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

Imogen watched from the fringes of every room as Winnie and her friends entertained each other. She watched, battling loneliness, missing her cousin, but she valiantly tried to adjust to this new reality.

She attempted to follow the conversations, focusing on their words and trying to summon the interest to care. But it was difficult feigning interest in the new millinery shop that opened on Bond Street boasting some choice riding caps.

It was in the midst of this discussion that Edgar Fernsby first sidled beside Imogen in the park. “I wager you never knew such a variety of riding caps were in existence?”

Once she overcame her astonishment that one of Winnie’s set had singled her out for exclusive attention, she found her voice.

In fact, over the following days Mr. Fernsby continued to single her out for his sole and flattering attention. Perhaps even more astonishing was that Imogen regularly spoke back, quite at ease in his company. It felt natural talking to him, natural becoming his friend.

Remarkably, his interest in Imogen didn’t wane. He strolled alongside her at the back of Winnie’s group of doting friends as though she were the most fascinating person in the party.

He began to call regularly at Winnie’s house, each time fixing his attention on Imogen, inquiring after her health. He was intrigued by everything about her. Her hobbies and interests. Her favorite books and flowers and foods. The names of her pets. No one ever took such an interest in her before. At least no gentleman.

Edgar Fernsby returned again and again to Uncle Hugh’s house, flattering her with his company until she realized the unbelievable truth. He was courting her.

He joined them at the theater and the museum and at the park. He was as constant as the stars and when one evening he coaxed her into slipping from Winnie’s drawing room amid the musicale Aunt Bernadine was hosting for two dozen guests, she obliged him and followed him into the dark and empty library that smelled of leather and parchment.

She should have known better, but she did it anyway. She trusted him.

When he kissed her against the double doors, she permitted it, reveling in the moment, in the warm fuzzy sensation that swept over her.

After that evening they were sneaking kisses whenever they could. Behind potted ferns. In Aunt Bernadine’s garden. In a dark alcove at the theater.

All very discreet, of course. They made sure of that. She thought him very considerate to keep her reputation in mind.

Kissing became like breathing. Something she needed every day from him. It was their secret. A luscious little gem she held in her hands, cupped between them like fairy dust. The secrecy of it all was part of the thrill. That much she knew.

He spoke of them spending the rest of their lives together and she was eager for Papa’s visit in less than a month to collect her. At that time Edgar would reveal his intentions to her father and ask for his blessing. That was the plan. It was decided. They had discussed it. He had proposed. She had accepted.

It was happening. Before the year was out she would be a married woman. She would be Mrs. Edgar Fernsby. Imogen only wished her mother was alive to meet her dear Edgar—to see her so blissfully happy. Mama had always said one day would arrive when Imogen found her perfect partner. Imogen had had her doubts, but clearly Mama knew what she was talking about because Imogen had found him.

She’d had no notion when she left to visit her cousin for the summer that she would meet the love of her life. Her young heart was bursting from the newness and unexpectedness of it all. She saw stars and hearts and rainbows in everything. Which would explain why her maidenly reserve was nonexistent. Nothing had prepared her for such an ardent suitor or his cajoling words. She’d never been the object of any man’s lusts.

Perhaps it was because her father was a vicar. Gentlemen tended to steer clear of her. Or perhaps it was her provincial existence that did not boast an abundance of suitors or even potential suitors. She was unaccustomed to such an assertive gentleman.

A few afternoons before Papa was set to arrive, Imogen and Edgar found themselves alone in the garden. A common enough place for them in their interludes.

Edgar kissed her and the pressure of his lips on hers grew more and more insistent and coaxing.

She gave a feeble protest as his hand pawed over the front of her gown, her fingers circling his wrist. “Edgar, I don’t think . . .”

“It’s all right, love.” His gaze fastened on her face, his eyes reminding her of a pleading puppy dog. He brushed his thumb down her cheek. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“Then let me make you feel good.”

She released her grip on him and let him touch her at will. He wanted to and she did love him . . . and trust him. She wanted to please him. They were going to be married, after all.

Pinning her against the tree, his hand found its way beneath her skirts and he fondled her between her thighs. His fingers unerringly found the slit in her drawers. It was wicked, but not . . . unpleasant. She wouldn’t say his awkward strokes were making her feel good though. Not as he promised.

“Ahh, there, there, my love,” he panted in her ear, increasing the pressure of his fingers until he probed inside her. “You feel splendid.”

She winced, inching away from his touch. “Ouch.”

“Beg your pardon,” he murmured, sliding his fingers out from beneath her skirts. “Let’s try something else, eh?”