Page 37 of To Dare a Duke

“Yes.”

He moved her into the position for a waltz, though there was no music and, for a moment, Prue felt ridiculous... until she didn’t. Until she was all at once terribly aware of him, of the heat of him burning through his clothes, of the scent of fresh linen and soap and leather. Many of the men she had danced with tonight had worn more perfume than she did, the scents rather dizzying at close quarters. The duke smelled strangely wholesome in comparison, which was the last thing she’d expected.

What had she expected, she wondered? Should he have smelt of sin and sex? Yes, she thought, a frisson of something she did not wish to put a name to shivering over her.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, drawing her a little closer.

Prue shook her head. She wasn’t the least bit cold, not now, but she moved closer to him all the same.

“Your parents.”

She frowned at his words, looking up at him. “What of them?”

“Your parents were not happily married.”

“No.” Prue looked away from him. “No, they were not.”

He paused then, and she felt the weight of his gaze forcing her to lift her head, to meet his eyes.

“My father was a bully,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to tell him, but believing she perhaps owed him some explanation for her refusal, for her words of rejection. “A manipulative bully.”

“He….” She watched as he reconsidered his words, perhaps wondered if he should voice them at all. “He hurt your mother?”

Prue nodded, her throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, such regret in those simple words that she felt the sting of tears. Such emotions froze however, as he lifted one hand to her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “If that is what holds you back… I would never hurt you. I would never, ever, lift a finger to you. I give you my word.”

Prue blinked, her throat working as she tried to steady herself. “That’s what my father said, after every single time he hurt her. He would cry and beg for forgiveness, tell her how much he loved her, that he would never, ever hurt her again, he’d rather die. They’d be happy for a while—a few weeks, a month—and then he’d do it again.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“Men lie,” she said, with rather more venom than she’d intended.

“Not all men,” he countered, and there was something soft in his expression, something that, in that moment, she longed to believe in, to take at face value… but she didn’t dare.

The dance moved them in slow sweeps around the garden, the movement hypnotic, their only music the soft splash of the fountain, the rustle of her skirts, her heart beating far too fast.

“Of all the men I might risk giving myself to,” she said, needing him to agree with her, at least to understand her. “Do you think one with your reputation for cruelty is my best choice?” There was no condemnation in the question, no intention to wound, only a simple query of truth.

He stared down at her, his expression shuttered and his reaction impossible to gauge. “And if I swore to you that every word was a lie, that I have never raised a hand to a woman, that I never would, it would mean nothing to you?”

“How could it?” she said, wondering why she wanted it to mean something, why she could hear the truth so clearly in his words and yet could never trust them. “I don’t know you.”

“Perhaps you should get to know me better, then?” he suggested, and her breath caught as he moved closer, lowering his head towards hers. “Give me a chance, at least.”

“And find myself falling for a bad man?” she retorted, though it didn’t sound at all like a retort, it sounded frightened and unsure and breathless.

“Could you fall for a bad man?” he asked, something urgent in the question.

“I—” She stopped, arrested by the look in his eyes. “Are you going to kiss me?” she exclaimed, too surprised by the desire she was seeing not to say it aloud… too loudly, in fact.

The flicker of a smile glinted in his eyes. “I was considering the idea, yes,” he admitted. “If you will allow it,” he added, the words husky. “I would like to.”

Prue swallowed, alarmed and excited, and knowing this was the worst idea she’d ever had—daring him to dance with her in a garden at midnight aside. Yet she wanted to him to kiss her, more than anything. Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she could do nothing but lick her lips as longing flooding her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He closed the distance between them, and she hardly dared breathe, couldn’t breathe as his lips brushed hers. It was the barest of touches, like the faintest press of silk against her skin. Goodness, his lips were soft. She’d not expected that.