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

The racket woke up the governess from her nap. She lumbered to her feet, wobbling for a moment until she gained her balance. Blinking herself awake, she smoothed her hands over her voluminous skirts. “What is happening here?” Her gaze lighted on Imogen. “Who are you?”

Imogen didn’t respond. She could not.

Speech was beyond her. The sting in her eyes was too much. The tears began to roll unchecked down her face. She cried. Her tears blended with the droplets of water covering her face, so her weeping wasn’t too noticeable. There was that at least.

“Who are you?” the governess demanded again, and Imogen shook her head, unable to speak the words burning through her.

No one.

She wasn’t anyone. Not anyone that mattered to this girl and boy.

It was her first lesson upon arriving in Shropshire, and one she never forgot.





Chapter Six




Perry stood outside the double doors of the retiring room where Emily Blankenship had vanished and tried not to feel like an unwanted suitor.

He shifted his weight, shuffling on his feet as he waited for her to emerge, ready to ask her for the next dance as he had planned to do when he first spotted her.

He’d seen unwanted suitors before at balls. Hapless, spotted-faced young men loitering outside the ladies’ retiring rooms. Desperation wafted around them in an invisible haze, and he’d always felt sorry for the lot of them. Didn’t they know any better? Desperation never won a heart. He winced. And yet here he was.

He’d never thought to count himself among the ranks of unwelcome and hapless suitors. Never had he imagined he would be undesirable to the fairer sex.

As he lingered outside the doors, he fixed a mild smile to his face and ignored the curious looks sent his way from ladies entering and leaving the room.

He thought back to Emily Blankenship’s face when their gazes had locked across the crowded room. She had bolted at the first sight of him—as though he was a contagious disease. As though one glimpse of him had turned her stomach. Her sister, who was forever at her side, was nowhere in sight either, and he could not help wondering if she was hiding in some corner, afraid to come out because of him.

Bloody hell.

It was as though he was trapped in some other cosmos. One in which the most common and ordinary ladies were diving into potted ferns to avoid him.

He cringed. Except this was not another cosmos. This was his reality. This was his life now.

It had to be the bloody rumors. Both Misses Blankenship had been friendly with him after church. More than friendly. The rumors were the only thing that made any sense. Nothing else had changed.

Clearly he needed to exercise his charm and win back their favor. If that meant addressing concerns over these bloody rumors, so be it.

His hands opened and closed at his sides. Someone was ruining his life with this damnable slander. He had thought nothing could get worse. How much lower could he descend than losing his title, his fortune, the bulk of his friends, and the lady he had been courting? The lady he had actually liked and thought liked him in turn had faded from his life faster than a wisp of smoke.

But apparently he could sink lower. Evidently he had.

He stared at the closed doors to the retiring room, feeling very much like one of those unwanted suitors from memory.

He had to find out who was behind this sabotage, and he had to put a stop to it or look elsewhere for an heiress, which meant leaving Shropshire and imposing on the few friends who still spoke to him. That brought forth a weary sigh from deep in his chest. He recoiled at the very notion of living off the generosity of the few friends left to him. It was difficult enough living with his mother—even if she was responsible for the situation in which he now found himself.

But you don’t mind taking advantage and living off the generosity of a debutante’s dowry.

He shifted on his feet and rubbed at his chest—at the sudden gnawing ache there. It suddenly felt as though his lungs were too small, too tight. He sucked in a gulp of air in an effort to expand them.

He didn’t know why the act of courting and marrying for financial security should give him pause or discomfort. Marriages were formed upon such factors all the time. He should feel no compunction. That was the way of the ton. It was the way of everyone everywhere. Even humble yeomen married based on such reasoning.

One’s rank, family name, finances and attractiveness were always negotiating tools. Hellfire, those had been the same deciding influences he took into consideration a year ago when he was still the Duke of Penning and had begun his courtship of Lady Circe. He winced. When he still possessed the wealth that went along with the title.

Now he felt decidedly . . . less. He had little to offer. His ego could only convince himself so much that his handsome face and charm were enough. There was reality . . . and the humility of the past year serving as a mirror, showing him the truth of his irrefutable reflection.

He glanced around, feeling suddenly inconspicuous where he stood. Indeed several eyes were trained on him. He’d felt the stares all night. As though he were a bug pinned beneath a glass dome. A specimen for public inspection. They were more than curious. They were critical and judging.

He had the sneaking suspicion that if he approached another lady, she, too, might run for the hills—or in this case, the retiring room. This was an altogether alien experience for him and not a little demoralizing. Rejection, he realized, was a lowering thing. It did not feel great. Not great at all.