Page 2 of To Dare a Duke

At least the rout party was being held by Charles Adolphus, Baron Fitzwalter, who lived at the ‘big house’ and held a position of authority and respect. The old man was a good sort and not like the stuffy busybodies that seemed to populate the rest of their tiny village. So, it was possible there would be some interesting conversation, if she could wrest him away from the other guests. For reasons best known to himself, the baron seemed fond of her despite her awkwardness in social situations and her utter disinterest in improving said awkwardness, as her aunt constantly pleaded for her to do.

The sooner Aunt Phyllis gave up on the idea she would marry and stop being a burden to them all, the better. Not that Prue was a burden. Her contribution to their household made a significant difference to her widowed aunt and Phyllis’ only daughter Minerva, who both lived perilously close to the edge of shabby genteel respectability. Aunt Phyllis was not in fact her aunt at all, but her deceased mother’s cousin, though Aunt Phyllis always seemed easier than explaining the ins and outs of their relationship to others.

Prue had every intention of getting out from under Aunt Phyllis’ roof as soon as she could, but marrying to do it was not a feature in her plans. Far from it. Prue had every intention of being an independent female, and she was well on her way to being just that. If her aunt had the slightest suspicion of her scandalous plans, and—even worse—how she intended to do it, she’d likely suffer an apoplexy.

“Oh, there you are,” the woman herself said, emerging from the parlour amidst an aggressive cloud of violet perfume. “Honestly, Prunella. Is it too much to ask that you are ready to leave at the appointed hour? I chaperone you to these events out of the goodness of my heart, when I have my own daughter’s future to think of. A more ungrateful creature would be hard to find.”

As that was entirely true, Prue opened her mouth to say something to soothe her relation’s ruffled feathers and instead gave a violent sneeze.

Phyllis’ mouth compressed into a thin line and her faded blue eyes widened in despair as Prue’s hand rose to cover her mouth and nose.

“Look at the state of your hands!” she exclaimed. “What have you been doing, and where are your gloves?”

Prue blanched and hurried to cover up her inky fingers.

“I’m not even going to comment on the state of your hair,” Aunt Phyllis said with a disapproving sniff, though she then contradicted this statement by doing just that for the next several minutes, and in detail, as they walked to the grandest house in the village.

It was a handsome red brick building, as solid and impressive as the baron himself, who was also a touch on the florid side. He was still a large man, despite his advancing years, and he greeted her aunt and Minerva with gracious attentiveness, though Prue was aware he couldn’t stand them. Her aunt’s ingratiating ways irked him, and he believed Minerva was no better than she ought to be.

It was one reason they got on so well.

“Ah, and Miss Chuffington-Smythe,” the baron said, turning to Prue with a wide grin. “How are you? Recovered from your recent bout of ill-health, I hope?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled with conspiratorial glee, as if he’d guessed that she had been telling fibs. She sent him a look, half glare, half amusement that he’d figured her out. It was true: Prue had sworn off a recent dinner party, claiming to be laid low with a dreadful megrim. Prue had never suffered a megrim in all her life, but they were a handy excuse when the next social event on the calendar struck her as being unendurable, or the next chapter in her novel could not wait.

“Quite recovered, thank you,” she said, giving him a sweet smile.

“And how is your nephew, the duke, my lord?” her aunt demanded, with such a proprietary air that any casual observer might suppose she was well acquainted with the man himself. The baron, perfectly used to such tactics, replied with little more than a twitch of his lips, unnoticed by any but Prue.

“His grace is in fine fettle, last I heard, Madam. I thank you for the gracious enquiry.” He turned back to Prue, holding out his arm. “Miss Chuffington-Smythe, I wonder if I might borrow you? I have recently acquired a wonderful copy of Claudius Aelianus’ Variae Historiae. It’s an intriguing collection of excerpts and anecdotes of a moralising nature, and I should like your opinion. I know what a love of books you have and feel certain you will appreciate the quality of the binding.”

Prue stared at him, attempting to keep a straight face.

“Indeed, my lord,” she said, her tone even lest her amusement become apparent. “I should be pleased to see it.”

“I’m not sure it’s at all the thing for a young lady to take an interest in dusty old books, my lord,” Aunt Phyllis said, before the baron could usher Prue away to the library which had been set up as a card room for the evening’s entertainments. “I mean, my Minerva has never read a book in her life and look at her.”

Prue choked as Baron Fitzwalter eyed the pretty blonde at her aunt’s side. Minerva looked up at him with what Prue guessed was supposed to be a sweetly shy expression from under her lashes. To Prue’s eye she looked like her shoes were pinching her, but then she knew Minerva too well to be fooled.

“Er, yes… indeed,” said the baron, a noncommittal answer that Aunt Phyllis seemed to take as one of approval.

“There, you see, Prunella? Even his lordship does not approve.”

Prue fashioned her expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace and decided it best to keep her mouth shut. Occasionally she thought before she spoke. Rarely enough, but still.

“If you would excuse us, Mrs Butler, Miss Butler.”

She gave a sigh of relief as the baron bore her away.

“Claudius Aelianus?” she queried, looking up at her companion.

He gave an unrepentant shrug. “It was all I could think of. My dear, how do you stand it? It’s beyond anything. You know we really must get you suitably married.”

Prue gave an impatient tut and shook her head. “Please, my lord, do not begin on this hopeless path once again. My aunt is really very kind, and her vulgarity stems only from a desire to see myself and Minerva well established. As for marriage, you know very well I have neither fortune nor beauty, nor any talent for housekeeping, added to which I have no interest whatsoever in becoming any man’s chattel.” She laughed at the heavy sigh the baron gave at that comment and turned to him with an impatient tone, as they’d discussed this many times before. “Being added to a list of belongings, my person subsumed by the rights of my husband? No, I thank you. I shall guard the keys to my destiny like Cerberus guards the gates of hell.”

The baron looked down at her with an indulgent eye. “A rather violent metaphor, don’t you think?”

For a moment Prue allowed her thoughts to drift back to her childhood, and the spectre of a man who ought to have been her and her mother’s protector. “Yes, it is. I think it rather apt.”