Page 53 of To Dare a Duke

There was no other way, she assured herself. This was what she must do. She’d be free of the duke, and he’d be free of her. She’d retract her story, even issue an apology. The editor would be furious, but she’d make things right with The Lady’s Weekly Review. She’d offer them another story, a better one, one with more honesty, more thought.

There was no point in lamenting that she’d made a mistake; she had to stop feeling sorry for herself. It had come as a shock to discover she was the real villain of the piece but, just as her villain had been maligned, she was not a bad person. She would make things right, but first… first, she needed to cut herself free of Robert, before he tempted her into lying to him, accepting everything he offered and pretending she deserved it.

He’d had such a wife once before. She’d not be guilty of tricking him into a second.

***

The evening of the 25th April. The Cavendish Ball. Mayfair. London. 1814.

Prue stared about the vast ballroom of Cavendish House, filled to bursting with the great and the good. She snorted at that. How many of those she’d believed wicked characters were merely misunderstood, or at least more complicated than she’d realised? How many of the sweet-faced debutantes were hiding vile secrets? Good lord, she was losing her mind.

She sighed and pressed her fingers against her temples, massaging the tender flesh as a headache raged. Ironically, she thought she really might be on the verge of a megrim for the first time in her life.

Prue looked up as the Marquess of Montagu entered the ballroom. Ah, she thought with a sigh, as the world righted itself, there’s a proper bastard, and she was not referring to his impeccable lineage. The marquess was a cold man, haughty, powerful, and ruthless, and he was the reason Matilda Hunt was so thoroughly ruined. He’d accused her of trying to trap him into marriage—wrongly—and had thrown her to the wolves. Matilda would never find a match now. The only offers The Huntress got were not the sort ever voiced to a respectable female.

Now that was cruelty of the highest order, to ruin a woman who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Robert would never do such a thing. He’d not allowed himself to take her innocence—which she’d been quite prepared to hand over without a murmur—unless she agreed to marry him first.

Aware of a sudden thrill of interest in the room, Prue looked up, feeling her heart give an unsteady jolt in her chest as she saw him.

God, he was magnificent.

He was tall and dark, that thick, curling hair of his just a little too long. One untameable lock fell across his forehead as he moved. Broad, powerful shoulders filled a perfectly tailored coat and he radiated masculine vigour and potency. Was it any wonder the women still swooned over him, despite his reputation… or perhaps because of it? His eyebrows were heavy and added to the wicked, almost devilish appearance, the sharp green eyes beneath assuring anyone who dared meet them that he’d make good on his promises.

She smiled a little, saddened as she realised he wore that persona like a cloak, keeping everyone at bay. The aggressive expression, the contemptuous sneer that made women duck behind their fans and whisper in hushed voices… it was all a façade.

Better to be believed a villain than to be pitied.

“Perhaps it was I who was tempted in, did you ever consider that? Perhaps I await rescue?”

Her throat tightened as the desire to cross the room and go to him pushed at her heart. She wanted to take hold of his hand, to tell him he had a friend, someone who believed in him… but she couldn’t. The only thing she could do was get herself free of him, and make him believe her every bit as scandalous as his wife had been, so he would stay away. She felt sick as she saw him greet the Earl of St Clair, the two men falling into conversation.

Get it over with, she told herself, watching the dancers skipping up and down the ballroom in a longways country dance. Just do it and you’ll both be free, then you can move on.

Far from encouraging her, the thought only made her want to cry, and she pressed her damp palms against her dress, surreptitiously wiping them dry. Prue took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. It only made her dizzy and unsettled, her head pounding ever harder as the headache took hold.

She forced her feet to move, forced herself forwards, keeping her gaze locked on Robert as she moved around the dance floor and headed towards him. She was perhaps ten feet away when he saw her, and the change to his expression in that instant made her stop.

There she stood, in full view of everyone, staring at him like a fool. Yet, he looked nothing like a rogue, or a Damned Duke, or anything close to villainous in that moment. As he set eyes upon her she saw that carefree, boyish smile she’d only glimpsed once before, and her heart had leapt for joy. Prue knew then, knew that she was lost, knew that it didn’t matter what happened next. He’d found his way into her heart. The realisation sank into her, but brought her no happiness, no warm feelings.

She couldn’t have him, no matter what her heart was telling her, and she would always regret not being able to take that risk with him. Love was always a risk, she realised then; there was never any guarantee. You could only follow your instincts, and your heart.

Except… she couldn’t. Not now.

Numb with anxiety, she closed the distance between them and curtseyed.

“Your grace,” she said, hearing the tremor beneath the words, though she was determined to force them out. “May I request the honour of the next dance?”

Prue held out her hand in the imperious manner often used by men who were too certain of their lady’s answer.

Robert gaped at her, his eyebrows hitting his hairline as the Earl of St Clair gave a startled bark of laughter. All around them, gasps of shock rippled around the room as the first strains of a waltz filled the air.

Prue watched his face, sick with apprehension as she awaited his reaction but forcing herself to remain in place. She’d done it. She had burned her boats. Now she must face the consequences. Slowly, and to her chagrin, a smile curved over his mouth.

“Another dare, Miss Chuffington-Smythe?” he said, smooth as silk, one eyebrow quirking. “I accept.”

He took her hand, leading her onto the floor as Prue’s head spun. Er… now what? She’d expected him to be furious, to take her to task, maybe even to cut her. This hadn’t been in the plan. Drat the man, why was he always overturning her plots and rewriting things?