The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) by Sophie Jordan

Emily’s eyes widened at his approach. In a less than discreet move, the girl spun around and dove awkwardly down the corridor for the ladies’ retiring room, reminding Imogen of a hen fleeing the fox.

Imogen lifted her cup to her lips to hide her smile.

Apparently Mercy did not miss the little interaction either. She tsked. “Well. Your words have certainly done the trick.”

Imogen shoved the guilt away that threatened to beset her. She would not let such emotion torment her. She knew the manner of man Mr. Butler was, and she knew the hope that brimmed in these young girls’ hearts. She would not permit him to crush any of them.

He was only looking to find an heiress and use her for his gain. He needed an heiress for what she could bring to him, for his own salvation—not for who she was. Not for reasons of affection or respect. And while Imogen knew that was often the way it was in marriages—they were rarely formed on the basis of love or fondness—she could not look at him without remembering that disagreeable lad by the pond . . . and later the young nobleman in the conservatory.

Why was it that the wretched memories were always the ones that stuck with you?

The warm memories, such as her mother’s laugh, her mother’s face . . . those grew dim with time. The harder Imogen tried to pull those memories from where they were buried in the far recesses of her mind, the more elusive they became.

But not the wretched memories. Those were clearly imprinted. Never to be erased. It was not fair how it worked out like that.

“You realize you could be ruining him.”

Imogen stiffened at Mercy’s words.

“His fate should not rest on me or anyone. Nor should it rest on his marriage to someone else. His fate is in his own hands.” Her parents had always told her that—happiness came from within a person.

“You think so?” Mercy queried thoughtfully.

She heard the doubt in her friend’s voice, and even felt a little bit of it creeping in on herself, but she chose not to react to it.

Mercy could not understand. She had no personal experience with Butler. She had not been the one to suffer those afternoon teas at Penning Hall that her well-meaning parents insisted were obligatory given the Duke of Penning’s total and unfettered influence over their lives.

That’s what being the Duke of Penning was. Power. The position meant power and absolute authority over those born mere mortals.

That was why it had been so gratifying to learn that the prized Penning heir was in fact no heir at all. He was mortal.

No winged seraph, but mortal. Vulnerable to wounds. Just. Like. Them.

Just like Imogen.

Even at a young age Imogen knew her family existed at the Duke of Penning’s whims. His pleasure with her family dictated everything for them. How many frocks she and Mama possessed, how often they indulged in desserts, their summer trips to visit family in London and whether they took spring holiday in Brighton so that they could frolic in the sea waves.

From the start, Imogen had been aware that they were just as beholden as the lowest scullery maid to the Duke of Penning. Also from the start, resentment had simmered within her at the unfairness of it all.

During those obligatory visits, whilst the adults conversed, Imogen was stuck with the young lordling and his overly beribboned little sister. The two rotten children wanted nothing to do with Imogen, and clearly viewed keeping company with the vicar’s daughter akin to torture.

They’d done nothing to conceal their aversion about keeping company with her.

They’d done nothing to make her feel comfortable.

In fact, they had made her quite miserable.





Chapter Five





A shallow pond, 1831



Imogen was eight years old when Papa was chosen as the new vicar.

She recalled arriving to Shropshire and her first visit to Penning Hall, a requisite upon Papa’s appointment to the role. As it turned out, the old duke heartily enjoyed a theological discussion. She had no notion on that first day that it would become routine and the first of many miserable afternoons spent at the grand house.

Imogen sat in awe in the well-appointed drawing room with its sky-reaching ceiling and the myriad gilt-framed paintings—some landscapes, some portraits—covering every inch of wall space. She thought the place a palace.

Her legs swung in front of her, several inches above the carpet as she sat on the sofa in her best Sunday dress. Mama reached out and pressed a gloved hand over her knee in a clear attempt to settle her anxious movements.

The Duchess of Penning smiled, and it was a blast of dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to play outside with the children?” She gestured with an elegant hand. “My son and daughter are outdoors with the governess. They would be most happy to have your company.”

How naïve she was to have believed that. Imogen thrilled at the notion of other children. She was eager to make friends in her new home, and she imagined that this girl and boy, even if they did happen to live in a palace, would be her bosom friends.

She eagerly followed one of the maids out of the drawing room and outside to locate the young lord and young lady.

They found them on the back lawn beside a crystal-blue pond. The little lordling was a few years older than her eight years. Imogen recognized that at once and was awestruck to find herself in the presence of an older, obviously well-heeled lad.

He held a fishing pole and was bossing his younger sister on how to properly hold hers whilst their governess snored beneath a tree. The young Lady Thirza was a few years younger than Imogen, but seemed vastly more sophisticated in her fancy dress and perfectly arranged ringlets.