How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Bianca Blythe
the maple floor, and particularly Percival’s attire.
Blast. Yorkshire was every bit as horrid as the ton claimed.
He would have enough scrutiny tomorrow without appearing with a stained cravat.
He pulled himself back onto the seat. Speed was of importance, and the driver knew it. Percival had expressly promised him a significant tip if they reached London before tomorrow evening. The driver should be aware that a significant tip from a man who possessed a vast amount of wealth was nothing trivial.
Percival patted the package and pushed away the uneasy thoughts that consistently forced their way through his mind when he devoted too much attention to his impending engagement.
The driver said something, and the horses restarted their trot.
Thank goodness.
Percival stretched out his leg, and his Wellington struck the opposite seat. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Soon he would be in London, ensconced in a life everyone would envy, until they learned about the accident.
“Halt.” An alto voice cut through the sound of whinnying horses. The voice was commanding, different from the high-pitched murmurings and giggles of the debutantes and young widows with whom he tended to consort.
The coach continued on.
“Halt!” The voice called out again, and this time the carriage wheels screeched. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, and the driver uttered an ungentlemanly word.
Percival swept the curtain back.
A tall woman in a cape stood beside the road. She clutched a knife, directing it at the coach. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and red hair swirled in the wind. Mud crusted the bottom of her dress, and pine needles cleaved her cloak. The blade of her weapon glinted underneath the flickering lanterns of the coach, and her expression was solemn.
By Zeus, we’re being attacked.
He stuffed the package into a fold of his great coat. This was everything the dowager had worried about, and everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t allow to happen.
No one was supposed to know he was here. How in Hades had this person found him?
Blast
.
The driver hardly resembled the brave type. Mail coaches lauded their tendency to employ former soldiers, but Graeme must have been a veteran from the war with the colonies, if the color of his whiskers was any indication.
Percival pulled his knife from his boot. So much for conquering Napoleon at Waterloo—now he had to suffer the indignity of being attacked at home. He should have stayed in London. Even the most tiresome balls didn’t involve weapons.
It would be a blasted pain if this ended up in the newspapers. Cartoonists were eager enough to chronicle his brother’s misdeeds, now that there was less reason to draw unflattering depictions of France’s onetime emperor, now safely imprisoned on St. Helena.
The woman hadn’t lowered her knife. He hoped she was not gifted at knife throwing.
Something sounded outside, and the woman’s red lips parted, her eyes appearing wider than before. “You’re pointing a weapon at me?”
“You bet your pretty face I am,” the driver said.
She blinked.
“Anybody with you?” The driver’s voice was firm, and Percival almost cheered. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to be heroic.
***
Fiona stared into the barrel of a musket. The experience proved as horrid as she would have imagined. The wind seemed to cease its frantic swirl, the leaves paused from rustling, and all she could focus on was the long blunderbuss fixed directly on her.
Guns were not supposed to be pointed at her. Not now, not ever. Her life was quiet. Weapons were things that were directed at other people, who did reprehensible things. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“I think not.” The man’s hands were steady.
Every aspect of the driver’s appearance seemed ordinary, and the coach itself was a mere mail coach, lacking any embellishment. And yet the driver’s bushy eyebrows crinkled together, as if she, not he, were acting inappropriately.
She
Blast. Yorkshire was every bit as horrid as the ton claimed.
He would have enough scrutiny tomorrow without appearing with a stained cravat.
He pulled himself back onto the seat. Speed was of importance, and the driver knew it. Percival had expressly promised him a significant tip if they reached London before tomorrow evening. The driver should be aware that a significant tip from a man who possessed a vast amount of wealth was nothing trivial.
Percival patted the package and pushed away the uneasy thoughts that consistently forced their way through his mind when he devoted too much attention to his impending engagement.
The driver said something, and the horses restarted their trot.
Thank goodness.
Percival stretched out his leg, and his Wellington struck the opposite seat. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Soon he would be in London, ensconced in a life everyone would envy, until they learned about the accident.
“Halt.” An alto voice cut through the sound of whinnying horses. The voice was commanding, different from the high-pitched murmurings and giggles of the debutantes and young widows with whom he tended to consort.
The coach continued on.
“Halt!” The voice called out again, and this time the carriage wheels screeched. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, and the driver uttered an ungentlemanly word.
Percival swept the curtain back.
A tall woman in a cape stood beside the road. She clutched a knife, directing it at the coach. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and red hair swirled in the wind. Mud crusted the bottom of her dress, and pine needles cleaved her cloak. The blade of her weapon glinted underneath the flickering lanterns of the coach, and her expression was solemn.
By Zeus, we’re being attacked.
He stuffed the package into a fold of his great coat. This was everything the dowager had worried about, and everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t allow to happen.
No one was supposed to know he was here. How in Hades had this person found him?
Blast
.
The driver hardly resembled the brave type. Mail coaches lauded their tendency to employ former soldiers, but Graeme must have been a veteran from the war with the colonies, if the color of his whiskers was any indication.
Percival pulled his knife from his boot. So much for conquering Napoleon at Waterloo—now he had to suffer the indignity of being attacked at home. He should have stayed in London. Even the most tiresome balls didn’t involve weapons.
It would be a blasted pain if this ended up in the newspapers. Cartoonists were eager enough to chronicle his brother’s misdeeds, now that there was less reason to draw unflattering depictions of France’s onetime emperor, now safely imprisoned on St. Helena.
The woman hadn’t lowered her knife. He hoped she was not gifted at knife throwing.
Something sounded outside, and the woman’s red lips parted, her eyes appearing wider than before. “You’re pointing a weapon at me?”
“You bet your pretty face I am,” the driver said.
She blinked.
“Anybody with you?” The driver’s voice was firm, and Percival almost cheered. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to be heroic.
***
Fiona stared into the barrel of a musket. The experience proved as horrid as she would have imagined. The wind seemed to cease its frantic swirl, the leaves paused from rustling, and all she could focus on was the long blunderbuss fixed directly on her.
Guns were not supposed to be pointed at her. Not now, not ever. Her life was quiet. Weapons were things that were directed at other people, who did reprehensible things. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“I think not.” The man’s hands were steady.
Every aspect of the driver’s appearance seemed ordinary, and the coach itself was a mere mail coach, lacking any embellishment. And yet the driver’s bushy eyebrows crinkled together, as if she, not he, were acting inappropriately.
She
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