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

“Perhaps just this small corner of it,” she shot back. “It’s my duty to look after the people in this village . . . especially the vulnerable.”

“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that I’ve fallen into that vulnerable category you are so very concerned about. Where’s your compassion for me? Will you not look after me?” His voice lowered and softened a bit at that last question and a small shiver rushed through her.

“You?” She forced a caustic laugh and fought against that delicious shiver. “I don’t think you are in requirement of it.”

“And I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that I might offer something in marriage.”

“You? What would that be? You still live with your mother and it’s my understanding that is not by choice.”

The lines on either side of his mouth tightened and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “You are well apprised of my situation. You are correct. I have no property. No wealth. No rank. And yes, I currently reside with my mother. But there are other things I can still offer.”

“What, pray tell, can you then offer a wife?” She tried to hold a smile, but there was something in his face that made the curve of her lips falter and fade. The air between them felt positively alive, tight and crackling like the air before a storm.

“Pleasure.”





Chapter Fifteen




Pleasure.

The word dropped deep and thick, twisting on the charged air between them like a living, breathing thing, ready to sink its teeth into her if she drew too close.

She swallowed against the sudden tightening of her throat and glanced around, suddenly aware in a way she had not been before of how very alone they were. She’d brought him here, led him to her secluded little spot without truly giving any thought to how isolated they would be.

He elaborated, “I know about the giving of pleasure.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, not certain how to respond to that audacious statement. She brought her knees closer to her chest, hugging them as his deep voice played over in her mind. I know about the giving of pleasure.

Of course, he did.

Heat swarmed her face. She understood what he meant by pleasure. He was speaking of the delights to be had in the marriage bed.

She understood that he arrogantly thought he could deliver to his wife physical gratification and that it counted for something and would make marriage to him worthwhile.

It stood to reason that a couple could not live their lives in bed. They had to surface and see to the duties of life. There were twenty-four hours in the day and not all could be spent engaged in intimacy. And yet he thought the pleasure he could give was enough.

Arrogant man.

She had experience with men who arrogantly believed they were the deliverer of all that was good in life. Well. In her case, it had been only one man. One man who promised her pleasure and forever and lied and was now currently drinking tea in her parlor.

Things did not always work out the way they should in life. Just because a person deserved good things did not mean they obtained them. She knew that for many women there were no delights in the marriage bed, much less in the marriage. Or whatever delights might be had in the marriage bed, it was not enough. Not enough to make up for the dissatisfaction of being trapped in a loveless union where the only escape was death.

Imogen could often look at the face of a wife and determine whether she was happy or not. People generally wore their emotions on their face, in their body language. One’s true state could not be hidden every moment of every day. No one was capable of that level of concealment. Her own neighbor, poor Mrs. Henry, was a perfect example. The broken woman was the appearance of abject misery.

What made Mr. Butler so confident that he could please a woman?

He kisses like a dream.

Blasting that voice from her head with a withering mental snarl, she said, “Men think that they know all about a woman’s pleasure. If they even think about a woman’s pleasure at all. Though I suppose you are at the head of the pack since you even bother considering it.”

“I can’t speak for other men. Only myself.”

“I am sure every man thinks as you do.”

“You sound like you speak from experience. Could this be why you’re a kissing maven?”

She blinked, her face afire at his much too perceptive remarks. “A kissing maven?” Her lips twitched and she averted her gaze, smoothing her hands down her skirt-draped legs. Something to do with them—to keep them from trembling.

“Indeed.” One corner of his lips curled seductively. “You are quite proficient. You do not kiss like a vicar’s prim daughter. What would the good people of Shropshire ever think of their demure Miss Bates if they knew?”

“And how should a vicar’s prim daughter kiss?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Well, they should all kiss like you, Miss Bates, but I doubt they do.” She gulped. Heaven save her from that deep velvet voice. “More’s the pity.”

More’s the pity.

“Oh.” Her cheeks flamed, and she once again averted her gaze, staring down at the toes of her half boots peeping out from her hem.

“Shall I show you?”

Her gaze snapped to his face at this mildly posed question. “Show me? Show me what?”

That crooked smile of his deepened. “The aforementioned pleasure.”