Page 20 of To Dare a Duke

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18th April. Beverwyck. London. 1814

“Damnation!”

Robert flung The Lady’s Weekly Review across the breakfast table. He hadn’t read the last issue until now and had promised himself that he would not. What was the point? He didn’t care what people thought, he never had. Not for years now. Except it seemed part of him still did. If only Helena hadn’t left the blasted thing lying about, he wouldn’t have been tempted to read it, and he might be in a rather better mood than he was now.

In fact, this morning he’d felt almost optimistic. His uncle had been correct about Miss Chuffington-Smythe. She wasn’t beautiful, rather plain really, but neither was she unattractive; just an ordinary girl who wouldn’t get a second glance if you passed her on the street. The lady was not hungry for fame or notoriety as far as he could tell, and as Charles had known her for some years, he felt satisfied in his estimation of her character as serious and loyal.

Loyal.

That word rang through him like a bell, a welcoming sound he wanted to grab hold of. She was not a woman who would take a lover within days of marrying, not the kind to lure his friends one by one into her bed and laugh in his face when he discovered it.

Not that she was perfect. She had her oddities. Her conversation, for example, was surprising. It had been a long time since anyone had surprised Robert, and that was not unappealing. Her fascination with his apparent villainy was a little disconcerting, but at least she was honest. She faced his reputation head on and confronted him with it, albeit amusingly. Insolent, but certainly amusing. His mouth curved into a smile as he remembered her “Aha!” of triumph when he’d admitted to having a lair. Not that he had, though he rather thought he should get one, so she’d not be disappointed in him.

He snorted at that.

She’d never believed that he’d murdered Lavinia.

Robert let out a breath. It hadn’t occurred to him that there was anyone among the ton who believed him innocent. The whispering and the gossip had been so incessant in those months after her death that he’d felt the entire world was judging him, condemning him. It wasn’t true, of course; there were a few loyal friends who had stood beside him, defended him. Those that had not succumbed to his wife’s bed.

The chattering and the scrutiny had been too much to bear, however, and he’d gone to ground, disappearing from polite society and finding solace in a darker world. A world of gambling halls and rough men, of women who were openly sluts instead of playing the doting wife in company and then working their way through every man he’d ever been friends with.

His marriage had dissolved into a war of attrition, with silk stockings and heated gazes as her weapon of choice, leaving him isolated, jealous, and sick with remorse for marrying a woman he’d believed he’d loved but not known, not understood.

Though he’d understood well enough in the end, he’d just been too blindly in love to believe it at first. What he’d believed had been love at the time, anyway. Too late, he’d realised his error. Infatuation was not love. From the moment she’d tricked him into marriage—a set-up where her father walked in on them at the crucial moment—he known it had been the title she wanted, not him. She’d even admitted it. Yet he’d forgiven her for that, he’d been so thoroughly besotted he’d still hoped they could make it work, make a life together….

What a goddamn fool.

Well, that was done. Lavinia was dead through her own recklessness, he was free, and this time he’d not take a chance. There would be no emotion clouding his choice, no desire clawing at his skin, or a desperate need to touch so intense that he’d believed he might die of it. There would be no desire at all.

Decision made.

Prunella Chuffington-Smythe was available. She was from a decent if impoverished family, free of scandal, and thoroughly vetted by one of the few people in the world whose opinion mattered to him.

She would be his wife.

That decision reached there was little point in beating about the bush. There was no point in courting the girl when he hadn’t the slightest desire for her to fall in love with him, and he certainly had no intention of falling for her. He hoped they could be amicable; indeed, he hoped they could be friends. That was as much as a man in his position could hope for. His father had told him that once, and he’d failed to listen. Not this time.

Robert got to his feet and called for his carriage. He would propose to Miss Chuffington-Smythe and make her his wife without delay.

***

Prue sighed with relief as the sound of the front door closing resounded through the house. Thank heavens.

Minerva and Aunt Phyllis were off shopping—shopping they could ill afford. There was no way in hell Prue had been about to point that out, though. Not after a morning listening to Minerva prattle on about what it might be like to be Duchess of Bedwin. Prue had always believed she was the one blessed with a vivid imagination, but if the poor girl believed her fantasy, she was deluded.

There was about as much chance of the duke proposing to Minerva as there was of him proposing to—

She stopped as a sharp rap sounded at the door.

Who the devil was that? Prue waited for the sound of Sally’s footsteps hurrying to the door, the low sound of voices, moving in her direction. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, she stood, smoothing out her dress and wishing she’d put on something a little less drab. Why did people always call when you least wanted them to? Prue had hoped to have a lovely quiet afternoon in which to write the next chapter. Some intriguing thoughts had occurred to her about The Damned Duke, and she was eager to put pen to paper and explore them.

Footsteps moved towards the parlour door and Sally walked in, her eyes on stalks. She bobbed a curtsey.

“His grace, the Duke of Bedwin to see you, Miss.”

Prue was so startled she had to reach out and grab the back of the chair she’d been sitting on just a moment earlier. With horror, she realised she’d left her writing on the desk, and her heart pounded, a flush of heat creeping over her skin.