Page 23 of To Dare a Duke

When he finally spoke, she was so intent in her study of him that she jumped in surprise.

“Don’t you believe in love?” he asked. Something in the question made her believe he was genuinely curious.

Though taken aback, Prue did not need to consider the question. She let out a breath and shook her head. “No. Love is for literature. They are fairy tales for grown-ups, stories we long to believe, but which never come true.”

Emotion flashed in his eyes, a glimpse of something she couldn’t read.

To her surprise he sat down, as though all the energy had left him. She watched, startled and unsure as he rubbed a weary hand over his face and let out a breath of sound that was not quite laughter.

“God,” he muttered, giving the impression he was speaking to himself. “How I wish that were true.”

Her heart lurched at the truth in the words, as though in that moment the role she’d cast him in fell away, exposing the actor beneath. He was hurt, she thought. Hurt and vulnerable.

A moment later and she hardly believed she’d seen it at all, for he stood again, embracing the role: a duke in full panoply, haughty and disdainful, an implacable expression on his face.

“This is ridiculous,” he said curtly. “I need a wife. A wife who will embrace her own independent life, but do so discreetly and cause me no scandal. I have enough of those for one lifetime already,” he added with a dark expression. “Charles believed that you were that woman, and after meeting and spending some time with you, I concur. You have my assurance I will never interfere in your life. You may be as independent as you desire, but with the safety of my name and wealth to ensure it.” He clasped his hands behind his back, like a man who knew with absolute certainty he was right. “It is a situation that can only benefit us both, and it would be foolish of you to refuse without at least considering the idea.”

Prue’s mouth fell open in astonishment. What did she have to do to make the man understand?

“Then, your grace, you may call me a fool,” she retorted.

He stared at her and shook his head.

“I believe you are acting on emotion, and not with the benefit of reason, so I will not discuss this any further with you today,” he said. “My offer stands, despite your refusal. Please, may I request you think on it? You could have all the independence you desire, and so much more. I think an offer of such magnitude is worth some consideration, at least.”

She threw up her hands. The man was mad, there was no other explanation.

“You may give me a few days, a few months, or a year. My answer will not change.”

He gave her a considering look and then shrugged. “That is your right,” he allowed. “But may I request we revisit this discussion once more, nonetheless?”

“Fine!” she said, shaking her head. “If it pleases you to be refused again, by all means.”

He nodded and then gave a stiff, formal bow. “Good day to you, Miss Chuffington-Smythe.”

Chapter 7

Another ball! Another opportunity for father to demand why I haven’t married a duke or an earl. Oh, how sick of it I am already, and we’ve barely begun. If only something exciting would happen.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Ruth Stone to Miss Prunella Chuffington-Smythe.

***

18th April. Lord and Lady Hartington’s ball. London. 1814

At the Hartington’s ball, later that same day, Prue was still in a state of nervous agitation. The scene with Bedwin had been so extraordinary she’d not been able to keep from replaying it over and again. She’d been so agitated she’d been unable to find a single pair of gloves—where did the ridiculous things go to? Did they migrate during the season? She’d been thoroughly scolded by Aunt Phyllis because of it.

What had the man been thinking? Proposing to her, of all people!

It was outrageous.

Then she wondered why she believed it so outrageous. After all, she was perfectly marriageable. Not as beautiful as Minerva, but she was passably pretty, intelligent, in good health, and from a decent family. There was no impediment to them marrying, she supposed.

It might as well be her as anyone, and if he’d been looking for someone who was not a social climber and would avoid societal events like the plague, well, she was a sound choice.

She scowled, irritated. That his uncle, Baron Fitzwalter, had supported the match was another reason he’d thought it a good idea, no doubt. Likely the duke had expected her to swoon with joy at her good fortune. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

He’d been abominably rude and had proven himself a man who would not take no for an answer. That, if nothing else, would have sealed his fate, in her opinion.