Page 25 of To Dare a Duke

Good heavens.

Kitty grinned, triumphant.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “This will be marvellous. So, this is what we shall do. All of us will write out a dare… no, two dares, so that there are plenty of options. Then we’ll put all of the dares in a hat and pull them one by one until we’ve all taken a turn.”

Prue sucked in a breath, rather alarmed. “But people might put in something extraordinary, you can’t just dare a person to dance with Prinny or to swim the Thames, there must be rules.”

Jemima Fernside looked down at her dress, which was several seasons out of fashion, and sighed. “I’d get nowhere near Prinny, and I can’t swim.”

Ruth nodded, laying a hand on Kitty’s arm. “She’s right,” she said, her voice serious. “We must have nothing which is too outlandish or unachievable, and nothing which would put anyone in physical danger.”

Kitty scowled a little but acknowledged the sense in this. “I suppose that’s fair, but there’s no point in having a dare if there is no risk to it. If the dare is only to have tea with your Aunt Margaret, then it’s pointless.”

“I don’t know,” Matilda said, her tone dry. “I have an Aunt Margaret. She’s perfectly terrifying.”

A nervous chuckle ran over the group, but Prue could feel the excitement behind it, the hope. The girls wanted this, she realised; they wanted to change their lives, even if it frightened them. That, she could well understand. Perhaps she could help them, encourage them by setting an example of what women could do if they dared.

“Very well,” she said, grinning at Kitty. “Where and when?”

Ruth spoke again. “Why not have another meeting of the Peculiar Ladies. We can have the book club tomorrow as usual, and then this can come under any other business.”

“Acceptable?” Kitty asked, turning back to Prue.

“Acceptable,” Prue agreed, wondering if she’d lost her mind in the moments after being proposed to by a duke. The blasted man had a lot to answer for.

***

Robert skulked at the edge of the ballroom, feeling like the spectre at the feast. With frustration, he remembered a time when he’d been welcomed and fawned over, everyone vying for his attention. Now, even though his lofty title held considerable allure, he was too dark, too damaged a figure to be approached without caution.

Young ladies whispered about him behind their fans and conversations stopped abruptly when he drew near. There were one or two friends who had greeted him with smiles and good humour, but he seemed to have lost the knack for polite conversation and found himself forced to walk away within moments of greeting them, before things got too awkward and they regretted their association with him.

What the devil was he doing here?

With frustration, the answer to that question presented itself as his gaze drifted to the wallflowers and the outrageous Miss Chuffington-Smythe. He was still smarting from her defiant refusal of his offer. It had occurred to him he might meet with resistance, but only on account of the rumours about him. As the young lady in question had shown no fear of him and had already told him she refuted the worst gossip she’d heard, he’d hoped that would not be too much of a problem to overcome.

Robert had believed that a few outings together would show her he was not the cold-hearted villain he was purported to be, and could be trusted to behave himself both in and out of her company. He’d done little to aid himself in that cause by acting like an arrogant arse. Her refusal had been so curt, though, so lacking in a moment’s consideration or awareness of the honour he was doing her in offering the title of duchess to a lady considered unmarriageable by many. It had annoyed him, to the point he’d become rude and unfeeling, and he knew he’d have to work to turn that about.

The obvious option was to forget her and try to find a bride of his own. He had toyed with the idea, looking over the season’s crop of eligible females. With little enthusiasm he had sought a few invitations of introduction. He’d encountered eyes wide with terror, blushing and stammering and—even more unappealing—covetous glances that suggested they’d marry him whether the rumours had foundation or not.

The truth of the matter was he had neither the patience nor the inclination to make the effort. Miss Chuffington-Smythe met all his criteria and had the benefit of her character being well known by his uncle for the past five years. She was the one. All he had to do was persuade her of that fact.

As he returned his attention to the lady in question, he saw her get to her feet and move towards the refreshments room. It was likely his only chance to get her alone this evening, so he followed her.

He found her in the crush about the refreshments table, trying without success to move forwards.

“Miss Chuffington-Smythe,” he said, gaining himself a start of surprise, as he’d spoken from behind her. She turned, looking up at him and flushing. “You would like a glass of lemonade,” he guessed.

She nodded and he moved towards the table, the crowds parting for him with murmurs of unease, a predator scattering the herd. He returned a moment later, glass in hand.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the proffered glass. “It was like watching Moses before the Red Sea. What had been an impenetrable ocean for me, reduced to a puddle at your feet.”

He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or speaking with admiration, her tone was too even to tell.

“There are some benefits to having a murderous reputation,” he said with a wry smile.

Robert thought perhaps her lips twitched a little at that, but she said nothing.

“Perhaps, when you have finished your drink, you will do me the honour of dancing with me?”