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

“I don’t see how that is possible.”

She released a small sound of frustration.

He continued, “You and Miss Kittinger are good friends, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust her? With your confidences?”

“Yes. Of course. What does that signify?”

“I can’t help you with your hair, but I imagine she can. Yes?” He looked down at her, patiently awaiting her response.

She considered that for a moment, her hand reaching up to fiddle with her luscious locks. “Y-yes. She could repair it.”

“Then you should emerge and ask your friend for help.”

She bit her lip and his gut twisted at the sight. He knew she did not intend for it to be erotic, but he could only recall what it felt like to have those lips and teeth on him. He recalled the texture and sensation and taste and he knew he needed to remove himself quickly from Miss Imogen Bates.

“Imogen, where are you?” Miss Kittinger’s voice was closer now and more demanding.

“She is here to save you,” he murmured. “Go now.” He took another much-needed step back from her and nodded his head in the direction of Miss Kittinger where she roamed in the path of light around the fountain. “Step out to greet her. Hurry on. I will wait until you both have gone inside.”

“And you will say nothing . . . tell no one of . . . this?” She motioned between them.

He stiffened. Did she think him totally lacking all honor? When he was the duke did he have a reputation for going about the shire and ruining young maids? Many a nobleman used their position and power to that advantage, but he had never been one of them.

“Go to your friend,” he said tightly, his jaw aching from the tension. “Miss Kittinger will assist in making you presentable.” He could not help himself from looking her up and down and thinking how very much he would like to make her unpresentable.

Miss Bates blinked and snapped to action. Nodding in agreement, she started to turn away.

“Oh, Miss Bates,” he heard himself saying.

She looked back warily over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“You and I are not finished.”

Her brown eyes snapped, and he wondered how he had missed how very lively and lovely they were. Her eyes weren’t merely brown. They were exceptional—a tiger’s eye brown.

“This . . . er, what happened here was a singular occurrence.” She stabbed a finger to the ground between them, marking the spot where she had kissed him as though their very lives depended upon what she was insisting. He could not help but wonder though: who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself? “Do not mistake that it will ever happen again.”

He inhaled and resisted arguing with her. It was his natural impulse—to tell her there would be more kisses between them, but that was just a ridiculous impulse. Unreasonable and untenable. All the uns.

She was correct, of course. This would not ever happen again. Even though she had only whetted his appetite, it could never happen again. “When I said we are not finished . . . I was not speaking of our kiss.”

“Oh.” Even in the gloom he detected the flush of embarrassed color on her cheeks.

“You will spread no more lies. You owe me my reputation.” She’d spread these wretched rumors about him. The responsibility fell to her to correct them. “I want it back.”

“Oh.” Her chin went up a fraction. “Well. Best of luck with that.”

Frustration rushed through him at her flippant reaction. “You need to help me,” he insisted.

“I don’t see how I can do anything for you.” The confidence of her words seemed belied by the uncertainty he read in her expression.

“No?” The familiar anger bubbled up inside him. He took a careful breath. The last time words became heated between them they ended up kissing. “You will think of something.”

“Don’t rely on that,” she returned.

“Oh, but I shall.” A strange thrill raced through him at her challenging words. “You will do the right thing, Miss Bates. You’re too good a person not to do the right thing.”

Her lips twitched. “I’m far from a saint, Mr. Butler.”

“Of that I am very aware,” he retorted.

“Then I don’t understand where these high expectations of yours are coming from.”

Following those haughty words, she left him then.

Her utter temerity should have infuriated him. And it did. But she also aroused the hell out of him.

He stood behind the fountain, peering through the fall of water, watching the blurry shape of her as she approached her friend. Mercy Kittinger made a gesture of exclamation and touched Miss Bates’s lovely fallen hair.

If she were mine, I’d have that hair loose and flowing and tangled on my pillow every night. I would grab a fistful of it as I covered her body with mine . . .

Bloody hell. He was hard as a post.

He reached down and adjusted his cock against his trousers and took a deep, bracing breath, forcing himself to think of normal things—anything except the suddenly arousing Miss Bates.

This was not what he had intended for this night.

He’d never imagined himself standing alone in the night at a country ball, struggling to overcome an unwanted arousal for an unwanted female.