Page 60 of To Dare a Duke

His heart crashed in his chest, loud in his ears as she closed her eyes. For a moment, he thought perhaps she wouldn’t answer him.

“Yes,” she said.

She spoke so low, the word barely more than a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it. His heart leapt, and then he saw the bleak, fatalistic look in her eyes.

“But it doesn’t change anything?”

“No.”

Unsurprised, Robert bowed his head for a moment, and then pressed a kiss to her fingers before releasing them. He got up and sat beside her. They sat together in silence for a little while, both trapped in misery only she understood the reason for.

Robert took a deep breath.

“The morning my wife died, I’d found her in bed with one of my friends. It was at a house party, one of many I arranged during the summer… at her insistence. She did love to be entertained.”

“Oh, Robert,” Prue began, but he shook his head and she fell silent.

He needed to tell her this, so she’d know all of it. Even if she never changed her mind, he wanted the truth between them, his truth at least. He prayed one day she would trust him enough to give him hers.

“It wasn’t a huge shock by that point, except that there wasn’t even the slightest pretence at discretion. He was in her bed, in her room, the one adjoining my own. God, I felt like such a bloody fool. I started drinking, though in truth I’m not certain I’d sobered up from the night before. The whole group was going hunting that morning, though.”

He paused, remembering the scene, remembering his fury and despair, and the sickening sense of being trapped. Watching them all laughing and raucous in their hunting pinks, he’d felt like the fox, hunted down and trapped with no escape. Lavinia was smiling and flirting with the man who had been his friend, utterly unrepentant that she’d seduced someone who had been a part of his life since he was a boy.

“I was drunk and furious, and I… I confronted her in front of everyone.”

He let out a breath, staring down at his hands and not entirely surprised to find them trembling.

“I told everyone she was a slut and that they’d best take tickets for her bed, as she’d make her way through them sooner or later. She was angrier than I’d ever seen her and retaliated, of course, telling them… well, what a poor husband I was.” He paused, appalled to find his throat tightening at the memory. “I’m by no means perfect, Prue, I know that, and I’m not proud of the things I said. I know I ought not have done it in such a manner, but I had tried to be a good husband to her. I had, truly.”

He swallowed as she reached out and covered his hand with her own. Robert tucked her fingers into his and held on, wishing he could always hold on to her, wishing that she would let him.

“I told her that….” Pausing, he took a deep breath and tried again. “I told that I hoped she’d break her bloody neck, that I’d be well rid of her.”

Robert heard the soft intake of breath, and knew he couldn’t hide from her reaction.

“She did.”

Prue stared back at him, horror in her eyes. Few people knew the truth of that day. They had hushed it up, but rumours surfaced, whispers and differing versions of events. He looked down at his hands again, at Prue’s slim fingers held in his, seeing nothing but Lavinia’s beautiful face, utterly still.

“I was a long way back on the field. In fact, I was far too inebriated to be anywhere near a horse, let alone out hunting, and I realised it soon enough. I was about to turn back when I saw her, riding hell for leather at a jump no one in their right mind would take, but she lived for the thrill of excitement, for the risk, for the moment of recklessness and the possibility of discovery, or death….”

Robert watched Prue’s slim fingers withdraw from his and closed his eyes, knowing it was inevitable. He put his head in his hands for a moment and then forced himself to face her, to see the disgust in her eyes.

She had gone a startling shade of white, one hand covering her heart. Robert watched the elegant hand tremble as it moved to her throat. To his dismay, it was worse than he’d thought. She looked ill, as though she might faint or vomit and, before he could even begin to think of a way to tell her he was sorry—that he’d never forgive himself for his actions that day—she’d scrambled to her feet.

“I… I must go…. I….” The words were disjointed, her expression one of utter panic. “I need a hackney cab, at once.”

“Prue, please, I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but—”

She cut him off, her voice impatient. “No. You don’t understand. I don’t… it isn’t…. It isn’t you. You’re not the…. It’s me,” she said, her eyes filling with tears as her voice broke. “It’s me!”

He watched as she backed up and then turned and ran.

***

Later that day. 28th April. Premises of My Lady’s Weekly Review. Drury Lane. London. 1814

Prue sat still. It took a remarkable effort of will. The office on Drury Lane belonged to a Mr Richardson, printer and proprietor of The Lady’s Weekly Review. He was due back at any moment, and so she had no option but to bide her time and wait for him.