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

She glared at him. He stared back, looking decidedly composed. She suspected he was enjoying himself—enjoying her discomfiture. Alone like this, she could only think of the last time it was just the two of them together, and this did not feel like such a grand idea.

The air between them crackled as though a storm was imminent. Imogen swallowed against the impossibly large lump in her throat.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered there, marking their shape, their color, recalling their pressure, their taste. Struggling with mortification, her gaze flew back to his and in his eyes she read his awareness.

He was remembering, too.

With a ragged breath, she tore her gaze from him and looked longingly to the door through which Papa had just passed.

Of course, that intimacy was there, hovering between them like a fluttering moth, impossible to ignore.

He gestured for her to precede him. “After you.”

With a single dignified nod, she ventured forward, wishing he would not follow, but knowing he would. He was here. No changing that now.

He was in her home and they were about to dine together in some bizarre alternate reality where the former Duke of Penning was happy to fraternize with her small, humble family. With her.





Chapter Eleven




Once they moved into the dining room, Mr. Butler held out her chair for her. Of course, with his unfailing manners he would do that. There might have been cross words between them, but he would always extend her courtesy. He might have been stripped of his noble birthright, but his nobility ran deeper than rank, deeper than his name. Deeper than skin. Imogen realized this of him, even as she was loath to admit it to herself. He had his redeeming qualities.

She stiffly sank down and seated herself, positioning her body on the edge of the seat, her spine as rigid as a slat of wood, careful that they not come into contact again.

Mr. Butler took his seat and joined them, bowing his head as Papa said grace over their meal. Imogen could not help from studying him as Papa blessed their food, watching him undetected and marveling at his presence in their modest dining room.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Papa declared as he snapped his napkin and lowered it to his lap. “It is so nice to have you here permanently in Shropshire.”

She winced at her father’s rather obtuse if kindly intended remark. The only reason Mr. Butler was in Shropshire was out of necessity. He could not help it. He had lived in London before his change of circumstances, and he doubtlessly would prefer to still be there and not stuck here.

Mr. Butler murmured his thanks as Mrs. Garry took the initiative to serve Papa from the large vegetable pie. Steam wafted up into the air as she cut through the flaky golden crust and placed a generous slice of the savory goodness on Papa’s plate, then on each of theirs.

It was simple fare, but delicious. No multiple courses for them. Imogen could not help but think he was likely accustomed to more sophisticated meals boasting several courses.

“This looks scrumptious, does it not, Mr. Butler?” Of course it did not occur to Papa to be self-conscious of their humble meal, and it should not affect her either. “You cannot do better than vegetables picked this very day,” he declared as he dug in with his fork.

“No, sir, you cannot,” Butler agreed.

“Nicely done, Imogen,” Papa praised. “Your mama would be proud that you’ve kept her garden flourishing.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she returned, her cheeks afire.

“Are you responsible for maintaining the garden, Miss Bates?”

“We all contribute to it, Mr. Butler.”

Papa waved his fork at her. “Do not be modest, daughter.” He looked to Butler. “Our dear Imogen does most of the work, and this meal is the product of her labors.”

If possible, her cheeks stung hotter. Butler was not like her papa. He likely thought her as lowly as a field hand for her efforts. Men of his ilk did not deem it genteel for a lady to dirty her hands, and she was certain he thought little of her.

Except his expression did not reflect that. Mr. Butler looked at her almost in admiration and she lowered her gaze to her plate, telling herself it must be her imagination. As furious as he had been with her last night—kiss notwithstanding—he would not look at her with any form of approval or warmth. He thought her a menace.

She had not forgotten his parting words, warning her to mend the damage she had done. You owe me my reputation. I want it back. You will help me, Miss Bates.

Those ominous and vaguely threatening words did not match the way he was looking at her right now. She swallowed thickly.

If he knew about her conversation with Mrs. Hathaway he would absolutely not be looking at her in such a manner. Indeed not. His gaze would be murderous.

The sight of him cozying up to Mr. Blankenship had filled her with a surge of complicated emotions. She’d reacted without thinking, the taste of his punishing kiss like fire on her lips. The kiss might have started out as a punishment, but it had turned into something else. It had turned into a kiss that she delighted in and seized and took ownership of for herself. It had fueled her in some bewildering way.

Her face hotter than ever, she took a much too big bite and chewed, glad for a reason to abstain from conversation.

They fell into companionable silence as they ate. Mrs. Garry left them and there was only the scrape and clink of cutlery and glass for a good few minutes. Thankfully Papa still very much possessed an appetite, and he very much enjoyed his food, almost to the point of gluttony. Not that his lanky frame gave any hint of that.