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

He reminded her of one of the chiseled Greek gods at the British Museum she’d visited not very long ago. Except he was attired in clothes, of course. Just last summer she and her cousin Winifred had giggled and gawked at the naked statues longer than they ought to have done. Their mothers would not have approved, which only made them revel in their silliness. There was something to be said of being away from their mothers’ gimlet stares that brought out the ridiculous in them.

Deciding she could not stare at the young men forever and remain undetected, Imogen turned in a small circle, renewing her search for a place where she might take refuge. Her choices were limited. She could not return to the house where the older gentlemen assembled over their drinks and cigars. No one wanted to include her in croquet. Mama would not welcome her with the other matrons, and she dared not approach the urbane lads near the pond.

Her gaze arrested on the conservatory in the near distance. She lifted her skirts and walked briskly toward the building.

She sent a quick glance over her shoulder. Satisfied no one was observing her, she unlatched the door and slipped inside. Instantly the loamy smell of plants and vegetation assailed her. She inhaled deeply and started down a row, colorful flora on each side of her. She felt pleased with her resourcefulness. If she only had a book, she could spend out the remainder of the afternoon quite contentedly here.

She stopped before a pair of potted lemon trees, relishing the scent of citrus on the air. She reached out to stroke a well-nourished leaf. She was debating whether or not plucking one of the fruits would constitute stealing when she heard the creak of the conservatory door.

She whirled around, seeing them before they spotted her. Penning and his friends. Apparently they’d departed the pond and decided to invade her sanctuary. Monsters. Could she find no peace today?

With a muffled whimper, she dropped down before they could spot her and scurried under a table. It was undignified, but then so was she in this dress.

Imogen squeezed herself into the smallest ball possible, wishing she had the power of invisibility.

The voices grew louder, more raucous.

She slunk lower and buried her hot face in her knees. What had she done? She should have revealed herself once they entered the building and then pardoned herself from the conservatory. As simple as that.

Now she was trapped. Crouched beneath a table, cowering without a shred of dignity, praying the young gentlemen soon took their leave so that she might emerge.

Alas the muffled thud and shuffle of their footsteps came closer.

She hugged herself tighter.

There was the scratch of a match being struck.

Ah. So that’s what they were about. Evidently they did not wish to join their papas indoors for cigars, but would indulge among themselves.

“Is your father still keeping that opera singer?” one of them asked.

Imogen had a fairly good notion what he meant by “keeping.” She might be a vicar’s daughter, but she was not wholly ignorant on such matters. She read. She read a great deal. She devoured books her parents would not approve should they know of their content. And then there was Winifred in her life.

Imogen spent a few weeks with her London cousin every year. Winifred was very worldly and knew a great many things. Things Imogen’s parents would not deem proper—or Winnie’s parents for that matter—but Winnie knew of them nonetheless, and she imparted such knowledge to Imogen.

The reply came: “No, he’s moved on to an actress.”

“Indeed? I might pay the opera singer a call then. I’m a man about Town now. I’ve got an interest in setting up an attachment for myself. Something regular to see to my needs.”

“You’ve just finished your schooling and you want to take on the responsibility of a mistress?” another voice inquired with a snort.

“She’s not a wife,” came the quick rejoinder. “A mistress knows how and when to use her mouth . . . and it’s not to harangue a man.”

This earned several chuckles and remarks of agreements. She thought she recognized Amos Blankenship’s braying laugh.

Imogen’s face burned.

Penning had yet to comment—she knew his voice well enough—and she was inescapably curious to his thoughts on the matter. Did he, too, plan to take a mistress? Perhaps he already had one now that he was a man of ten and eight. For some reason the notion of this made her cheeks sting. He was a young man of the world now. If he did not have a mistress yet, he likely soon would.

The notion should not offend her. Truly, it should not affect her one way or another.

She shifted her weight and the motion nudged a small stack of planting pots stored beneath the table to her right. She cringed at the slight clanking and hugged herself tighter, holding her breath, waiting for what felt like imminent discovery.

What would they do if they found her? The mortification was almost too much to contemplate. She was hiding under a table like a mischievous toddler.

But then she was dressed like a toddler, so perhaps they would not be overly surprised.

They were still talking and she released her tight little breath. Thankfully they were too caught up with each other and their cigars to take notice of her.

“. . . after dinner,” one of the gentlemen was saying. “She has promised me a walk in the gardens.”

“Now that is a lovely mouth I would not mind being used on me.”