Page 79 of To Dare a Duke

“It’s so romantic,” Bonnie said with a sigh, drawing Prue’s attention back to see the young woman covering her heart with her hand. “Oh, if only I could have such a love story. I swear, Prue, I could hate you, I’m so green with envy.”

“You’ll be green if you eat any more of those lobster patties,” Matilda remarked with a smirk, nodding towards Bonnie’s overflowing plate.

“They’re my favourite,” Bonnie said. “And you clearly underestimate my capacity for lobster patties.” She stuck her tongue out at Matilda, who laughed and shook her head.

“Well, there’s always Gordon Anderson,” Matilda said casually, knowing full well it would elicit a groan of despair from Bonnie at the reminder of her ward’s threats of marriage to her despised cousin.

“Over my dead body,” she muttered, folding her arms. “The man has knock knees, breath that could kill a highland cow, and,” she added darkly, “an attitude.”

Everyone chuckled and admitted to a longing to see this dreadful creature, who grew ever more revolting every time Bonnie mentioned him.

Prue spoke to everyone, receiving hugs and kisses and exclamations from Ruth and Lucia, Jemima, Kitty, and Harriet in turn.

“I’m so happy for you, Prue,” Alice said, reaching out and taking her hand. “No one ever deserved such a happy ever after as you.”

“Nonsense,” Prue retorted. “All of us do, every single one.”

“Yes,” Matilda agreed, her face serious. “Yes, we do, and we’ll get them, too. Not by sitting about and waiting at the side lines either. We’ll go out and get them. What say you, Alice?”

There was a note of challenge behind the words, and Alice flushed a little but nodded. “I say yes,” she replied.

Chapter 22

Dear Alice,

I can’t believe it’s real. I’m so happy I keep thinking it must be a dream, or perhaps I fell into the pages of one of my own stories. Oh, dearest Alice, I hope with all my heart that we can find a match to bring you the same joy. Tell me, did you ever complete your dare?

―Excerpt of a letter to Miss Alice Dowd from Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin.

***

13th June, Beverwyck. London. 1814

“Are you sure they’re gone?” Robert demanded, hours later. “There’s no one hiding behind a vase or waiting to leap out at us from the curtains?”

“Quite sure,” Prue replied, leaning into her husband, her head on his shoulder. “Does that mean we can go to bed now?”

Robert’s eyes widened with an expression of mock outrage. “But it’s only seven o’clock,” he said, making a show of checking his time piece. “Why ever would you want to retire at this early hour?”

“Stop teasing or I’ll stamp on your toes.”

“You did that already, when we danced in the garden at midnight.”

Prue gasped. “You take that back! I never did. That evening was perfect, the most romantic of my life. I won’t have you spoil it by accusing me of being clumsy enough to tread on your toes, you dreadful man.”

She gave a squeal of protest as he swung her up into his arms with a swish of silken skirts.

“The most romantic night of your life?” he repeated in disdain. “Oh, dear me, no. I must do something about that.”

“Must you?” Prue asked, brightening and putting her arms about his neck.

“Yes,” he said, lowering his mouth to press it against hers. “I must.”

“Oh, well, go on then,” she said, with a dreamy sigh as he released her mouth. “If you must. Though I still deny that I trod on your toes when we danced in the garden.”

“You’re right,” he admitted, turning sideways to manoeuvre them through the door, heading for the stairs. “That was at the Cavendish Ball. You accused me of being a randy stoat and I offered to show you how right you were.”

Prue gave a delighted snort of amusement and buried her face in his cravat. She looked up a moment later. “You never did, though,” she said, trying to sound forlorn.