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

Imogen studied Peregrine Butler beneath her lashes as he sat in the chair across from her. The chair her mother once occupied. It had been empty a long time now. Usually it was just Imogen and Papa in this dining room, at this table, except when they accepted one of the invitations extended by members of his flock and dined out.

Lately, of course, they accepted fewer of those invitations given Papa’s condition, and they rarely ever invited anyone into their home anymore. Except for tonight. Papa had taken it upon himself to break custom.

And yet it felt nice to have a third person at their table again. Even if it was Mr. Butler. His body nicely filled the usually empty space.

Butler patted his napkin at his mouth. Only crumbs remained on his plate. “Any time you want to invite me over to reap the benefit of your labors, Miss Bates, please do not hesitate.”

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. He had certainly never sat across the table from a lady who had harvested with her own two hands the meal he ate. Now, contrary to her early self-consciousness, she felt a twinge of selfish pride to be unlike what were doubtlessly scores of females in his life.

“Of course, Mr. Butler. You are welcome whenever you choose,” she said and strangely the words did not even stick in her throat.

He motioned to the pie at the center of the dining table. “Might I?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Of course.” Before she could move to assist him, he was lifting up from his chair and helping himself to another slice of the savory pie.

The warm pleasure she had felt in her face now spread even further throughout her.

Until she recalled that one final wicked rumor she had whispered about him to Mrs. Hathaway. It would have made its way through town by now.

Her pleasure dashed, suddenly the food she had just eaten settled like stones in her stomach. Observing him last night with Mr. Blankenship, she’d had a knee-jerk reaction. Very well. An overreaction. Now she could acknowledge that.

Perhaps nothing would come of it.

Perhaps Mrs. Hathaway would say nothing. It was an unlikely hope.

Imogen closed her eyes in a long, pained blink as she reflected on the impulsive words she had uttered to the town’s biggest gossip.

Thankfully Papa was engaging Mr. Butler in conversation and neither gentleman noticed anything untoward in her expression. She was simply relieved to be spared the burden of carrying the conversation all by herself.

She listened with half an ear as her own thoughts whirled and twisted through her. She caught only snatches of their discussion. Papa’s topics ranged from theology, to history, to the upcoming fall fair and which farmer might win the prize for the best sow.

She knew she should better monitor what was being said in case Papa lost his train of thought and needed her to step in to keep him on track. Usually, she was more diligent about doing that very thing . . . but then a distraction the likes of Peregrine Butler was not usually in the vicinity.

The dinner might not boast multiples courses, but Cook had prepared dessert and they indulged in a refreshing raspberry flummery.

“Now I must come back,” Butler declared with relish as he tucked into the creamy custard. “This is bliss on a spoon.”

Papa twirled his spoon in a small circle. “Cook is a marvel. She could work in any household in the land.”

Finished with dinner, they rose and retired to the parlor. Imogen almost expected Butler to take his leave at this point, but he lingered.

At Papa’s request, Imogen settled before her harp and began to play. Most ladies played the pianoforte, but her mother had taught her the harp, and although she was not nearly as proficient as Mama, she could adequately strum a tune.

She played the solo from Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, closing her eyes as she often did whilst she played. Upon the last chord, she opened her eyes and found that Papa had dozed off in his wingback armchair.

With the music fading in the room, his soft snores could be heard over the crackling and pop of the fire. His head lolled against the back of the chair and his mouth sagged open. She smiled fondly at him.

“He’s tired,” Butler offered up unnecessarily.

She turned her attention to Butler. He stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel. A small fire crackled in the hearth, casting light on his dark trousers.

“Yes,” she agreed. “He did not manage a nap today as he usually does.”

“That walk took him some time.”

It felt like a jab and she scowled. Squaring her shoulders, she defended, “My father is a very independent man.”

“He needs tending.”

“He is well tended, I assure you. I take care of him in a way that does not rob him of his dignity,” she insisted.

He stared at her in silence, his scrutiny intent and she couldn’t fathom his thoughts. She looked back at her father napping in his chair.

After some moments, Mr. Butler’s voice reached her. “He said you’re of great help to him.”

She must have missed that remark when she was woolgathering at dinner. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I am his daughter.”

“And your mother is gone,” he added.

She nodded, feeling a little awkward. Butler’s eyes were far too keen on her. “He needs me.”

“Did she help him with his sermons, too?”

She tensed and cut him a sharp look. How did he know of that? Had Papa mentioned that? Oh, she really ought to have paid closer attention. She and Papa had discussed how no one in the community should be alerted to her involvement in his sermons. People had to believe Papa was the same man he had always been. No one could think his episodes of apoplexy had affected him in the long term and made him less than able to perform his duties.