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

He fought the impulse to leave. That would be cowardly and defeatist. He was unwilling to give up. He couldn’t do that. If he left, it would be as though he were declaring all the rumors were true.

He decided to duck out of the ballroom for a breath of fortifying fresh air. A brief respite and then he would return to the ballroom.

Perhaps while he was out there, it might occur to him how to overcome these blots on his name—and how he might find the culprit responsible for them and put an end to this rubbish once and for all.



The ball was in full swing, perhaps even growing more crowded with every passing moment. The Blankenships truly had invited everyone. Imogen and Mercy were now pressed along the far wall. Relegated. Forgotten. But not, apparently, completely invisible.

“Oh! Hello, there, you two!” Mrs. Berrycloth exclaimed as she spotted them. She waved at them from several yards away. She wove through bodies to arrive breathlessly at Imogen’s side.

“Good evening, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen and Mercy greeted the widow in unison.

The lady had traded in her black mourning weeds for a less dreary gown of dark plum. The neckline was quite daring, displaying an abundant amount of cleavage.

“Enjoying yourself?” Imogen inquired, trying not to stare overly long at her mesmerizing décolletage.

“Indeed, I am. I just took a turn about the dance floor with one of Mr. Blankenship’s guests. A barrister from London.” Mrs. Berrycloth clutched her side. “I haven’t been so exerted in ages. I am out of practice, it seems.”

“Would you like me to fetch you some punch to help refresh you?” Mercy asked.

“Oh, that’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss Kittinger.”

Mercy slipped away to retrieve a drink for the widow.

“It is good to see you making merry, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen offered.

“Thank you, m’dear. I was happy to cast off my widow’s weeds. It has been long enough.” The widow had been thrice widowed, so she clearly knew what it was like to endure the constraints of mourning. “I’ve been looking forward to this ball. I’ve always loved to dance even if the late Mr. Berrycloth couldn’t countenance it.”

Her late husband had been a prosperous merchant almost twice her age. Imogen had never seen him dance at these things. Indeed not, he usually ate and played cards. All sedentary activities. He had not shared any of his younger wife’s more energetic interests like dancing.

“The Blankenships’ ball was auspicious timing then.”

“Indeed. What of you, m’dears? No dancing for either of you? You two ladies should not be hiding here among the potted ferns.”

Mercy returned then with punch in hand and answered, “Oh, I must keep a sharp eye on my sister. If I’m off cavorting, who will look after her?”

“Hmph.” Mrs. Berrycloth looked Imogen up and down, assessing her in her modest gown. “And what of you Miss Bates?”

“Oh, I’m not much for dancing.” At least not since she was a blushing ten and eight. She had been more adventurous then . . . up for anything. More the fool she.

“What? You are still young. I’d been married twice by the time I was your age and had not even met the late Mr. Berrycloth yet.” Mrs. Berrycloth lightly swatted her. “You have plenty of time. You should be twirling about on that dance floor instead of fraternizing with all the old dames and wallflowers.”

Imogen shook her head with a small laugh, not bothering to point out that she was a wallflower. Unapologetically so. Well, she had been a wallflower. She supposed she did not qualify anymore. Not at her age.

Now she was simply an aging spinster. But that was fine and well with Imogen. Her life had purpose and meaning. She had freedom. More freedom than most. So many wives had none of those things. They had only what their husbands allotted them. No freedom. No choices.

Husbands. It should not be that a woman counted herself fortunate if her husband was a good man. If he was a man of honor, a man who didn’t neglect or abuse his wife. A woman should expect those very fundamental things as her due and not count herself lucky.

Indeed, in a perfect world there should be no husbands like Mr. Henry.

“Let me locate a partner for you, Miss Bates,” Mrs. Berrycloth pressed, standing on her tiptoes and scanning the crowd for a likely candidate. “Ah, I think I see young Halston without a partner at the moment. He does have very nice teeth, and that’s not something every gentleman can boast—”

Imogen shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not necessary. I am quite content as I am.”

“Why, Mr. Halston should count himself lucky to partner with you. Your teeth are lovely, as well—”

“That is neither here nor there, Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen said without heat and offering a gentle smile, intent on giving no offense but determined that she not be intimidated into dancing. She was much too old for this nonsense. “I have no wish to dance. With him or anyone. It’s not for me, I am afraid. I am quite settled in my life.” Imogen often found herself saying such things at these functions. It was tiresome. She was constantly attempting to convince the world around her that she was happy as she was—a woman without a husband. Such an entity could exist—such a person could exist. It existed in her.

“Well, that is true as long as you have your dear papa. What happens when he’s gone?”