Page 18 of To Dare a Duke

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The first meeting of the Peculiar Ladies Book Club, as named by Prue, Ruth and Lucia, and voted upon by the new members, began with tea and cake. Though, to Prue’s mind, cake was a poor descriptor of all the lavish treats and delicacies which were paraded before them.

“I vote this as being the Peculiar Ladies’ headquarters,” Prue spoke to the room at large whilst deliberating over a choice of mouth-watering delicacies. Whichever she chose would be her fourth.

“Mmm,” Alice mumbled, nodding her agreement and licking cream from her fingers.

“Well, it’s all well and good for you skinny beans to make such arrangements,” Bonnie replied as she sighed with longing over a selection of cream cakes. “Some of us only have to look at a cake to have our gowns straining fit to burst.”

“Oh, come now, Bonnie,” Alice replied, staring at her friend with chagrin. “You know as well as I do, I’d swap my skin and bones for a few of your curves.”

Bonnie snorted and snatched up a cream cake with a defiant glint in her eyes. “Aye, well, I’ve curves enough to spare.”

The group of women chuckled though their laughter was cut short as Harriet Stanhope spoke up.

“Shall we get started?”

And thus began the Peculiar Ladies Book Club. Prue looked around at the members with a smile. There were nine of them in all, each of them forced to the fringes of society for a variety of reasons.

For the first fifteen minutes, conversation was a little reserved, a touch stilted, and then they spoke about The Dark History of a Damned Duke.

“Oh my,” said Matilda, the beautiful blonde closing her eyes with a sigh. “When he threatened to attack the earl for having insulted her, I swear I thought I would swoon, and I was sitting down,” she added with a dry tone, causing all the women to burst out laughing.

Harriet scowled, pushing her spectacles a little further up her nose. “Oh, but he only did it to get Lydia to trust him,” she said, her voice grave and disapproving.

“But don’t you think maybe he could be redeemed?” Bonnie asked.

Various cries sounded from all quarters. “Oh, no! He’s far too wicked.”

“I’d like to try.”

“And besides, Lord Worthington is the hero.”

“I’d rather have Bedsin.”

A heavy sigh fluttered about the room.

Prue sat back and enjoyed the back and forth of the conversation, the happy bickering and giggling. She had done this, created a story that had them all captivated, that had them wondering, discussing, disagreeing, teasing, and laughing. It was a wonderful feeling, and then her thoughts strayed to the man who had inspired her story, the man with a dark past, full of secrets, and rumours of violence and betrayal.

What would he do if he discovered she was Miss Terry?

Unbidden, his voice whispered in her ear again, deliciously wicked. Despite herself she smiled. Perhaps this was a dangerous game, perhaps she was playing with fire, for a man like that was not one you crossed without reprisals. Yet, she was committed. Her future hung on the success of this story, on the publishing deal that would surely follow.

She couldn’t stop now, but perhaps she could do a better job at giving the duke his day, shining a light upon him so that he was neither black nor white, but the many shades of grey that made any normal person what they were.

Prue remembered his cool green gaze, and the flicker of amusement that had tugged at his mouth.

Yes, she could do that.

***

17th April. Mrs Banbury’s Ball. London. 1814

Prue was regretting that she’d dressed in such haste, again, and had hurried out the door without picking up a fan. Whilst she hadn’t the slightest interest in using the dratted thing to flirt with, it would have been nice to stir the air in the soup-like atmosphere of Mrs Banbury’s party.

The place was a crush, which was no doubt the mark of a successful soiree, but nonetheless uncomfortable for those forced to endure it. Mrs Banbury had emptied almost every stick of furniture from the house to create room enough for the event, which meant sneaking away and finding a quiet corner to read in was not a possibility. The only seating remaining was in the card room, and Prue had no love of gaming.

Across the sea of silks, tailored coats, and ostrich feathers, Prue glimpsed Matilda, who offered her a jaunty wave and then rolled her eyes. Prue chuckled, wondering if she might endeavour to find her way through the crowds to speak with her friend, but a moment later Matilda had disappeared into the melee. She sighed. There were far too many people for comfort, and she was hot and sweaty. The longing to remove her gloves was almost irresistible, and possibly even worth the scolding she’d get if Aunt Phyllis noticed her inky fingers were on view.