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

He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and tugged on the locks hard enough to make her wince. “See? Real! My hair is bloody real. You are welcome to pull it yourself.”

Her palms tingled and she curled her hands into fists at her sides to resist his irate invitation. The last thing she would ever ever do was lay hands to him.

“Not necessary. And very well,” she acknowledged with a shrug. “I suppose I can attest to that, if you insist. If anyone should put the inquiry to me I will tell them your hair appears quite real and you are not bald.”

“And as for my feet . . .” He stepped back and bent, reaching for his shoes.

“What are you doing?” She peered down at him curiously.

He looked up at her, a fiery glint in his eyes. “I want you to have no doubts, Miss Bates. You may count my toes.”

“That’s really not—”

It was too late.

He had one shoe and stocking off, and then the other. “See there. Count them. Ten toes. Now all the superstitious tattle can cease regarding the number of my toes. Let us put that one to rest.”

She peered down at his bare feet in the gloom. They were surprisingly nice feet. Long. Lean. Clean. Nails neatly trimmed. Until this moment she did not know that attractive feet were so very significant. And yes, there were indeed ten toes. Not that she expected to see any differently. She had spun the rumor from pure imagination. “Indeed,” she murmured. “I see that.”

He spread his arms wide at his sides. “And as for my chronic flatulence. I have now stood here for some time with you and have not given offense. I am quite certain you invented that particular rumor on the spot just now with Mrs. Berrycloth.”

Truer words had never been spoken, but she dared not admit such a thing to him. She would never confess. Never apologize to the wretch.

She did not consider herself a stubborn person. To anyone else, she would admit wrongdoing, but not to him. Not to this man. For some reason she was intractable when it came to him.

You would need to put a bag over her personality. Perhaps that was the reason.

“And,” he continued with a great breath, “I can assure you, I am not a terrible kisser.”

Fire flamed his eyes, a burst of light in the night, and she recognized that this one point on the matter of his kissing prowess stung more than all of the other rumors about him. Of course. His ego could not tolerate the belief that a woman might find him—or his lips—less than desirable, less than skilled. Vain peacock.

And so very predictable.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Ha,” she coughed out, the single sound brash and defiant.

He flinched. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said ‘ha.’”

“Yes, I heard you.” He shook his head as though trying to make sense of what was happening. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, did that sound not capture my complete disbelief on the matter of your kissing expertise?”

His eyes narrowed.

She continued, “You must confess, there is no way I can ascertain the truth of this. I can do nothing to dissuade others from believing this particular allegation—ack!”

In one smooth move, he reached out, closed his hands around her arms and tumbled her against his person.

His mouth claimed her lips before she could form a more coherent exclamation.

He was kissing her.

Despite the physical onslaught, she understood his motivation and it was not an overwhelming desire for her. Of course not. He thought to kiss her to prove himself an adept kisser. That was clearly his mercenary goal. Well, he could stuff that notion. She would not be swayed . . .

He deepened the kiss, his lips slanting over hers, and the pressure made her belly flip.

Blast it.

Imogen knew a thing or two about kissing, too. No one would ever think it of her. Not her father, not any of the residents of Shropshire—especially not Mr. Butler. By his own admission, he never thought of her at all. He certainly never thought of her lips.

Indeed, she knew enough about kissing to know that he was a good kisser.

It had been years, but there was a time when she, in fact, had frequent practice. She kept that part of who she was a secret. She had buried it so deep that sometimes she even forgot that part of herself ever existed. A deliberate ploy, of course. She didn’t want to remember that particular part of her history.

But in this moment, she remembered.

Kissing was like breathing, it seemed. One never forgot how to do it.

As his mouth moved over hers, she felt a stirring in her blood, a definite sputter and crackle to life that prompted a reaction she could not deny.

It had been too long.

That’s what she would tell herself later.

He was too handsome. His mouth too hot, too persuasive, too addictive.

My life too lonely.

She melted against him, leaning into him, immediately and achingly aware of the firm pressure of his chest against her breasts. He brought his other hand up, burying it in her hair, mussing her coiffure, but she did not mind. Suddenly that breach seemed the smallest of concerns as shivers of pleasure eddied through her.

She parted her mouth on a sigh . . . or perhaps it was no sigh at all and a deliberate opening of her lips. An invitation so she could have more of a taste of him—so that he could have more of a taste of her.

He accepted by sliding his tongue into her mouth, slow and languorous as though he were savoring her. Her tongue met his and giddiness swelled through her at the first touch.