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

Imogen felt the words like a sharp uncomfortable pinch. She looked at Mrs. Berrycloth in disbelief. No one had ever been so bold as to ask her that before. “Well, I—I,” she stammered, disliking contemplating such a thing.

“I’ve had three husbands. I know well the ephemeral nature of life. Especially for a gentleman advanced in years.”

“I—I—”

“No one lives forever.”

“Well, yes. Of course.” She knew that. Better than most. She’d already lost her mother in a horribly sudden manner.

One day Mama had been enjoying herself amid her favorite pastime, happily toiling in the garden, and then a fortnight later she had taken to her bed, feverish from a festering wound. An accidental cut on her hand from her gardening shears had resulted in a fatal infection that brought about her demise.

It had been arbitrary and senseless and horrible. There was nothing anyone could do to save her. They could only sit by her side and watch her die.

Life, Imogen had learned then, could be as volatile as the weather. So Imogen was not blind to the impermanence of life. Indeed not. She knew how fragile the threads that made up one’s existence could be.

“I do hope you have made plans for your future, Miss Bates. I only say this out of concern.”

Imogen started at the remark, her thoughts reluctantly drifting to her future.

She would receive a small inheritance from Papa, but he was not a wealthy man. It would not be much. Perhaps just enough to keep her in genteel poverty—as long as she did not live to the ripe age of one hundred. She winced. Or fifty.

She supposed she could take employment as a governess or a teacher. She would have to do something. It was vastly unfair. She would lose her home. The vicarage would go to the next vicar. Her throat tightened at the thought. When she lost Papa, she would lose everything. Not only her beloved father, but her home. Her way of life. All would be forfeit.

Hopefully Papa would not be leaving her for a good while. She made certain he did not exert himself, overseeing all of his affairs for him and encouraging him to rest at every opportunity so that he did not suffer from another fit.

Hope also throbbed in her chest that Papa would find favor with the new Duke of Penning. The appointment of the vicar was completely at his discretion. The Duke of Penning not only selected the vicar, he could force him to resign.

Not that anyone knew when His Grace might arrive. There were rumblings that the man lived in Newfoundland working in the cod trade or in Greenland mining for iron. There were several stories, all unsubstantiated. An agent had been sent abroad to find him many months ago. Everyone waited with bated breath to see what manner of man he would be once he was located and appeared—especially as so many people had their livelihoods tied to him.

“Oh, there are many fine gentlemen about tonight. I’m sure any number of them could tempt you.” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes glittered and stopped to rest somewhere across the ballroom.

The skin at the back of Imogen’s neck prickled. She followed Mrs. Berrycloth’s gaze, already knowing what she would find, knowing what—or rather who—had captured the lady’s most ardent attention.

Imogen sighed. The widow fixed her attention on Mr. Butler with clear admiration as he cut through the packed crowd, his long strides purposeful. Imogen’s own gaze lingered on him, on his handsome features set in grim lines. Anyone else would look off-putting wearing such a moody expression, but he still managed to look handsome. Still compelling. She gave a slight shake of her head.

No doubt he was about claiming his next waltz with an eligible young lady who met his criteria for marriage.

Mrs. Berrycloth continued, “I must confess, it’s nice to see His Grace out and about at village functions.”

“Hm. Yes. But he’s not the duke anymore, is he?” Imogen felt like she would be making that correction all her life.

“Oh, indeed, but what are we supposed to call him?” Mrs. Berrycloth sniffed. “I can’t imagine calling him anything else. It feels rather . . . impolite.”

Impolite?

“Mr. Butler,” Imogen supplied. “We’re supposed to call him Mr. Butler now.”

Mrs. Berrycloth swatted her arm with her fan and giggled. “Oh! Can you imagine? I could not do that. It would seem so rude.”

“It is his name,” she grumbled, annoyed at the widow’s interest in Mr. Butler. She certainly wasn’t behaving as Emily Blankenship had been. Evidently the recent rumors had not reached the lady’s ears. It was difficult to imagine she would not care.

“I saw him earlier in the week and promised him a dance tonight.”

“Indeed?” Mercy sent Imogen an amused look.

The widow nodded gleefully, as though she had managed a great coup. “What’s more . . . he suggested we take an afternoon stroll one day soon.”

Mercy’s grin to Imogen seemed to say: you did not run off all matrimonial prospects.

“Oh. Did he now?”

The gentleman worked fast. Imogen had not realized that he had cast his web so wide as to include Mrs. Berrycloth. She fought down a derisive snort. But of course he had. The lady had her own fortune. That made her a viable candidate. She gave her head a small shake. Apparently she needed to work quickly, as well.

“Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen began, “would you like to step out for some air with me?” She motioned to the double doors leading out into the gardens. “You look like you might enjoy a refreshing breeze.”