Page 9 of To Dare a Duke

Robert threw up his hands. “Well, she’ll be my duchess, for heaven’s sake. I’ve just said she can live independently from me. Indeed, it would be a non-negotiable part of the deal.”

Charles nodded, his expression serious, though there was something in his eyes that Robert couldn’t read. “Quite so. In which case, you ought to make an irresistible argument for your future, er… companionship.”

“Hmm,” Robert said, wishing he could put his finger on whatever it was he was missing.

“Good,” Charles said, grinning at him.

“Good,” he agreed, hoping that was. Still, his uncle couldn’t make a bigger mess of it than he had himself first time around. He must have faith. “So, we’ll call on her tomorrow?”

To his frustration, Charles shook his head. “They left this morning for London.”

Robert groaned. He’d been hoping to have everything nicely tied up so he could avoid the social scene altogether.

“Now, now, Robert. It’s time you showed your face in society again. Got to stare down the gossips and show them they’re all barking up the wrong tree, eh?”

He repressed the urge to snort. They may have been barking up the wrong tree once upon a time, but he’d long since decided he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and live up to his black reputation. His uncle regarded his less than enthusiastic response with a sardonic expression.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Robert. If you want my help in this matter, then you’ll listen to my advice. Otherwise I shall wash my hands of the entire affair. It’s time you returned to society and stopped behaving like the black sheep. You’re Bedwin, for heaven’s sake. That ought to mean something.”

Robert blew out a breath, glowering a little but knowing he had little choice unless he wanted to spend the next weeks searching a prospective bride. The idea filled him with horror.

“Very well. I’ll send word to have the house made ready.”

Charles rubbed his hands together, looking well pleased with himself. “Excellent, excellent. I take it Helena will be making her come out later this year?”

Robert nodded. “Indeed. She’ll be out of mourning the week after next, so she’ll be in town later this month, though Aunt Agatha is taking her in hand. I’m not exactly a suitable escort. In fact, I had hoped to keep a low profile to distance my reputation from hers.”

His uncle gave a snort, indicating that a distance rather larger than was possible across England, Scotland, and Wales would be required for such an endeavour. As depressing as it was to acknowledge, Robert could hardly refute it.

Charles got to his feet and bustled back to him, bearing the decanter to top up their glasses. “A little toast then, eh, Robert? To getting you and your sister both successfully leg shackled.”

Robert glowered at his glass, trying to find some enthusiasm for the idea.

“As you say, Uncle,” he said, forcing his lips to curve upwards instead of into a grimace. “As you say.”

***

12th April. London 1814. The Earl and Countess March’s Ball.

Prue shifted in her chair, trying to find a more accommodating position on the hard wood. As this row of seating in an unobtrusive corner of the ballroom was given over to the wallflowers, she thought the organiser might have given them something a little more comfortable. After all, they were likely to sit unmoving for the better part of the evening, which was torture enough; there was no need to rub it in.

“You can’t see him, can you?”

Prue craned her neck, scanning the crowd for a certain buck-toothed, stuttering son of an earl. “No,” she said, turning back to smile at Alice. “I think you’re safe for the moment.”

Alice sighed, but didn’t look much happier. Bonnie Campbell, sitting on Prue’s left, leaned forward and grinned at Alice.

“Do point him out,” she said to Alice, her eyes alight with amusement. “We can see if he’s more repulsive than my cousin Gordon.”

Both girls turned to stare at Bonnie. She was a ward of the Earl of Morven, a bad-tempered Scot who wanted rid of his youngest dependent as soon as possible. He had threatened to marry her to her cousin Gordon Anderson if she didn’t make a match. Each year, Bonnie’s descriptions of Gordon became ever more unflattering.

“Is he so awful?” Alice asked, wrinkling her nose.

Bonnie nodded, her expression growing dark. “Worse,” she muttered, kicking the leg of her chair. “And bloody Morven has told me this is my last chance. Either I make a match this year, or I’m to marry Gordon bloody Anderson and my life will be over.”

Prue and Alice stared at her, both impressed and slightly appalled by the ease with which she cursed.

“Well, you never know, you might make a match this year. The season is only just begun.”