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

“Something else?” she queried, slightly relieved for an end to that bit of awkwardness.

“It’s my turn,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, taking her hand and guiding it to his manhood.

With a quick glance around, he hastily freed himself of his trousers.

“Edgar?” She looked around nervously. “Are you certain—”

“It won’t take long. I’m almost there, love.” He guided her and showed her how he wanted her to move her hand up and down the length of him.

He wasn’t very large. She didn’t know what to expect, but he was far from intimidating even as he grew slightly in size at her ministrations.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, dropping his hand away and leaving her to her rubbing and stroking of his rod. His breathing grew erratic. “Oh, I’ve dreamt of you touching me like this, my love. I knew you would be brilliant at it.”

With a groan, he spent himself and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sudden wetness coating her palm and fingers.

He quickly removed a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it to her as he tucked himself back inside his trousers.

“That was brilliant, love,” he said in approval, nodding as he tidied himself.

Strangely, she did not feel brilliant.

They returned inside. Separately, of course, for the sake of discretion. But he did not look at her the rest of the evening. She tried to meet his gaze, but he avoided her eyes, and she could not help wondering if she had perhaps been less than brilliant.

In fact, he stayed away the next couple of days. No calls. No joining them for their walks in the park or for tea.

Papa arrived and Imogen grew desperate to see Edgar again. Perhaps he had confused the date of Papa’s arrival?

His absence was worrisome. Beginning to fear that he had fallen ill or to injury, she entrusted a letter to a servant with instructions to deliver only to Edgar at his residence.

When the servant returned, he assured her that he had placed it directly in Edgar’s hand.

She had no choice but to wait.

Just as she had no choice but to leave with Papa as scheduled two days later and return home to Shropshire.

For days, for weeks, she foolishly looked to the horizon, staring forlornly out the window, wondering what could have happened and searching for Edgar’s figure to appear to fulfill his promise of marriage.

It was two months later when they received the news.

Word reached them via a letter from Aunt Bernadine. Winnie was betrothed.

To Mr. Edgar Fernsby. They would wed at the end of the season.

A bit of Imogen died that day.

Her heart most certainly broke, but so did something else inside her. Her last bit of childhood, the innocent inside her that believed in things like love and happily-ever-after and blind trust.

Mama had been wrong. There was no perfect partner waiting for her. She would never be so foolish to believe that again.





Chapter Fourteen




As Imogen peered out the window and into the yard, her grip on the filmy edge of the sheer curtains tightened until her knuckles ached. A fingernail poked a hole through the fabric, rending it, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.

Edgar Fernsby was here. He had dared to come here.

Blast it. She released the curtain and stared through the crack, scrutinizing Edgar as he stepped into the midmorning light. She searched for the differences in his countenance, if any, that time had wrought.

He had not changed very much . . . and yet he had.

His skin was pallid, and the luster was gone from his eyes. She could detect that even from her window.

He lifted his hat and smoothed a pale hand over his head. His hair had thinned and rested somewhat limply against the shape of his skull.

She knew without touching that those strands would feel wilting and not at all as they had once beneath her fingers, silky rich and thick.

Mr. and Mrs. Fernsby stood side by side, a fine pair in their lavish attire—and something seized inside her. A wash of panic. A bitter taste coating her mouth. A tremoring up and down her body.

“No,” she whispered, stepping back from the window.

She did not want them here. She did not want to be here. She could not do this. She could not face them. Not yet.

Panicked, she darted in multiple directions in her small bedchamber, like an ant seeking escape from the rain, before returning back to the window and looking down again.

They were gone. They had advanced on the front door. Any moment they would be inside her home. A knock sounded from the bowels of the house. Soon Mrs. Garry would let them inside and she would call up for Imogen to come down.

No, no, no, no.

Yanking the curtains wide, she pulled open the window, more grateful than ever for the wall of ivy covering the front of the vicarage. Hiking her skirts up to her thighs, she straddled the windowsill, casting aside any sense of modesty. These were desperate times. She would not endure an entire day with Winifred and Edgar. She would have to face them eventually, at dinner, but she could avoid them during the day. For now, eventually could wait.

A glance down confirmed her cousins had already entered the house.

It was now or never.

As though to hammer that home, Papa called to her from belowstairs, “Imogen!”

She stretched one slippered toe until she found a trellis hole, reminding and encouraging herself that she had done this before—when she was a child.