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

“I felt compelled.”

He nodded. “Ever intriguing.”

He could well remain intrigued. She was not about to unveil that sordid bit of history to him. “What did you need from me, Mr. Butler?” A redundant question perhaps. She knew what he wanted of her, but she did not know how to undo what she had started.

His gray eyes smoked over. “You know what I need of you. This new rumor of yours is spreading through the village like brushfire. Do you know how I learned of it?”

“I haven’t any notion.”

“My mother.”

She winced. Oh dear.

He continued, “My own mother confronted me. Woke me abruptly this morning screeching to the heavens that I have the pox.”

“Oh.” She felt almost amused imagining that scene, visualizing the very grand duchess confronting her son in such a manner.

He was not so amused.

“Oh,” he echoed, and then made a sound of disgust. “How many rumors did you start, woman? I thought we had talked over them all. You made no mention of this one last night. What else need I be braced for?”

“Who says I’m the one who started it?” she asked, even though the question rang lamely to her own ears. Right now she felt raw and vulnerable. Prey cornered. By her cousin, Winifred, by Edgar . . . and now by Peregrine Butler. Survival demanded she defend herself.

“And who else is out there starting rumors of my person?”

She shrugged. “I cannot claim to know.”

They entered the woodland, leaving the fields behind them.

Her family collected their firewood from these woods. She used to accompany Papa and Mrs. Garry’s nephew, Lewis, to accumulate wood for their supply, but now it was just Imogen and Lewis. Every couple of months, they took the cart and cut down what they needed.

“Don’t play coy with me, Miss Bates. We know it’s you. Are there more rumors I need to be girded for?”

She shook her head, appreciating that this was an admission of sorts that she had fabricated the pox rumor. She accepted that. It would be her last untruth. Truly. She was finished with this scheming.

He exhaled. “Well. Good. I’m glad to hear that.” He winced. “I mean not good. My reputation is virtually ruined.” His gaze narrowed on her. “But that is what you set out to achieve, is it not?”

She nodded. “It is. I thought it important to protect the ladies of this community.”

“Protect them? From me?” He stepped closer and the breadth of his chest struck her as so very broad and solid looking. Not merely in appearance though. She knew he was solid because she had felt that chest. Against her. Against her palms. Crushing her breasts. “Because I am such a despicable person?”

“Not . . . despicable,” she replied.

“Oh? What am I then that makes me so very unsavory?”

“You’re insincere,” she snapped, disliking being pressed on the matter.

“Insincere?” he echoed. “That is my greatest fault?”

He lifted a hand and she flinched.

He hesitated, awaiting her tacit consent, holding his hand midair. She released a breath and he continued, bringing his hand toward her face and wrapping his fingers around a tendril that had fallen loose from her pins. She knew her hair must be an untidy mess given her recent exertions.

His touch was gentle on her hair as he tucked it behind her ear. She shivered as his fingertips grazed the tender skin below her ear. Goosebumps broke out all over her body and she shivered.

“Have I been insincere with you?” His fingers lingered, tracing her earlobe.

His deep voice rumbled between them, rubbing along her skin like a caress. She supposed not. He had been many things with her, but not insincere. Her mind flashed back to their time in the garden and the kiss and the way his mouth had felt over hers.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, recalling the taste of him, the texture, the pressure of his mouth and tongue and teeth. Nothing about that encounter had felt insincere. It felt as real and as honest as anything that had ever happened to her.

“Have you nothing to say?” That appealing mouth of his curled into a slow, languid grin.

She moistened her lips, but still did not speak.

He continued, “Astonishing. I did not think it possible to silence the garrulous Miss Bates.”

She found her voice and said, “Your reputation is not ruined.” Even though she did not fully believe that herself, she needed something to say and it felt like she should try to reassure him at the very least.

“Oh, but I think my prospects in all of Shropshire are officially dashed, much thanks to you.” The annoyance was back in his voice—if it had ever left him at all.

“Can a man’s reputation ever truly be lost?” She shook her head, grabbing a fistful of her skirts and starting up a steep incline. He kept stride with her. “It does not work that way for your sex. In my experience, nothing can happen so grievously to a man’s name that it can’t be repaired.”

She’d seen it time and time again. Men pardoned for infractions simply by the grace of their gender. The same tolerance could not be applied to females. It was the same everywhere. She had seen it even in her beloved Shropshire. Women were not even granted full rights under British law. That alone spoke volumes on the inequitable treatment of women.

“Spoken like a true bluestocking.”