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

She tsked as she helped him out of his coat. “You should have been home an hour ago. You promised to be back in time for dinner and the hour is nearly upon us.”

The vicar inhaled deeply. “Oh, my. That does smell heavenly, Mrs. Garry. I am famished.” His gaze shot to Perry. “You must stay and join us.”

“Oh, I have no wish to intrude.”

“I insist.”

The housekeeper looked at him expectantly, smiling in welcome. He was certain Imogen Bates, wherever she lurked, would not smile so welcomingly when confronted with him. No doubt she would have words to say that did not echo her father’s kind invitation.

Perry’s lips twitched as he imagined that. His last glimpse of her had been across the Blankenship ballroom. Her eyes had glinted at him in challenge.

“Yes, thank you,” he heard himself saying. “I think I should enjoy that. I should enjoy staying for dinner very much indeed.”



Imogen placed her last beetroot in her overflowing basket and pressed a hand at the small of her back, rubbing the tight area as she stretched. She had tended the garden well into the afternoon, pulling it free of weeds before gathering two baskets of vegetables.

Mrs. Garry had arrived earlier to collect the first basket so she might reap its rewards and get Cook started on the vegetables for their dinner.

Hefting the last basket indoors, Imogen left it in the kitchen for Cook, and then took herself upstairs to wash and change her clothes for dinner.

Papa, she assumed, was having his afternoon nap. She knew his walk must have tired him, although he would never dare to admit it.

When she emerged from her chamber to check on him it was to find his room empty. He must have already roused himself for dinner and was waiting downstairs for her. It was a familiar routine.

Patting her freshly tidied hair, she descended the narrow stairs, humming lightly. Mrs. Garry was just passing through the small foyer with a tray of Papa’s favorite claret. He often liked to indulge in a glass before dinner, and she thought it did help take the edge off some of the ache in his joints.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Imogen. Dinner is almost on the table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garry. I take it Papa is in the parlor?” she inquired as she fiddled with the lace fichu tucked inside her bodice and started for the double doors.

“Yes. They’re in there,” Mrs. Garry called as she vanished into the dining room with the tray.

Nodding in satisfaction, she strode toward the room before Mrs. Garry’s words penetrated. Imogen stopped hard in her tracks.

They?

Had they a guest?

Her curiosity piqued, she resumed her pace, entering the parlor where she once again froze.

There, seated across from Papa, sat Mr. Butler, his arm flung along the settee’s back with casual arrogance, as though he was accustomed to making himself at home in her tiny parlor.

Her throat squeezed tight.

“Ah. Miss Bates.” Those devilish eyes of his alighted on her. He lifted to his feet, ever the gentleman. At least superficially. He had not behaved as a gentleman with her in the Blankenship gardens. “Lovely to see you again.”

She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Words strangled in her throat.

“There you are, daughter,” Papa said, the sound of his voice, when she could not find her own, sweet music to her ears. “I’ve brought us a guest for dinner.”

“Ah. I . . . see that,” she managed to get out as she hastened to her father’s side, offering him her arm as he clambered to his feet.

“I happened upon your father coming home, Miss Bates,” Mr. Butler offered.

She cut him a sharp glance. Was that judgment she heard in his voice?

“Dinner is on the table.” Mrs. Garry arrived just then, hovering in the threshold.

“Let us eat. I am famished,” Papa declared, moving ahead of them in his eagerness.

Imogen hung back to demand of Mr. Butler, “What are you doing here?”

“It is as your father said. He invited me to dinner.” Mr. Butler canted his head and looked down at her in disapproval. “You really should mind your father better. He was struggling to make it home today on his walk.”

She fought against the burning flash of guilt. Alongside the guilt, her resentment stirred that he should criticize her care of her father. Except he was right. She should not have permitted Papa to walk himself to Mr. Gupta’s. She had known it was too much for him, but it was impossible to tell him that and she let Papa persuade her, hating to treat him like the invalid he so desperately resisted becoming.

“I don’t need your instruction on how to care for my father.”

She started for the doors, intent on following her father to the dining room. The quicker they ate, the sooner this whole thing would be over. The sooner Mr. Butler could take his leave and go home.

His hand on her elbow stopped her and sent a jolt of awareness through her. She sucked in a breath and turned to face him, yanking her arm away from his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“I was only attempting to escort you in to dinner. It is the polite thing to do.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt silly. She sniffed and attempted to look more composed. “We don’t stand on such formalities here, Mr. Butler. You needn’t escort me anywhere.”

He held up both his hands in the air as though attempting to pacify an unpredictable animal. “Very well. I meant no offense.”