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

Then—astoundingly—she nipped at his lip with a tiny little snarl.

Lust shot straight through him in a hot spear. His cock went rock hard, straining against his trousers, and before he could check himself he was pushing his hips into her, loathing her voluminous skirts, loathing all their bulky garments.

Where had the genteel and demure Miss Bates gone? Perhaps she wasn’t real.

He knew something about leading a fake life. Perhaps this was the real and true Miss Bates and that other creature was merely the facade.

Her fists unclenched the edges of his jacket and her hands slid beneath. She stroked her palms over his chest as though desperate to get through the layers of his vest and shirt to his skin. He could understand the impulse. He felt the wild need to touch her under her clothes with his hands, his mouth . . . to learn the texture and taste of her body.

She arched and pressed against him like she wanted to crawl inside and take up space alongside his bones. Her feverish lips kissed him with a moan purring in her throat.

If he didn’t pull away from her now this would get out of hand.

It was already out of hand. He already had to fight the urge to drag her into the nearby rhododendron bushes.

He pulled back with a ragged breath to gape at her where they stood in the shadows. The night swelled around them, the sounds of the orchestra a distant melody. The swift burbling of the fountain matched his rushing pulse.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he rasped.

Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She had a pretty mouth. Especially kiss-bruised and blush-pink as it was now. It was wide and full-lipped, only the slightest dip at the center. He’d never noticed before. He’d only ever seen her frowns when he looked at her. Evidently there was a lot more to her than he had ever realized, and he was beyond intrigued.

Her fingers drifted to those lips now. “Wh-what?”

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” he clarified, feeling as though he had taken a blow to his chest and couldn’t catch his breath.

Something flashed in her eyes—a bright wave of emotion before a wall dropped down and shielded her gaze. “You kissed me,” she got out, neatly avoiding his question.

“And you kissed me back.” Quite thoroughly and quite well.

“I—I—” she stammered, a rare moment when he had never seen her at a loss for words.

He studied her, scanning her face and then looking her up and down, missing nothing, and yet feeling as if he wasn’t seeing her fully. There was more to her than he ever realized. She had hidden depths. What other surprises did she hide? He wanted to know. He wanted to know them all.

“Imogen?” a female called out across the garden. “Are you out here?”

Her head whipped in the direction of the voice. “Mercy,” she croaked out. Her hands flew to her hair. Proof of his recklessness. It had tumbled loose from its pins.

He liked it that way. He’d never seen it down. The honey-brown waves flowed wild around her shoulders. She was dangerously enticing.

“Imogen,” Mercy called again, her voice more insistent.

Thurman had mentioned Mercy Kittinger as a possible candidate in his hunt for an heiress. The Kittinger family was one of the few independent farmers in the area, and they owned the largest tract of property outside of the Penning lands. Mama had not loved the notion, wrinkling her nose and muttering about never dreaming her son would wed a lowly yeoman’s daughter.

“Imogen?” Miss Kittinger called again, a touch of impatience entering her voice.

They both looked in the direction of Mercy and then back at each other. He imagined the panic crossing her face closely mirrored his own.

He did not relish being discovered in a compromising position with Miss Bates. Even if he could overlook their incompatibilities, she was no heiress. Not even close. She was a country vicar’s daughter—a vicar who lived at the whim of the Duke of Penning. Up until a year ago, that man had been him, so he knew precisely how little she had to her name. She would bring nothing to a marriage. Nothing save her dangerously enticing person.

Giving his head a swift shake, he looked down at his hands. He still touched her. His palms flexed on her arms as though verifying they were in fact his hands—that he was in fact touching her and she was not some illusion. He marveled at how very strong she felt, her biceps solid and firm. What did the vicar’s daughter do with her time so that her arms were not frail or soft?

Coming to his senses, he released her, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a perfunctory step back, trying not to consider how she would be no shrinking violet in bed. Not based off that kiss. She would be a full-hearted participant and up for some vigorous love play if her behavior from moments ago was any indication. He’d been the one to end the kiss, after all.

He’d frequently heard among gentlemen that wives were for duty and mistresses for fun. It was difficult to imagine Miss Imogen Bates as anything other than a very proper wife. However, now it was also difficult to imagine her as anything but a very fiery and eager bedmate.

She had not stepped back from him. He held up his hands, showing he had released her just in case she was unaware of that point. She did not move immediately. She looked up at him as though she feared—or hoped?—he might pounce on her. Again.

“What am I supposed to do?” she finally whispered, motioning to her hair. “I’m a mess. One look at me and everyone will know. I need to slip away.”