Page 27 of To Dare a Duke

She raised her eyebrows at him, gaze sceptical.

“It’s no more unlikely than your tale,” he said, a trifle defensively.

A smile curved over her mouth. It was a generous mouth, with a full lower lip. Somewhat surprising when the rest of her was so slender, and her face was, in all other aspects, quite severe with those high, angled cheekbones. Her mouth hinted at a softness which nothing else about her suggested. Her eyes were tip-tilted, rather feline and extremely alert. They were a light hazel, flecked with gold and green and, he suspected missed little. They were watching him now, a considering look in them which gave him pause.

“Are you a romantic, your grace?” She said it as if it was an accusation.

To his horror he felt the colour rise on his cheeks. “Certainly not,” he said in his best aristocratic tone, which was enough to quell most of the ton with ease in his experience. All he got from Miss Chuffington-Smythe was an enigmatic smile.

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, irritated.

“What?” she asked, blinking up at him innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No,” he said, frowning down at her. “You smiled at me.”

“I smiled at you?” she repeated, smiling wider and sounding amused.

“Yes,” he said, wondering why he sounded like a fool. “It was most unnerving.”

She at once schooled her face into something graver. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, with great sincerity. “I will try not to frighten you so again.”

Robert snorted and let out a huff of laughter. “You are peculiar,” he said.

She grinned at that and he felt rather pleased for no reason he could think of.

“Is that a compliment, or an insult?” she asked. “Not that I’m disagreeing in the slightest you understand.”

He stared at her, realising he didn’t know the answer to that question himself. Before he could think about it too much, he held out his hand to her again.

“Please, will you dance with me?” The words were soft, the question inviting, something in his voice he didn’t entirely like. It sounded… needy.

Her amused expression faded at once and she looked from him to his hand and back again.

One, tiny shake of her head gave him his answer. “Forgive me,” she said, and hurried away before he could speak again.

Chapter 8

Alice, are you quite certain you wish to be involved in this mad venture? I don’t think you should come to the next meeting, just in case. Heaven alone knows what kind of scrape we shall end up in. I fear Kitty has a vivid imagination. It matters little to me as I have no intention of ever marrying, but for you dearest? Please, have a care.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Prunella Chuffington-Smythe to Miss Alice Dowding.

***

19th April. Upper Walpole Street. London. 1814

“Miss?”

Prue looked up as her bedroom door opened a crack and Sally poked her head in.

“Miss, there’s a parcel for you.”

The maid hurried into the room and closed the door behind her.

“For me?” Prue repeated, frowning. “Who on earth would be sending me parcels?”

“I don’t know, Miss,” Sally said, shaking her head. “That’s why I hid it from the others. I thought it… well, maybe it were personal, like?”

Prue felt a flush of heat creep up her neck for no good reason. All at once, she knew who the gift was from. She stared down at the thin, elegant box, tied with a lovely green ribbon, and her heart pounded. With a little tug the ribbon came undone and she lifted the lid. Inside were fourteen beautiful pairs of gloves, each pair a different colour. Seven pairs of long satin evening gloves and seven pairs of short kid gloves for the day. There was a card, the Duke of Bedwin’s crest emblazoned on one side. Prue swallowed and turned the card over.