How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Bianca Blythe
ever reentering society.
The trees cast shadows over the dirt path, and she glanced upward. In the springtime the branches of the trees touched and created a net of pale green leaves and pastel blossoms. Now gaps existed between the stout branches and revealed the gray sky, and the even darker clouds that sailed over it.
This is an ideal day for an accident.
Fiona shivered and forced the image of a coach careening into a boulder from her mind. But it was hard to be successful in doing that, when all she could envision were wheels collapsing and a steel frame bending and twisting, clutching the less flexible figures of its inhabitants.
She inhaled and urged the horse forward. She avoided coaches when she could. No closed, dark rides for her.
And then she saw it.
A tree, long and thick, had fallen across the road, its position just as precariously placed as in all her dreams. Pine needles covered its branches, but Fiona knew that underneath the pleasant scent hid imminent danger. A sharp curve lay immediately after the tree, the type of curve a coach driver coming from the opposite direction should slow for, but which he might not necessarily do. She didn’t want to imagine the horses trying too late to stop.
She turned her head in the direction of the apple orchard. She didn’t have time for this. This might be her last chance to do any digging, and she wanted to see Rosamund afterward.
But the impediment was so large, and the potential destruction so severe.
Fiona slowed Ned down and examined the sturdy trunk and the jagged branches. She slid from the horse, tied him to a tree, and then returned to examine the obstruction. The horizon had narrowed to a thin sliver, and she pressed her lips together.
If only she’d brought a shawl that she could have used as a warning.
She exhaled. Maybe she could remove the offending tree, so even the most unobservant driver could safely barrel down the road. She grasped a branch of the tree and attempted to drag it.
The tree did not budge.
She removed her knife. She sawed off some of the smaller branches and shoved them to the side of the road. The trunk was still too heavy for her.
She sighed. She would need to return to Cloudbridge Castle. She would send some of the male servants back to complete the job of clearing the road, hoping that they could get to it in time.
She pressed her lips together and tried not to think about whether any passer-by had spotted the tree that her parents’ carriage had collided with and had decided not to move it.
Trotting hooves and jostling wheels interrupted her thoughts. She swung her head toward the sound that was coming from farther down the road.
She scurried forward, accidentally sweeping her skirt and cloak through a puddle.
No matter.
Right now the only thing of any importance was to warn the driver.
A post horn sounded.
She hastened around the corner.
A dark coach pulled by four horses sped along the road, and Fiona hollered at the driver to stop. She picked up her skirts and marched over the lane. The wind blew against her, and her hair spilled from her hat. Mud coated the edges of her cloak. The knife was still clutched in her hand, and she waved it.
Chapter Three
Percival Carmichael, seventh Duke of Alfriston, was hurled from his seat.
He landed on the wooden floor with a thump, reflecting that some pieces of advice his former governess had been prone to bestowing had an irritating propensity to be correct. The advice that soared most prominently in his mind was her warning not to drink in a moving carriage.
His governess had been referring to apple juice, his preferred beverage at the time of his pre-Harrow education, but he contemplated that the advice still held true when imbibing a wider variety of drinks—in this case, brandy.
His cravat displayed distinct tawny spots now, an addition his valet would be most disapproving of. He also would criticize the alcoholic smell that now infused the velvet cushioned seats,
The trees cast shadows over the dirt path, and she glanced upward. In the springtime the branches of the trees touched and created a net of pale green leaves and pastel blossoms. Now gaps existed between the stout branches and revealed the gray sky, and the even darker clouds that sailed over it.
This is an ideal day for an accident.
Fiona shivered and forced the image of a coach careening into a boulder from her mind. But it was hard to be successful in doing that, when all she could envision were wheels collapsing and a steel frame bending and twisting, clutching the less flexible figures of its inhabitants.
She inhaled and urged the horse forward. She avoided coaches when she could. No closed, dark rides for her.
And then she saw it.
A tree, long and thick, had fallen across the road, its position just as precariously placed as in all her dreams. Pine needles covered its branches, but Fiona knew that underneath the pleasant scent hid imminent danger. A sharp curve lay immediately after the tree, the type of curve a coach driver coming from the opposite direction should slow for, but which he might not necessarily do. She didn’t want to imagine the horses trying too late to stop.
She turned her head in the direction of the apple orchard. She didn’t have time for this. This might be her last chance to do any digging, and she wanted to see Rosamund afterward.
But the impediment was so large, and the potential destruction so severe.
Fiona slowed Ned down and examined the sturdy trunk and the jagged branches. She slid from the horse, tied him to a tree, and then returned to examine the obstruction. The horizon had narrowed to a thin sliver, and she pressed her lips together.
If only she’d brought a shawl that she could have used as a warning.
She exhaled. Maybe she could remove the offending tree, so even the most unobservant driver could safely barrel down the road. She grasped a branch of the tree and attempted to drag it.
The tree did not budge.
She removed her knife. She sawed off some of the smaller branches and shoved them to the side of the road. The trunk was still too heavy for her.
She sighed. She would need to return to Cloudbridge Castle. She would send some of the male servants back to complete the job of clearing the road, hoping that they could get to it in time.
She pressed her lips together and tried not to think about whether any passer-by had spotted the tree that her parents’ carriage had collided with and had decided not to move it.
Trotting hooves and jostling wheels interrupted her thoughts. She swung her head toward the sound that was coming from farther down the road.
She scurried forward, accidentally sweeping her skirt and cloak through a puddle.
No matter.
Right now the only thing of any importance was to warn the driver.
A post horn sounded.
She hastened around the corner.
A dark coach pulled by four horses sped along the road, and Fiona hollered at the driver to stop. She picked up her skirts and marched over the lane. The wind blew against her, and her hair spilled from her hat. Mud coated the edges of her cloak. The knife was still clutched in her hand, and she waved it.
Chapter Three
Percival Carmichael, seventh Duke of Alfriston, was hurled from his seat.
He landed on the wooden floor with a thump, reflecting that some pieces of advice his former governess had been prone to bestowing had an irritating propensity to be correct. The advice that soared most prominently in his mind was her warning not to drink in a moving carriage.
His governess had been referring to apple juice, his preferred beverage at the time of his pre-Harrow education, but he contemplated that the advice still held true when imbibing a wider variety of drinks—in this case, brandy.
His cravat displayed distinct tawny spots now, an addition his valet would be most disapproving of. He also would criticize the alcoholic smell that now infused the velvet cushioned seats,
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