Page 9 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
“Certainly not, Sir!”
“This is why you were out tonight.”
He narrowed his eyes in calculation, and Dahlia barely stopped herself from wincing.
“That area of London has numerous printing presses. That is why you have no chaperone with you, only a trusted coachman. Is there even a real dinner party that you are headed to?” His frown darkened.
She was surprised at how quickly he analyzed the situation. This was not good!
“Do you have any idea the hell I have been through because of this—this novel?”
“How can it give you trouble when it hasn’t even been published?” Dahlia stuck her chin out.
“So, you admit you were heading out to have it published?”
“I have said no such thing, Sir! I was merely being logical.”
“If this is not yours, then what is it doing in your carriage?”
“Numerous people use this carriage, not just myself.”
“So, it is the Marquess of Bolton who wrote this?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“The Marchioness then.”
Dahlia almost laughed at the image of her mother sneakily writing novels about dukes and debutantes. “That is even less likely, Your Grace.”
“I am afraid that only leaves you, Lady Dahlia.”
“You are the most ridiculous man!”
“I have been called many things, My Lady, but ridiculous has never been one of them.” Dahlia saw him take a deep breath. “ThisDuke of Snowdonis very obviously me?—”
“Then you must be flattered, for indeed he was described as handsome and tall!”
“He is also described as a ruthless man with scruples that change to suit his needs and likings.”
“Well, if the shoe fits…”
“Dahlia.” He planted his hands on either side of her and leaned forward, effectively trapping her to her seat. “This character, these books have been the bane of my existence! I have endured acquaintances congratulating me on conquests and ladies asking me for details of adventures! It has been a thorn in my side. You have no idea what your writing has done to my peace of mind!”
Dahlia, who was stuck immobile to the seat, was never so glad to feel the carriage stop moving at that moment. She looked out to see the familiar site of her friend’s townhouse.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, we have reached my friend’s house.”
“Oh, no, My Lady. You shall not evade this. Are you Penelope Lovelace?”
Dahlia pushed at him with all her might; he gave enough to allow her to move out of the carriage. But she was wrong if she thought that escape was hers, for Peter followed her out onto the street, manuscript still held in his grip.
“Give that to me please.”
“You are Penelope Lovelace. Do not deny it, the proof is irrefutable!”
“I know not of what you speak, Your Grace.”
“Do not compound your lies with more lies, My Lady. I demand you to stop this nonsense! You must stop writing about me. No proper lady would endeavor such pursuits!”
