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

He resisted the urge to argue with her. He knew many did not consider him a gentleman anymore.

“Is it not obvious?” he asked instead. “I’m off to find the culprit responsible for these rumors and put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.” For what it was worth. He needed to act quickly. Before it was too late and she had chased away all marital prospects for good.

Mama wagged a finger at him. “No fisticuffs.”

He snorted, imagining himself engaged in battle with Imogen.

Of course, his mother had no notion the culprit was not a man.

Suddenly the image of him locked in battle with Imogen took on a decidedly amorous twist. In his mind they were locked and entwined, but they weren’t fighting. Indeed not. They were rocking together in a frenzy of lust. He gulped and shoved the unhelpful image aside.

“Of course. I won’t be violent.” Violence had never been part of his nature. “I promise.”

Although keeping his hands to himself might prove a challenge now that he knew she had better uses for her mouth than spreading slanderous lies.

But keep his hands to himself he would.

He’d softened toward the lass last night. He would not be so foolish again.



Imogen knew the moment her cousins arrived.

The more dramatic side of her nature believed she sensed it like a change in the air: a slight dropping in temperature or shift in the wind that raised her skin to gooseflesh. She shivered and rushed to the window, peering out the crack through the sheer curtains.

Indeed, they were here, despite all her wishing to the contrary and that letter they sent proclaiming that very intention. Their fine carriage came down the lane like a fateful zephyr.

Papa’s sister, Aunt Bernadine, had married well. As she and Uncle Hugh had been blessed with only Winifred, they’d left their very prosperous haberdashery business to Winnie—or rather to Winnie’s husband. Not that Uncle Hugh was deceased. He merely gave little attention to the business these days.

From Winnie’s letters, Edgar managed their half dozen haberdashery shops, overseeing the day-to-day running of operations whilst Uncle Hugh spent his days poring over puzzles and his evenings dining and playing cards at his club.

She watched as the conveyance lumbered its way toward her house, her throat thickening as it did.

The carriage stopped with a creak of wheels.

A stone lodged itself in her throat as the driver hopped down to open the door for her cousins to descend.

They were here.

Imogen took a gulping breath.

She would have to face them and be normal around them. Whatever that might be. She was not even certain what constituted normal. How did one behave normally after everything that had transpired?

Eight years had passed, but she had not forgotten. The pain had subsided, but the lesson had been learned, and, truth be told, there was still the abiding humiliation.

She watched the carriage, exhaling heavily, waiting for them to emerge.

The driver opened the door and held a hand up to her cousin. Winifred descended gracefully, lovely and elegant in her traveling gown of cobalt blue, a driving cap covering her golden curls. Edgar, her wretched husband, followed.

Imogen sucked in a sharp breath, bracing herself.

She’d seen them only once since their wedding day and that was when Imogen and Papa traveled for Aunt Bernadine’s funeral two years ago. The visit had been thankfully brief. They had not even stayed overnight, instead staying with one of Papa’s friends from his school days. They had not wished to burden their grief-stricken relations—much to Imogen’s relief.

But now they were here, and she knew. There would be no hiding. No escape.

This would be unbearable.





Chapter Thirteen





A London trip, 1841



Imogen fell in love on the summer of her eighteenth year during her annual trip to London to visit Aunt Bernadine’s family. Summer trips to Aunt Bernadine were customary.

Falling in love was not.

It happened on the third day of her visit. She was with Winifred in Hyde Park, joined by several of Winnie’s very fashionable friends. Their dress, their manners, their many stories that always seemed to involve people and places she had never heard of made her feel less than . . . less.

Imogen struggled not to look so very immature and unsophisticated in their company. Hopefully no one noticed her for the fraud she was.

Her cousin was quite popular, she soon learned, and was never short on companionship. Her drawing room was always full to the brim and Winnie never went anywhere without a small army of friends hanging on her every word.

It had not always been that way. Imogen’s visits to London had not always been like that. When they were little girls, it was just the two of them. They spent their days playing together, frolicking in the garden and making floral wreaths from the tulips and lilacs and lavender.

Occasionally a maid would take them to the park or the subscription library, but Imogen never had to compete for her cousin’s attention. She never had to beat out others. She’d had Winnie all to herself. She missed those days fiercely.

If becoming an adult meant forgetting your friendships and all the little things you liked to do in favor of talking about parties and dresses and boys, then Imogen longed to stay a child who wove floral coronets forever. That, she thought, sounded like heaven.

Now Winifred was a debutante and apparently quite the sought-after one, from the perpetual crowd surrounding her.