimmer of frosted leaves and branches.

Something sounded on the balcony.

A bird. Or maybe some nocturnal squirrel, unfazed by the vast piles of snow.

Fiona.

His heart leaped at the thought, despite its ridiculousness. A woman might pretend to be a highwaywoman, but that did not mean she scratched on the window of a man’s room.

And yet he still clambered off the bed, even though rising remained a difficult procedure. He still wrapped a robe over himself and he still headed outside, the sound of the clicking of his wooden foot loud in the morning quiet.

He unlocked the door and stepped onto the stone balcony.

Naturally she wasn’t there.

The thought had been foolish, and he told himself he was relieved. His life was planned, and now was not the time for romance.

The sun journeyed up the horizon, casting long pink and orange rays over the snow-covered landscape. The sharp slopes glistened bright tangerine colors.

Everything sparkled, at variance with the dour, rain-clogged Dales he’d anticipated, where the sky and ground would share that same, muddied color.

Crisp air swept over his hair. Snowflakes continued their descents, but they tumbled slowly, twirling under the growing light, their distinctive shapes fluttering before they settled onto the piles of snow, merging forever.

Tonight was the ball, and after he would go to London. He would meet his perfect bride, adorn her with the perfect jewels with their perfect history. They would have their perfect children and lead their perfect lives.

They’d spend the season in London, summer at one of their country estates, and when they had the urge to be exciting, they might descend upon Europe, now the war was over.

He bit his lip, uncertain if Lady Cordelia favored travel. His knowledge of her was limited to her passion for needle work, though he’d never comprehended the delight for stabbing a piece of cloth repeatedly to form a rigid representation of a flower.

No matter. The sun clambered up the peaks of the Dales, and he padded farther onto the balcony. Soon uniform white buildings would form his view, their facade only varying with the choice of statue to embellish the home. Apollo or Aphrodite, Zeus or Hera, these were soon to be the large questions.

Some of the servants exited the castle, clothed in dark coats and wielding large shovels. They tackled the snow, bowing their heads down as they lifted up the white powder and flung it to the side. Eventually dark cobblestones poked through the snow, their presence confirming that there would be no cause to delay his return to London.

It was foolish to be anything else than grateful he’d return home soon.

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