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

“And what would those other things be, Penning? What is more important than a wife who is fair of face and not a chore to bed?”

“I can think of little else that matters more than possessing a lovely wife,” another voice seconded.

Possessing? Is that what these lads thought? That a wife was a possession? Papa did not think like that. Is that what Penning thought? She wanted to believe gentlemen did not think this way, but she knew the reality. Men controlled the world and women had to fight and claw their way for a foothold in it. She’d accompanied Papa on many a house call to visit a downtrodden wife, crushed beneath the boot of a domineering husband.

Their neighbor to the east was one such example. Mrs. Henry had five children and a brutal husband who was never satisfied with any of her wifely efforts. She was frequently “falling down.” Mama often tended to her after these mishaps—beneath the critical eye of her husband, of course. As though he feared his wife might tell Mama the true cause of her accidents.

Imogen held her breath, waiting for Penning’s response, her shoulders tightening to the point of discomfort.

Penning chuckled lightly. “One’s disposition must be considered. A wife will not stay young forever. Looks fade and then you’re left staring across the dining table at someone you can hopefully abide.”

“And you cannot abide Miss Bates?”

“Let us just say she has the disposition of a rotten lemon.”

Imogen pulled back as though struck.

Everyone laughed. Even Amos, and she had only ever been solicitous to him.

Not just a lemon . . . but a rotten one.

“No one is telling you to marry the chit, Penning. Dalliance does not require that level of commitment.”

As though dalliance with me is a given? As though I would simply fall into his lap with wild abandon?

“There are any number of females I would rather kiss than a sanctimonious vicar’s daughter who finds it diverting to discuss the weather and the latest infestation of wheat mites.”

She dropped her hands onto her quaking knees and inhaled a pained breath.

She never knew what to talk about in his exalted presence—and wheat mites could ruin a crop. Clearly he could not be bothered with topics so beneath him.

Still holding onto her knees, she rocked slightly. It was one thing to suspect he didn’t like her and another thing to hear him say it out loud—another thing to hear him talk about her with all his friends. To hear him laugh and ridicule her to them.

She blinked her suddenly burning eyes. Rotten lemon.

The young toffs continued talking and laughing, but she could scarcely hear the rest of their words over the buzzing in her ears.

They moved on to other subjects, but she remained crouched where she was, battling anger and nausea, breathing in the aroma of cigars and wondering how long she had to suffer in silence.

She didn’t know how long she waited. It felt like hours, but it could have been minutes. Eventually their voices turned to low rumbles as they moved toward the door of the conservatory. They were leaving at last. Hinges creaked and then silence fell and she assumed they had departed. After a moment, she emerged from beneath the table and rose up into the smoky air.

They were indeed gone.

She turned and grasped the edge of the table as though drawing strength from her ruthless grip. She inhaled and beneath the lingering scent of cigars she caught a whiff of loamy fauna. Imogen looked down at her hands and noticed the small matchbook near her left pinky finger. One of them must have left it.

The door to the conservatory creaked open and she whirled around.

There at the end of the aisle, between stretching foliage, the door drifting shut behind him, loomed Penning.

He’d returned.

He’d returned and now he stared down the length of the walkway where she stood. He regarded her and there was no point in running or hiding. It was too late. She was discovered.

“I forgot my matchbook,” he declared.

“Oh.” Turning, she plucked it up from the table and faced him again, glad for the stretch of space between them. Hopefully he could not detect the way her hands trembled.

“Were you in here this entire time?” he asked mildly, a tinge of disapproval in his voice.

Disapproval? She would have none of that from him. She had done nothing wrong. At least not in comparison to him. “I was.”

“You might have announced yourself.”

“I did not wish to intrude.”

“But you wished to eavesdrop?”

“Not particularly. It was not my intention.”

“But you did eavesdrop,” he said more than asked.

“On your vile conversation?” She lifted her chin. “Yes. I heard it.”

He sighed as though afflicted. That was some irony. He was the afflicted one? After all the terrible things he had said about her in front of his friends? In front of young Amos Blankenship, no less. No doubt the duke’s words would make the rounds in the village. Everyone would look at her and think: rotten lemon.

“I suppose I should apologize then.” Clearly any apology he issued would not be sincere. He doubtlessly felt compelled as their fathers were friends.

“You should not do or say anything you do not mean. You never have to do that with me. It’s no longer necessary.” Palming the small packet of matches, she forced herself to stroll forward down the aisle toward the door—toward him—with great composure. She was proud of herself for that. Attired in the most ridiculous frock, still bruised raw from his words, she moved closer to him with a semblance of equanimity.