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

He tasted of warm whisky.

She knew from the one glass she had snuck on the evening of Winifred’s wedding. She’d been staying at her uncle’s house for the grand occasion. After the ceremony she had found herself alone in a room with a decanter and tray and she’d poured herself a drink, needing the fortification, and perhaps because she was seeking a little numbness, too. He tasted of that dark and spicy whisky now . . . and man. Tempting maleness. All her womanly places quivered in response.

She dove into the kiss—into him, bringing her hands up to clutch his jacket and yank him even closer, however impossible that may be. They were already crushed against each other. So close she felt the pound of his heart against her. So close no air even passed between them. She was no longer certain where her body ended and his began and still she wanted more.

She kissed him with fervor and pent-up longing, not even realizing until this moment that she had missed this in her life. Passion. Intimacy. The discovery and learning of another’s taste—the texture and shape of another’s lips.

Except this felt better than she remembered. More unrestrained. More desperate. Hungrier.

She’d never felt want like this. Never felt a need that shook her to her core.

It was impossible to stop. Impossible to resist.

She would not even try.





Chapter Eight




Perry was kissing the vicar’s daughter.

The only thing more shocking would be if he were kissing the good vicar himself.

Contrary to what he said, Perry was not indifferent to Imogen Bates. He never had been. Quite the opposite. Just as she did not like him, he did not like her.

Even before he’d heard her speaking those ridiculous lies about him there had always been this . . . tension between them. Whenever she was in his orbit his stomach grew unsettled. His skin prickled and the back of his neck felt tight. He had assumed it was dislike.

Perhaps there was more to it though because he was kissing her hard, like he was a man starved for this woman.

But then he supposed liking someone was not a prerequisite for intimacy. At least for some gentlemen. Historically, he rather preferred to like his partners—or to at least find them unobjectionable—before kissing took place.

Evidently there could be exceptions, and Imogen Bates was one of them.

In the before times, when his life had included a dukedom, he was not usually so free with his passions. He did not kiss just anyone. Contrary to his reputation and what his own mother seemed to think of him, he was judicious where he spent his passions. He cared not to contract the pox, after all. Many a nobleman was riddled with it from far too many peccadilloes of a less than discerning nature. It was Perry’s instinct to be more cautious.

And in this new life, shagging had been the last thing on his mind. He’d spent the last year wading through the quagmire of his lost life, trying to make sense of what had happened. He’d only recently thrown himself into the task of finding an heiress.

And yet Miss Imogen Bates triggered his ire.

Learning she was responsible for the rumors circulating should not have come as a surprise. He had no enemies in Shropshire. Only Miss Bates, of course. She never hid her distaste for him. Not when they were children and not in adulthood.

True, he may not have been decidedly warm toward her. There was the time that Thirza shoved her into the pond and he had laughed. Not well done of him, but they’d been children then. He winced, recalling also when she’d caught him saying those less than gentlemanly things about her in the conservatory. He hadn’t been a child then. Just an arse.

Of course, she was the one spreading tales of him. Who else? He would have eventually landed on the conclusion that Imogen Bates was his saboteur. In time. Once he ran through all the possible suspects in the shire.

And yet she had gone too far.

Now he had gone too far and hauled her against him.

He’d acted without thinking. Nothing else could explain his impulse to kiss her. He should have restrained himself. It was reckless. He should have behaved better. She’d done nothing to entice him. Quite the opposite.

He generally liked cheerful and good-humored women. Lusty women whose big hearts matched their passions.

Miss Bates was not that.

She never smiled. In fact, more often than not, a scowl graced her face—at least in his company.

Desire had not propelled him to kiss her. His temper had gotten the best of him.

And yet every pore, every fiber of his being was humming and vibrating, consumed by this kiss and proclaiming him a liar. Whatever this had started out as, it was all about desire now.

Nothing could account for her ability to kiss like a well-seasoned paramour.

Her hands fisted in his jacket, no doubt ruining Thurman’s efforts. The man had taken great pains to press his clothing this evening. He’d made certain that Perry left the house impeccably attired. “You might not be a duke anymore, but that does not mean you face the world looking like a vagabond,” the old butler had said.

Her fists twisted, pulling his jacket tighter and bringing him closer. She was surprisingly forceful. And skilled. Her tongue knew precisely what to do.

He tightened his hand in her silky hair—somehow his hand ended up in her hair. It was as if his body—and his mouth—had a will of their own.

She made a breathy little sound at the back of her throat. He growled and kissed her harder. He never had a kiss like this before. It was deep and hard and soft all at the same time. She angled her head side to side as though she could not get enough of him—as though she wanted to gobble him up, eat him alive.