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

“Yes, well, when he was a duke it went unspoken, out of deference. I’m sure you can understand that.” It was amazing how the lies tripped off her tongue. Imogen had never lied as much in her entire life as she had in the last week. Who knew she had it in her?

She should be alarmed at this dishonest side to her nature, but she felt rather . . . euphoric. She had always been so very good—with the exception of her slight misstep with Fernsby. Although she didn’t count herself as bad for placing her trust in him. Merely young and foolish.

This. Doing this. She felt wicked.

“But now that he is no longer the duke . . .” Imogen shrugged. “He has no such protection. Everyone knows. It cannot be hidden.”

“I see.” Mrs. Berrycloth expelled a shaky breath. “Well, thank you for sharing with me. This is good to know. Good to know, indeed. I am in your debt.”

Imogen inclined her head and pushed down the small niggle of disquiet working through her belly, attempting to banish it from existence.

She was helping women like Mrs. Berrycloth. Vulnerable women like the widow who would not question Butler’s motives with any degree of scrutiny. They deserved better than being used for their wealth so that they could line the pockets of an undeserving man.

Whether they knew it or not, they needed protection, and Imogen was that protection. That was her role. With Papa not quite himself and Mama gone, it fell to her to look after his flock.

“Glad to have been of service.”

“Oh, dear though.” Mrs. Berrycloth covered her lips with her gloved hand. “I’ve promised him that waltz . . .”

“Hopefully he will not er . . . transgress whilst you dance,” Imogen offered with a sympathetic cluck. “Although it is my understanding that he has little control over his body’s . . . blunders.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Berrycloth shook her head resolutely, pressing both hands to her flushed cheeks. “I simply cannot. I must make my excuses. Or hide.”

“The ballroom is crowded,” Imogen pointed out as though hiding from him were a very reasonable solution. “Perhaps you can elude him.”

At the edge of her consciousness, nipped the awareness that she might be taking things a pinch too far. Certainly he was a wretched man, but with each lie, with every fabrication, she felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into a hole.

And then she reminded herself that this was the same lad who laughed at her and scorned her and called her ugly things and didn’t have time for the residents of Shropshire until he had found himself penniless and desperate.

“Yes, of course. I will simply avoid him. Or find myself occupied should he approach me. That should not pose too difficult . . .” Her voice faded as a figure suddenly emerged from around the fountain. A man.

They both froze as the gentleman stepped directly into the path of light blazing from the windows of the Blankenships’ house, throwing his features into stark relief.

Imogen’s lungs seized, unable to draw air. Had their very conversation conjured him?

Breathlessly she watched as Mr. Butler stopped before them.

“Ladies.” He greeted both of them, but his eyes held fast on Imogen with an alarming intensity that she felt in her bones. Who knew such a frosty gray could make her feel so warm? As though she were seated too close to the fire.

“Oh! Your Grace . . . er, that is . . . Mr. Butler. Good evening to you. A fine night, is it not?” Mrs. Berrycloth prattled on shrilly as she dipped in a quick curtsy that was not necessary and totally ludicrous. “And an even finer ball. The Blankenships know how to properly entertain, to be sure. How splendid that you were able to attend and see for yourself what you have been missing all these years.”

Would the woman not cease her chatter?

“Miss Imogen and I were just taking some air,” she added.

Apparently not.

On she went whilst Imogen struggled to find her own voice, finally arriving at something to say. “It’s perfectly fragrant out here this close to Mrs. Blankenship’s lovely gardens. I must speak with her gardener and learn all his secrets.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. “It is a fine night to indulge in fragrant air and sparkling conversation.”

Imogen did not miss the emphasis he placed on the word sparkling. All the while he continued to stare at her—at Imogen—as though Mrs. Berrycloth were not even present.

Stare?

It might be fair to say he was glaring at her and she felt the intensity of those gray eyes like a poker to her overheated skin.

She resisted fidgeting and looked back at him with a lift of her chin, recalling that it never served to show weakness. She knew that was the precise moment that predators attacked, and for some reason, right now, Peregrine Butler very much reminded her of a predator—or certainly of an animal ready to pounce.

Mrs. Berrycloth looked back and forth between them, obviously sensing the tension. She cleared her throat. “If you will excuse me. It’s growing chilly.” She turned then and fled, abandoning Imogen like a soldier bolting at the first sight of a skirmish.

Imogen knew she could make her own excuses, too. She could flee. Propriety alone would recommend she do that. Although it was not outright scandalous behavior for her to remain. They stood within the light. Anyone could step out on the veranda and peer down at them. But she was the vicar’s daughter. She held herself to a higher standard just as everyone else in the shire did. She really should go inside. And yet she was planted in place.