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

A few more words were exchanged and then the ladies’ hazy forms turned and disappeared somewhere deeper into the gardens where Miss Kittinger would doubtlessly repair all of Imogen Bates’s glorious hair back into its usual confinement.

He had the mad urge to follow and watch her and he called himself ten kinds of fool. She’d shocked him and now he was under some manner of temporary infatuation. There was only one cure. He needed to throw himself into the task of settling on one of these local heiresses and begin courting in earnest. With any luck, he could be betrothed before the first leaves turned in the fall.

He had intended to make significant progress this night. Both his mother and Thurman would be exceedingly disappointed in him. Hellfire. Perry was disappointed himself. But he could not yet summon forth the will to venture back into that ball and charm the ladies he had intended to court—all ladies, thanks to Imogen Bates, who were now avoiding him. He could simply slip away for home. He needn’t even return to that ballroom.

He inhaled the crisp night air until his erection subsided and he felt his composure return. Suddenly it occurred to him that if he left now, Imogen Bates would win this battle. He didn’t want to be at war with her, but it seemed they were. Without his wanting it, a war had somehow started between them.

He might not have started it, but he would not lose it. He was not defeated. He was not running away. He came here tonight to mingle with the heiresses of Shropshire, and he would do just that.

He was going back inside that ballroom.





Chapter Nine




“What happened? Were you accosted?” Mercy demanded, her eyes afire, ready to fight for Imogen.

“What?” Imogen blinked from her distracted and whirling thoughts as they walked deeper into the gardens for more privacy. It took everything in her not to turn and glance over her shoulder in search of Mr. Butler. “Accosted? No, no. Not at all.”

If anything, Mr. Butler might feel as though she accosted him. Certainly he had initiated the kiss, but she took over from there and led the way.

“Then what happened to your hair?” Mercy’s gaze scanned her face and hair worriedly.

“It simply fell,” she lied. “There was a fierce wind.”

Mercy shot her a dubious look and then glanced around them. “There was a gale-force wind and we somehow did not notice it inside the house?”

Imogen shrugged weakly. She could scarcely pay attention to her friend. She was too busy reeling from what had just transpired with Mr. Butler—what she had done to Mr. Butler. With Mr. Butler. It was scandalous.

She was a perfect scandal and she could not forgive herself. She knew better.

She had vowed never again. No more romantic peccadilloes. She had thought herself above such needs and desires. She had thought herself stronger than that. One heartbreak a lifetime was enough as far as she was concerned.

Heartbreak?

The thought jarred her. What had occurred tonight did not involve the heart. Nothing had changed regarding her feelings toward Mr. Butler. Er, nothing other than the disconcerting knowledge that she now possessed.

Peregrine Butler smelled good. He tasted good. And he possessed the most intoxicating lips. So intoxicating that she knew she could never kiss them again. Never taste them again. One time she could chalk up as a mistake. Twice would be a grave character failing.

She needed to forget all about it—pretend as though this night had never happened.

Mercy stopped and forced them to sit down on a bench. Imogen went willingly, numbness stealing over her as she stuffed away the emotions of the evening.

The stone bench was cold and immediately seeped through her gown. She didn’t move or speak as Mercy attacked her hair. She was grateful to have Mercy contend with it for her. One thing she did not have to think about.

Mercy cleared her throat. “If you tell me not to worry, I won’t—”

“Then don’t worry,” she hurriedly supplied.

Mercy huffed a breath, clearly unconvinced with Imogen’s quick reply. “If something happened . . . you know you can talk to me, yes, Imogen?”

“I know that. Of course.” And she did, but she was not ready to discuss what happened. Not even to her friend. “Nothing happened. Let’s just set me to rights and go back inside. We don’t want to leave your sister unsupervised.”

Mercy stared at her for a long, searching moment before nodding and finishing her hair. “I suppose all that experience tending to Grace’s hair served me well. There you go.” She patted the sides. “A fairly decent chignon considering I didn’t have a brush to work with.”

Imogen stood up from the bench, nodding vaguely, not even bothering to touch her hair with her hand to verify if it felt intact. She and Mercy fell into step together. As they reached the fountain, Imogen scanned the area for a glimpse of Butler. She didn’t see him. Perhaps he went home. That seemed likely considering the heiresses he was stalking were less than receptive. What reason did he have to stay?

Her chest eased and lightened a bit at that prospect as they ascended to the veranda. She would not likely see him again this night. There was that. There would be no avoiding his gaze and fighting back a flush of heat if she stood in proximity to him.

The ball was still very much underway. She immediately spied the whirling couples through the glass French doors. The flash of colors and the lively music seemed in direct opposition to her mood.