Page 31 of To Dare a Duke

She turned to find Matilda following her. The beautiful blonde reached out a hand and took hers, giving it a brief squeeze.

“I know what it is to lose your reputation,” she said, her expression grave. “Please, don’t worry about Alice. I will see she comes to no harm. You have my word.”

Prue looked back at her, a little surprised. Matilda and Alice had never been close, Alice too awed by the ravishing young woman to speak with her.

Yet, Matilda Hunt did know what it was to be ruined.

According to Ruth, who was closest to her, she had been ruined through no fault of her own. It had been her brother’s doing, indirectly at least. It changed nothing, though. Whatever the truth, she had caught, alone with the Marquess of Montagu in a men’s gambling club. Inevitably, Matilda Hunt had been dubbed evermore The Huntress, for trying to trap the marquess into marriage. That she swore she had intended no such thing was a poor defence against the tattling voices of the ton. Either way, Montagu had refused to be caught, and Matilda was ruined.

“How will you manage that?” Prue asked, not disbelieving as much as sceptical.

Matilda returned a rather enigmatic smile. “I have my ways,” she said, glancing back at Alice, who was blossoming under the attention of the rest of the group. She looked happy and rather excited. “So, don’t fret. She’ll be safe.”

Prue nodded, believing her. “Thank you,” she said, and bade Matilda goodbye.

Chapter 9

Dear Alice,

Would you like to come to tea with me tomorrow? We so rarely have the time to talk and I should like to get to know you a little better. Do say you’ll come.

―Excerpt from a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Miss Alice Dowding.

***

Dawn. 20th April. Upper Walpole Street. London. 1814

Prue stared up at her bedroom ceiling. London was awakening and even on their quiet street, the bustle of the city was audible.

The words of the dare turned in her head.

Dance in a garden at midnight.

Of course, by the letter of the dare, she had no need of a man. It simply said dance, not who with, or with anyone at all. If she were being clever, she could dance all by herself, and no one would ever be the wiser.

Yet, another idea had taken shape in her mind; one that, once considered, she was having considerable difficulty in putting aside.

The Duke of Bedwin wished to dance with her. He had asked her twice, in fact. He’d sent her fourteen pairs gloves with a funny little note, all tied up in pretty ribbon.

Prue frowned, remembering the odd and rather unpleasant sensation that had assailed her when Bonnie had sighed and mooned over him. It had been a rather possessive emotion, something horribly close to jealousy.

She winced in the dim light of her room. Oh no.

No. No. No.

She was not, repeat not, developing feelings for the Duke of Bedwin. Good heavens. After everything she had promised herself about keeping her independence, about never, ever allowing herself to end up in a situation akin to her mother’s…. There wasn’t a worse choice of husband in the entire country, if that was her goal.

Yet she could not deny Bonnie’s words. The duke was a handsome man, compelling even, and when she spoke to him, she found it hard to equate him to the man his reputation suggested he was.

Just like your bloody father, she told herself. Men are liars. They show the world one face; their nearest and dearest see quite another.

Despite her words and her certainty, her heart was a belligerent creature and she felt the denial of that truth echoing there. He’s not like that, the foolish organ told her.

He’s different.

Prue snorted. If there was one thing she knew was not to be trusted, it was anything resembling romantic feelings. Sentiment could twist good sense around its little finger and lead the most intelligent woman on the road to their own destruction. She’d seen her mother on the twisting road time after time, each time with the same outcome.

No.