Page 17 of To Dare a Duke

The Damned Duke was more than just a villain; he had hopes and dreams, surely? There were things he feared, perhaps even people he cared for? What had made him a villain in the first place, and was there anything that might redeem him?

With a surge of excitement, Prue got to her feet and hurried from the table without another word. She had a chapter to write.

***

16th April. Upper Wimpole Street. London.

Prue had been pleased to discover that Miss Ruth Stone was a near neighbour, living further along Upper Wimpole Street, where her aunt had rented their own house. The street itself—on the fringes of that exclusive quarter of Mayfair inhabited by the haut ton—was not one of the finest addresses, not that some of the houses weren’t lavish.

The small, simply furnished and, honestly, frayed around the edges lodgings that Aunt Phyllis had bespoken were the best they could afford. Miss Stone, however, daughter of a wealthy merchant, could afford to rub shoulders with dukes and earls, if only they would let her. The finest houses on Upper Wimpole Street were grand and quite fine enough to satisfy the ton, yet they reeked of new money, and that was an unforgiveable sin.

Prue stared around at the opulent magnificence of Miss Stone’s home as an immaculate butler showed her in.

“Oh, Miss Chuffington-Smythe,” Miss Stone exclaimed, beaming as she hurried towards her. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” Prue replied, returning her smile as she handed her pelisse, hat, and gloves to a footman. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“I’m so glad,” the young woman replied, her wide brown eyes earnest. “I was afraid no one would.”

“Is there no one else here yet?” Prue asked, a little surprised. She’d felt sure some of her friends would have made the effort.

Miss Stone shook her head, flushing a little.

“Well, don’t lose heart yet,” Prue said, hoping they were on their way. “It’s early still, and do please call me Prue,” she all but begged. “Chuffington-Smythe is such a ridiculous mouthful. The only thing that could ever induce me to marry would be the relief at losing such an appalling name.”

The young woman stared at her, wide-eyed. “Prue, then,” she said, a little hesitant, clearly taken aback by Prue’s forthright words. “And you must call me Ruth, but… you really don’t wish to marry?”

Prue grinned at her and linked their arms together. “Ruth, you may as well know now. I’m peculiar. There’s no getting away from it.”

With a laugh of delight, Ruth guided her towards the parlour. “In that case, I am extremely pleased to meet you. I adore anything peculiar.”

“Then we shall get on like a house on fire,” Prue replied, pausing as she walked into a quite spectacular parlour. Everything was the best money could buy. Her slippered feet sunk into a luxurious carpet, and the furnishings had been chosen with exquisite care, every inch of the room decorated with skill and finesse.

Yet it wasn’t just the room that held her attention.

A young woman stood as they entered. She was petite, with jet black hair and such stunning dark eyes that Prue could not help but stare. Her rich golden skin glowed with vitality against a dress of deep amber. She was glorious.

“Prue,” Ruth said, moving between them. “This is Senorita Lucia de Feria. Lucia, may I present Miss Prunella Chuffington-Smythe.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said, surprising Prue for the second time that day as she had expected to hear a thick Spanish accent. Yet her voice was the low and cultured tone of a proper English lady. “I was raised among an English family,” she explained with a smile before Prue could comment, apparently used to such reactions.

“My word, but you’re lovely,” Prue said. As ever, the words slipped out before she could consider them.

The young woman opened her mouth, a little taken aback. Ruth gave a merry laugh at Prue’s honesty and then sighed.

“Isn’t she, though? It’s most disheartening, I assure you, to come down every morning and face such devastating perfection.”

“Oh, but—” The beauty opened her mouth, about to protest the comparison but Prue held up a hand, silencing her.

“Please, don’t make excuses for us, or for yourself. You’re a goddess and we mere mortals are happy to be in your presence.”

Senorita de Feria laughed, and it was not the dainty, tinkling laugh one might have expected from such a delicate and lovely creature, but more of a chortle. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she sputtered.

“Oh, well, you should stay,” Prue said, grinning at her. “There’s far more nonsense where that came from.

Muffled voices from the entrance hall had Ruth clutching at Prue’s arm with excitement.

“More people!” she squeaked with delight, before hurrying off to greet them.