Genevieve learned of the pamphlet while attending a quiet afternoon tea at Lady Jersey’s estate. The whispers were deafening. Women she had begun to call friends turned their backs as she entered the room. Humiliated and heartbroken, Genevieve fled into the pouring rain, walking the two miles back to her aunt’s house, her tears mingling with the London drizzle.

When she arrived, Arthur was waiting in the parlor. He took one look at her soaked, trembling form and crossed the room in two strides, wrapping his large, warm coat around her shoulders. “They printed lies,” Genevieve sobbed, burying her face in his chest. “Arabella has won. My reputation is ash, Arthur.”

“You cannot be seen with me anymore,” she continued. “They will drag your name back into the mud.”

Arthur held her tightly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “My name has resided in the mud for five years, Genevieve. I assure you it is quite comfortable there.”

He pulled back, framing her wet face with his large hands. His thumbs gently brushed away her tears. “I came here today with a purpose, Genevieve, and a penny pamphlet written by cowards will not deter me. But before I ask you what I intend to ask you, you must know the truth. All of it.”

He led her to the velvet settee by the fireplace. For the first time, the imposing Duke of Prescott looked vulnerable. “They call me a fratricide,” Arthur began, his voice rough. “They say I murdered my brother, Edward, in a duel over a woman in Paris.”

Genevieve shook her head vehemently. “I do not believe them. I know the man you are.”

“You need to know the facts,” he insisted gently. “Edward and I were not in Paris. We were in Belgium, stationed near the crossroads of Quatre Bras in 1815. Edward was a captain in the infantry, rash and desperate for glory. During a French cavalry charge, he broke formation and led his men into a slaughter.”

Arthur took a shuddering breath, his hand instinctively rising to the jagged scar on his jaw. “I rode into the melee to pull him out. A French dragoon’s saber caught my face, but I managed to drag Edward into the tree line. He was bleeding heavily from a musket wound to the chest. As he lay dying in my arms, he begged me for one thing.”

Genevieve squeezed his hand, her heart breaking for the pain echoing in his turbulent blue eyes. “What did he ask?”

“He begged me to protect his honor,” Arthur whispered. “He knew that if the generals learned he had broken ranks and caused the deaths of twenty men, his name would be disgraced in military history, and our mother would die of the shame. So I lied.”

“I reported that he fought valiantly, but fell to enemy fire while holding the line,” Arthur continued. “I preserved his reputation because I could not bear to destroy our mother with the truth.”

“Then where did the rumor of the duel come from?” Genevieve asked softly.

“A disgruntled lieutenant in his company,” Arthur replied bitterly. “He knew Edward broke ranks, but he did not know why I was carrying his body. He deserted, returned to London, and sold a sensationalized story to the scandal sheets to pay for his gin.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “He claimed we fought over a Belgian woman and that I struck him down in the chaos of battle. I could not deny the rumor without revealing the truth of Edward’s cowardice. So I accepted the moniker of the beast. I let them hate me so that my mother could lay flowers on the grave of a hero.”

Genevieve stared at him, overwhelmed by the staggering weight of his sacrifice. He had traded his own place in society, his own reputation, to preserve his family’s honor. She reached up and traced the scar on his jaw with trembling fingers. “You are not a beast, Arthur.”

Her voice strengthened. “You are the most honorable man in England.”

Arthur leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a brief, fleeting moment. When he opened them, the storm had cleared, leaving only burning, unwavering devotion. He slipped from the settee and lowered himself gracefully to one knee on the Persian rug. From his pocket, he produced a flawless sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds, a Pendleton family heirloom.

“Genevieve Caulfield,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty, “you sat beside me when the rest of the world ran. You laughed with me when they expected you to cry. I care nothing for the whispers of Mayfair, and I care even less for their pamphlets. I care only for you.”

He held the ring between them. “Will you do me the absolute honor of becoming my wife and the Duchess of Prescott?”

Tears spilled freely down Genevieve’s cheeks, but this time they were tears of unadulterated joy. “Yes,” she breathed, throwing her arms around his neck. “Yes, a thousand times over.”

Their wedding was not a quiet, secretive affair held in a remote country parish to avoid the ton’s scorn. It was held at St. George’s, Hanover Square, directly in the heart of Mayfair. Arthur utilized every ounce of his immense wealth and historical influence. He called upon his military allies, including the Duke of Wellington himself, who stood as one of Arthur’s groomsmen.

The presence of the supreme military commander of the British Empire effectively crushed any remaining whispers about Arthur’s past and obliterated Arabella’s vile pamphlets. Society, ever fickle and eager to align with power, pivoted instantly. Those who had shunned Genevieve weeks prior now clamored desperately for pews in the church. Arabella Fitzroy and Clara Beaumont were not invited.

As Genevieve walked down the aisle in a gown of shimmering ivory silk, her eyes were locked entirely on Arthur. He stood at the altar, tall, powerful, and impeccably handsome in formal regimentals. When he took her hand, his thumb brushed softly over her knuckles, a silent promise of a lifetime of protection and love. The Duke and Duchess of Prescott did not hide in the west wing of their estate.

They threw open the doors of Prescott House, hosting grand salons that championed the arts, sciences, and veterans of the Peninsular War. Genevieve ruled London society not with cruelty or fear, but with grace, intelligence, and an open heart. As for the daring wager that started it all, the silver carafe and the empty chair from table four were eventually moved to the private library of Prescott House. They became a silent, enduring testament to the night a vicious dare brought a fearless country girl to the side of a wounded beast and, in doing so, saved them both.