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

More chuckles.

More of Amos’s bray.

“You best be careful.” Penning’s familiar voice rang out and she could not help easing her arms around her knees and leaning forward, eager to finally hear him speak. What would he contribute to this wholly inappropriate conversation?

Of course he would be as scandalous as the rest of them. She should expect no less. She recalled him well enough, even if he had spent the bulk of these last years away at school. He’d been an incorrigible boy. She doubted he had changed that much. Mama always said a leopard never changed its spots.

Imogen rather enjoyed this moment of invisibility. No one, especially gentlemen such as these fine toffs, ever spoke their true minds in her presence. She winced. These toffs never even spoke to her at all. She was beneath their consideration.

How different the world would be if people spoke their true thoughts. Chaotic perhaps, but there would be no confusion.

You would know who the monsters were.

Penning continued, “You shall be betrothed by the end of this house party if you do not exercise some caution.”

“Well, married to Lord Delby’s daughter would not be such a terrible fate? I can think of far more miserable futures than that,” a voice contributed. “The lass is comely. Her papa is well positioned and with deep pockets. It would be a brilliant match for any of us.”

“Well, if you don’t mind marrying straight out of Eton, then I’m happy for you,” Penning said in that all-knowing way of his that had not changed since he was a lad of ten. He always had that air to him. It irked her then and it irked her now. Arrogance must go part and parcel with his noble birthright.

“You expect to do better, Penning?”

“He is Penning,” another lad chimed in with an incredulous laugh. “He will have his choice of heiresses. Beauty, charm, rank . . . he can take his pick.”

“Aye, I’ll have my pick,” he agreed mildly. Arrogant prig. He spoke as though he were shopping for ribbons at the village market and nothing more significant than that. “But nothing would lure me into marriage for another decade at least.”

Invisibility, indeed, proved useful. She was correct on that score. He had not changed from that lad who treated her to hard silences, resentful of their parents forcing them to spend time together and vexed when things did not go according to his wishes.

“You mean the vicar’s daughter is not your fate then?” a voice trembling with mirth asked.

Imogen stiffened where she crouched. They spoke of her?

Masculine laughter broke out.

Hot mortification washed over her, but she strained for Penning’s response just the same, curious to hear if he would heighten her humiliation or alleviate it.

If he would be a decent human or not.

“Amusing,” he said, “but no.” Despite his words there was no amusement in his voice. Only hard denial. Stinging rejection that should not sting because she should not care.

She took a bracing breath.

Of course, he would not agree that their fates were entwined. That would be absurd. A vicar’s daughter and a future duke should not even be mentioned in the same sentence, and yet here, among this group of lads, it had somehow happened.

It had happened and she did not like it one little bit.

“Come now, Penning. Once you get beyond all the ruffles and bows, she’s a fetching lass.”

“I do not see it,” he countered.

The heat crept higher in her face.

“Indeed,” another voice seconded. “I would not mind exploring beneath all those ruffles and bows.”

The burn of humiliation now reached the tips of her ears.

“You lads are debauched. She’s a child,” Penning blustered. “And a sanctimonious one at that.”

She should feel grateful in his defense, except she did not appreciate being called a child. Or sanctimonious.

“She’s woman enough for me. And I would not be required to put a bag over her head during procreation like the chit my father wishes me to wed.”

“No, but you would need to put a bag over her personality,” Penning rejoined.

Laughter.

She flinched, feeling their laughter as keenly as the cut of a knife.

She did not know what offended her more: Penning with his clear abhorrence of her or his blue-blooded friends with their lewd comments. It was difficult to decide.

“Come now, Penning. She’s a fair lass and there likely isn’t much feminine enticement to be had in this little backwater. No brothels here, to be sure.”

“Unfortunately,” Amos inserted.

The voice continued as though Amos had not spoken. “All your visits home for holiday and she’s right down the road. Mightily convenient. You’ve never been tempted?”

Tempted? Outrage simmered through her. As though she were free for the picking. For his picking.

She had never rubbed on well with Penning. He never appreciated being stuck with her on those afternoons Papa visited the duke. He’d made his displeasure abundantly clear, treating all her attempts at conversation with scorn. And now she knew why.

You would need to put a bag over her personality.

His next words only further confirmed his enduring dislike of her. “She might not be hideous to behold, but other things matter.”

Might not be hideous to behold? Such a ringing endorsement. That was as much credit as he could grant her? Wretch.