Page 11 of To Dare a Duke

―Extract from a letter from Miss Bonnie Campbell to Miss Alice Dowding.

***

12th April. London 1814. The Earl and Countess March’s Ball.

Robert gritted his teeth as the streets of London scrolled past the window. It had been some time since he’d shown his face at polite affairs such as the one that awaited him. A prickle of unease ran down his spine. Damn them. Damn them all. He’d do this, find the girl, and get it over with.

His uncle looked over at him and tutted as their carriage drew up outside the impressive London residence of the Earl and Countess March.

“If you go in looking like that, you’ll send any young lady with an ounce of sense running away screaming.”

Robert snorted. “And so they ought,” he muttered.

If only a fraction of the rumours about him were true, they’d be mad to be anywhere near him. Yet a dukedom was apparently carrot enough to overlook many indiscretions.

Cruelty, violence, adultery….

Even murder.

Before Lavinia had come into his life, no one would have believed such scurrilous gossip about him. Not for a moment. But Lavinia had tangled him into her web and driven him as close to madness as any sane man had a right to go... if, indeed, he could even be considered sane anymore. He’d looked into the darkness and seen himself there, and it had destroyed him.

Lavinia might not have died at his hands, but that didn’t absolve him of one appalling truth: he’d come damn close to wishing she had.

“Robert,” his uncle said, his name spoken with stern accents. “Miss Chuffington-Smythe is a gently bred young lady. She’s neither a flirt nor a flighty sort, nor prone to nerves and fits of the vapours. However, that does not mean she will take to meeting the Damned Duke without a little misgiving, no matter my approval.”

Robert flinched at the name the gossips and tattle mongers had given him, but Charles hadn’t finished.

“You’ll find some of that legendary charm, do you hear me? Dredge it up from whatever dark pit it’s been languishing in and put it to good use.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Robert glowered out of the window, reflecting that his uncle had never been the least bit impressed by his lofty title and still spoke to him like he was a gap-toothed, grubby boy begging for a puppy. He released a little breath of laughter at the idea. Well, thank God for that.

As they entered the ballroom a ripple of shock moved over the gathering, eyes widening, fans flapping with increasing vigour as ladies ducked their heads behind them to whisper.

“Courage, Robert, and smile, damn you,” Charles growled, an urgent whisper in his ear.

For a moment, Robert made a concerted effort with the idea, wondering how he could ease his rigid features into something approximating such an expression. Then he heard the first whispering of The Damned Duke, followed by giggles and The Duke of Bedsin, his bloody alter ego in that wretched story.

God damn it.

They traversed the room, the ton parting before them like a silk against a razorblade.

“Is she here?” Robert demanded. The sooner his ordeal was over, the happier he’d be.

He watched as his uncle scanned the crowd a smile of remarkable affection curving over his mouth as his gaze settled at the corner of the room, among the wallflowers. Well, that was a good sign, at least. Lavinia would have rather died than go anywhere near a wallflower.

“She is,” Charles replied, tilting his head a little.

Each chair at the far end of the ballroom was occupied by a girl. Girls with glasses, girls with spots, chubby girls, girls with squints, bad reputations, appalling families, stutters, or an inability to speak to a man without turning crimson.

“Between Morven’s ward and Miss Dowding, the fragile-looking redhead,” his uncle directed.

Robert scanned the row, finding the earl’s dark-haired, troublesome ward, and then the tiny redhead who looked as though she might snap in a strong gust of wind. Between them was Miss Prunella Chuffington-Smythe, his future duchess.

She was not quite blonde, her hair an unremarkable shade between that lighter gold colour and a mid-brown. It appeared she had the correct number of arms, legs, eyes, etcetera, and a perfectly straight nose set in a face that was all angles. Very high cheekbones sculpted a rather severe countenance, which gave Robert a moment’s pause.

“Are you quite sure?” he asked Charles. “She looks a little… stern.”

“Serious,” Charles corrected, turning to look at him. “Which I believe is what you wished for? Though that’s not to say she doesn’t have a sense of humour, far from it. I think her a delightful companion, though I admit she’s somewhat… unusual. She’s intelligent, witty, and forthright, but loyal to a fault.”