Page 61 of To Dare a Duke

She closed her eyes and pressed one hand to her stomach, praying she wouldn’t have to face the ignominy of casting up her accounts before seeing a man she needed to beg a favour of. Though she had already written to him days earlier, asking for him to withdraw the remaining chapter of her story, he had replied, denying her. He had paid for the story in good faith, and he intended to publish it, but he didn’t know how close she’d come to the truth of what had happened to the real duke’s wife… how close and yet how very, very far from the truth.

This chapter all but accused him of hunting down his wife and killing her, if not by his own hand, then by her terror at needing to escape him. Terror that had forced her to risk taking a jump she knew she’d likely not make.

Prue’s stomach roiled. What had she done? What had she done?

Robert would be vilified all over again for something that had not been his fault. The guilt in his eyes over the part he had played that day had been so fierce, so heavy. The thought of adding to that burden, of making the ton stare in his direction and accuse him all over again made her want to curl up and die. Her stomach roiled, the sound audible as she took a deep breath, trying to steady her careening heart.

Coming here had been a risk. The printer only knew her as Miss Terry, and that was the way she liked it. If he had any sense, he’d guard her anonymity, but it would give him power over her if he was in any way unscrupulous. Not that it mattered now. She was ruined enough, and it was her that had done the ruining. Not by asking Robert to dance in full view of the ton, either, but by making such a mess of her own life, and damaging his so deeply, so callously, that there would be no going forward together.

How strange to realise that she would have done it—would have risked all her plans—now, when there was no possible way of taking the risk. Robert was a good man. Not a perfect one, by any means. He had made mistakes and he would have to live with them, but he had learned from them. He had a good heart and she felt she could have trusted him with hers, with her body and soul. She doubted such a man would ever come her way again. She certainly didn’t deserve it.

“Well, the mysterious Miss Terry,” came a dry and amused tone.

Prue leapt to her feet and regarded a stocky, balding man with piercing blue eyes and a craggy face.

“Good afternoon, Mr Richardson. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“Not at all,” the fellow said, looking her over with interest as he opened the door to his office and gestured for her to enter. “You’ve done remarkable things for my magazine, young lady, and I had been intending to ask for a meeting with you. You’ve just brought it forward a little is all.”

He gestured for her to sit and Prue did so as he moved behind an ancient and heavily scarred desk, covered with papers and newspaper clippings. She leaned forward, her heart thudding hard.

“Please, Mr Richardson, I must ask you not to print the final chapter you have. The Duke of Bedwin is being badly maligned and….”

There was a dark chuckle and the fellow shook his head. He spoke before she could finish.

“Ah, but it’s the Duke of Bedsin who’s the villain of the piece.”

Prue looked at him with impatience. “We both know that is a flimsy disguise, and that everyone believes the duke is the inspiration for the character.”

“And so he is,” Richardson said, smiling a little as he sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over the generous curve of his belly.

“Quite so,” Prue admitted. After all, there was no point in trying to deny the obvious. “However, I have come to realise the real duke is nothing like the man I have portrayed. He played no part in his wife’s death and has suffered the gossip and ill-natured prattling of the world as they painted him in the blackest of colours. That I have had a hand in this makes me burn with shame, and so I am begging you… please, sir, withdraw the chapter. I promise you will have another to replace it by next week. A new story, something—”

“No.”

Her breath caught, tears prickling in her eyes.

“Please, Mr Richardson,” she begged, appalled to hear her voice tremble and break, but she would get on her knees if she had to. Anything to stop that chapter being seen by the world… by Robert.

“Miss Terry,” the man said, leaning forward towards her now, his voice gentle. “I could not, even if I wanted to. The magazine was printed days ago; it will be on sale tomorrow, and so has long been sent out to the various distributors. I’m very sorry, but what you ask is impossible.”

Prue sat back, misery overwhelming her. Well, that was that, then.

Mr Richardson continued to speak, a fatherly tone to his voice now, with a hint of condescension that she was too defeated to take issue with.

“The duke is a grown man, a powerful one at that, and he’s had a long time to get used to such notoriety. In fact, he’s always done his best to live down to his reputation as far as I can see. Don’t worry your pretty head so. There’s no reason for him to know that it was you who wrote the piece; I’m certainly not about to give you away. Killing the golden goose is hardly in my interests. Which brings me to what I was hoping to discuss with you. I think we need to discuss a publishing deal, don’t you?”

Prue got up, hardly hearing his words and certainly not caring. Nothing mattered past the terrible thing she’d done. Somehow, she had to make it right.

“I have to go,” she said, with the disjointed sense of walking through a nightmare. The world seemed at once darker and filled with shadows, and she would have to grow used to them, to walk within them. That was where she belonged.

“But miss, we are talking about a good deal of money here. You’ll be made—”

“Thank you, Mr Richardson,” she said dully. “If you’ll excuse me.”

***

Later still that afternoon. 28th April. Upper Walpole Street. London. 1814