Page 39 of To Dare a Duke

I don’t know what has happened to plunge you into confusion, but I know this; life is uncertain, and we must take our opportunities where we can, how we can. If you find something true, even if it is not where you expected to find it, for heaven’s sake grab hold of it and don’t let go. Change your plans! Who cares if it rips at the seams of propriety, of what is expected of us? Who cares if it is not what you thought you wanted? What use are plans if they do not adapt when things change around you? Love and happiness are too precious to risk losing. You may not get another chance at it and a lifetime is too long to spend regretting.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Miss Prunella Chuffington-Smythe.

***

Long after midnight the same night. 21st April. A garden. At a ball given by Jasper Cadogan, the Earl of St Clair.

Robert watched Prue hurry away from him, unsure of what it was he was feeling. That determined little no had hit him harder than he cared to admit. At least he understood her reasoning now. She wasn’t just afraid of him, she was afraid of any man ever having control over her, over her life. If he wanted them to marry, he would need to prove himself trustworthy.

He sighed as he realised; he wanted them to marry, though his reasoning was not as clear cut as he’d imagined. That kiss had shaken him.

The one thing he’d not needed, hadn’t wanted in his next marriage was anything resembling love or lust. For practical reasons, he had no intention of marrying a woman he neither liked nor could find anything attractive about. He needed an heir for heaven’s sake, and a woman to raise his children, but Lavinia had taught him the dangers of being blinded by desire.

Not that it was anything like that with Prunella—Prue, he corrected—but that kiss had still rattled him. The passion of it had taken him by surprise. Her passion had surprised him. Tonight’s odd behaviour—odder behaviour—aside, Prue had been ensconced firmly among the wallflowers since her come out, according to his uncle. He had expected a chaste little peck on the lips followed by furious blushing.

What he’d gotten had stolen his breath and made him want to tumble her into a dark corner and stay there until they were both coming apart at the seams.

Robert drew in an uneven breath. Miss Chuffington-Smythe was full of surprises, and he wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. What, for example, had she wanted something of his for? At first the idea had charmed him, and he’d wanted to please her, to make it a romantic gesture by giving her his ring. It had seemed appropriate as he intended to propose again soon, yet her reaction hadn’t been as he’d hoped. Then that hard little “no” in answer to his question had baffled and hurt him. It seemed a little peculiar, that demand to remember the evening when she refused to consider him as a suitor.

As if she was playing games.

His jaw tightened, anxiety tensing his muscles. Robert didn’t like games. He’d lost too many to Lavinia. He’d wanted Prue to be straightforward, for their courtship to be simple and no nonsense, and short. Now he felt he was part of something he didn’t understand, and he didn’t like it one bit. Though he had liked her kiss… he’d liked that a good deal.

Frowning over the strange events of the evening, he returned to the house, making his way back to the dining room and determining to question his uncle once more. He knew Prue better than Robert could pretend to; perhaps he could shed light on her behaviour. Until they met again, it was all he could do.

***

The morning of the 21st April. Beverwyck. London. 1814

Robert greeted his uncle as he sat down to a late breakfast, and Charles smiled at him.

“Good morning, did the St Clair ball entertain?” Charles asked, accepting a cup of coffee from a footman.

Robert frowned, looking down at his plate. “It was certainly a lively affair,” he said, wondering how to broach the subject of Prue’s behaviour with him. The old man had implied that he was exceedingly fond of the young woman and regarded her in the light of a favourite grandchild. How he would react to the events of last night, Robert was not at all sure, but he needed advice. “Miss Chuffington-Smythe was there,” he said, avoiding his uncle’s eye.

“Ah, and which way does the wind blow in that quarter?” Charles asked, smiling a little as he helped himself to a serving of kedgeree.

“From Arctic to Saharan and back again,” Robert replied, deciding that honesty was his only choice if he wanted to hear anything helpful.

“Arctic doesn’t entirely surprise me,” Charles said, looking up with a curious glint in his eye. “Your reputation precedes you, my boy. Saharan, though?”

For a moment Robert hesitated, unwilling to damage Prue’s reputation before one who cared for her.

“Spit it out,” Charles said, shaking his head. “I do not believe Miss Chuffington-Smythe to be either a paragon or a temptress, and I do remember what it was to be young.” This last was said with just a touch of severity and Robert gathered his courage.

“You remember everything we discussed,” he began, sitting back to meet his uncle’s eye, “about the kind of wife I wanted this time?”

“Of course,” Charles agreed, nodding.

“Miss Chuffington-Smythe dared me to meet her at midnight, in the gardens, and dance with her.”

“Did she now?” His uncle’s eyebrows lifted a little, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “And?”

Robert cleared his throat. “And… I met her. We danced. We also talked and I discovered the reasoning behind her reluctance to marry.”

He watched as Charles’ face darkened. “Her father,” he said, with obvious disgust. “Now there was a bastard. Married above his station and never forgave his poor wife for being better than him. And no,” he added, his voice harsher still, “I’m not a snob and neither was she. He was. A nasty piece of work if ever there was one. Handy with his fists, too, from what I heard.”

“Prue said as much.” Robert felt his guts clench. Of all the things the ton had accused him of, that one had hurt him the most, somehow more than murdering his wife. Murdering a flighty and spiteful creature like Lavinia in a fit of passion was an idea he could find some sympathy with after what she’d put him through. Beating his wife without provocation and on a regular basis, though….