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

“You have the pox!”

“The pox?” he barked. “I haven’t the pox. Where did you hear such rubbish?”

She ignored him, pacing back and forth at the foot of his bed, her hands gesturing fiercely in her agitation. “Here I am, working most diligently to secure a match for you that will keep you respectable and get you into a home of your own and back in the ton’s good graces. Granted it won’t be what you once had, but it will be better than nothing, which is what you have now. The pox, Peregrine!” she wailed. “No one will want to marry off a daughter to a pox-riddled penniless bastard.”

He flinched. It was the truth. Ugly as it was to hear. Well, except the part about the pox. That was unequivocally not true.

Usually his mother spoke with more delicacy. This only proved her level of outrage.

“Mother,” he began carefully, the tension in his jaw making his teeth ache. “Hear me well. I do not have the pox.”

“Well, that is what’s being bandied about Shropshire.”

His hand clenched tighter around his fistful of sheets. “Who is saying this?”

“Cook’s assistant went into town to procure some fish for dinner. She overheard it in the shop. She said several people were talking about it. She came home at once and told Cook. And then Cook told Thurman.” She waved her hand in a rapid little circle. “Thurman told me because that is how tittle-tattle works, my dear. Nothing is secret. Nothing sacred.” Her arms stretched wide at her sides. “Now here I am demanding an explanation for what it’s worth.”

He closed his eyes in one hard blink.

This had Imogen Bates stamped all over it. It was definitely her handiwork.

Yesterday he had thawed toward her. He’d enjoyed himself with her. The meal had been one of the most pleasant dinners he’d enjoyed in a long time and that had everything to do with her.

He liked her.

He liked the way the candlelight had played over her skin and hair. He liked her voice. He liked watching her hands as they worked her fork and spoon. He liked a great many things about her and he especially liked that soft mouth of hers.

He had spent most of the evening envisioning kissing her again. It had taken everything in him not to pull her into his arms outside of the stable. He had barely been able to restrain himself. It had taken all his will to let her go without attempting another kiss.

Forcing himself back to the present, he chased off thoughts of kissing the thoroughly vexing and troublesome Imogen Bates.

“Peregrine,” his mother trilled. “I’m waiting for an explanation about this scurrilous rumor. You must suspect who started it.”

Indeed he did.

Either this was a previous rumor Miss Bates had started, which she knew about when they were together last night, or she had roused herself this morning and got an early start on making more trouble for him. Either way, it was unacceptable. Either way, he felt betrayed.

With no thought to his mother’s sensibilities, he flung back the counterpane and launched himself from the bed, diving for the armoire holding his clothing.

“Peregrine!” Mama cried in outrage.

He ignored her and hastily dressed. He’d become proficient at dressing himself. His valet, Carter, had remained at the Hall as part of the Penning staff, awaiting the arrival of the true Duke of Penning. That hurt a little less every time he thought of it. He wondered if some day it would cease to hurt altogether? Would he look at his life with contentment and not think of it as a loss at all?

His mother released a mollified breath as he pulled up his trousers.

He repeated his earlier words. “I do not have the pox.”

“You are certain of that?”

“I would know more than the local fishmonger, believe me,” he snapped. “Trust me. I am not so afflicted.”

His mother exhaled in relief and sank down on the edge of the bed. She rubbed the heel of her palm against her forehead, threatening to dislodge the turban covering her hair. Mama was a creature of habit. Her hair was never visible before the dinner hour, at which point her maid would arrange her artificially darkened strands in an elegant fashion.

“Why are people saying such things about you?”

He opened his mouth and closed it, reluctant for some reason to cast Miss Bates to the wolves—or in this case—to his mother.

His mother had always been fond of the Bateses. Especially the vicar. Imogen’s father would engage Perry’s father for hours on the subjects of history, philosophy, theology. The two of them could find pleasure discussing what they considered to be the best breed of sheep. Mother always appreciated the vicar’s ability to keep the duke preoccupied. That appreciation extended itself to Imogen Bates. He hated to dash her perception of the young woman. His mother had no clue of the deep river of deceit coursing through her.

But he knew and he would never forget and be taken in by her soft eyes and mouth again.

He knew and he intended to put a stop to her mischief once and for all.

Grabbing his jacket, he slid it on, forgoing the usual vest and cravat. He strode toward the door.

“Peregrine!”

“My apologies, Mother.” Dutifully, he turned and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Where are you off to in such a state?” She waved a hand over him in disapproval. “Look at yourself! You’re still a gentleman and should conduct yourself accordingly and dress yourself as one.”