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

Longing was dangerous. Especially for a firmly committed spinster who had no hope of developing anything lasting with the likes of Mr. Butler. He was after one type of female. And she was not after anyone.

She could certainly never tell him all of that.

Shaking her head as though that would perfectly clear it, she demanded, “What do you mean?”

“I want to know all the bloody rumors you’ve been spreading. I don’t want to wake up in the morning to any more surprises.”

He was here because of that. Of course. He knew of the latest rumor. She winced.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Charming unsuspecting heiresses?” And their papas. Yes. She’d prefer he do that if it meant he left her alone. She felt too vulnerable right now . . . too raw for this.

“I would love to be doing that very thing, however, you’ve made that a difficult endeavor.” He sounded angry now.

She winced again. She had put a bit of a crimp in his agenda. She should not have said that thing to Mrs. Hathaway. She knew that now. In truth, she’d known it the night she did it. In her bed after the Blankenship ball, staring into the dark, the truth, the wrongness of her actions, had found her.

Shaking her head, she reached the back gate to the cemetery and passed through it, every stride taking her farther and farther from her house and the wretched Mr. Fernsby. The knot in her chest gradually eased.

She lengthened her strides for the line of trees ahead. They loomed like the Promised Land.

“Miss Bates, would you please stop for a moment?” he bit out in exasperation behind her.

She kept going. She spent a good amount of her time on foot. Rarely did she take a horse or carriage anywhere when on her own. Not a day passed when she did not walk from one end of this shire to the other end. The fact that he could keep up with her brisk pace illustrated that he was fit in his own right.

“You realize you have no coat on? The day is rather chill.”

She glanced down at herself, realizing he spoke true. There was a bit of chill to the air, but she could not summon the will to care. She would not go back home for anything. At least not until much later. Not until she must.

“Where are you going?” he pressed.

She shook her head slightly. Away.

Away was all that mattered.

Why had they come? They’d never done so before and she knew from Winnie’s occasional letters that they had vacationed in Scotland before. Never before had they stopped in Shropshire en route north. She’d assumed it was Edgar’s good sense keeping them away. Given their history, it was the prudent thing to do. This visit was not prudent at all.

It was only two nights. At least according to Winnie’s letter. Perhaps less than that once—if—they realized Papa was not himself. Prolonged social engagements could be awkward with Papa. He grew overtired and repeated himself, forgetting what had already been spoken. For that reason Imogen was selective about what invitations they accepted and scarce was the occasion when they hosted overnight guests.

Larger, short-lived events like the Blankenships’ ball where Papa was no single individual’s sole focus worked best. She didn’t want it bandied all over the shire that her father was incapacitated in any way. The new duke could arrive any day and word could reach his ears that Papa was less than whole. On his whim, they could be ousted. Then where would they go? What would become of them?

“Miss Bates!” Her pace did not slow. “Imogen!”

She halted at the sound of her Christian name on his lips. It was a first. She didn’t realize he even knew her name.

She turned slowly, staring at him.

He held his arms wide at his side, and she realized he had eschewed a few articles of clothing himself. He was without his vest and cravat and merely wore a shirt of white lawn beneath his jacket that opened in a V at his throat, revealing an enticing glimpse of very firm-looking skin. Such a rebuff to propriety felt a lapse even for him.

“Yes?” she asked with impressive equanimity.

He shook his head, and then glanced around them. “What are you doing out here?”

Various answers barreled through her mind.

Running away. Hiding. Shirking my duties as daughter and hostess.

All true, but none she would admit to him. That would only lead to more questions, and answers, if revealed, that would make her appear vulnerable.

She turned back around and resumed walking. “I’m not doing anything. Merely taking a stroll. What did you want? Why were you calling at my house?” she asked even as she knew the answer. He was here because he’d discovered what she had said to Mrs. Hathaway.

He fell in beside her. “Where are you off to in such haste? And why did you flee your house through a second-floor window?”

“I departed through my bedroom window so I did not have to take the stairs.” It was both the truth and unrevealing.

“Why?”

She opened her mouth and closed it, determining she did not have to explain herself to him. Then, for some reason she did not understand, she volunteered, “We have houseguests.”

“And that requires escaping through your window?”

“For these particular guests, yes.”

“I am intrigued. Who are your guests?”

“My cousin and her husband.”

“And they are so very terrible you must flee through windows?”