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

Upon reaching him, she stopped and held out her hand. “Here you go.”

He looked down and turned his hand over. Taking great care that they should not touch, she dropped the matches into his open palm.

“Thank you,” he murmured, all the while peering carefully at her face, as though he was searching for evidence that she was not as calm as she appeared—that she was not unaffected. He would be right if he perceived that, but God willing he would not. She did not want him to know how hurt she felt.

He knew the ribald nature of his conversation with his friends. He knew she should be scandalized and offended—and she was. She was actually fine with him knowing those things. As long as he knew she was not crushed. She would not have him know he possessed the power to hurt her.

“Pardon me.” She nodded to the door he was blocking, indicating she wanted to pass.

“Of course.” He stepped aside, still looking as though he wanted to say something. God spare her whatever lies and platitudes he would offer forth to soothe her. She did not want his sham of an apology. She would not believe him, at any rate, and he could not expect her to—not on the heels of everything she had overheard.

She was well clear of him and out the door when she suddenly stopped and looked back at him.

Bathed in sunlight, he stood in the threshold, one shoulder wedged in the doorjamb, an eyebrow lifted questioningly. And it occurred to her then. He was not sorry. Indeed, not one little bit. There was no regret in that supercilious arched eyebrow of his.

She moistened her lips, outrage bubbling up inside her. “I would just like to say . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I would have you know . . .” He continued to stare at her in patient expectation, and she blurted, “Wheat mites can be very serious and decimate an entire crop. An entire shire can suffer the ravages of wheat mites.”

That said, she turned and left him.

Perhaps she should have said something else. There were a great many things she could have said that were more stinging, but that was the one thing that had popped out from her mouth.

She had heard Penning speak unrestrainedly. Now she knew his true mind. There was no confusion. No obscurity. This particular monster no longer hid in the dark.

She’d glimpsed the real Penning, and she would never forget him or his words . . . even as she managed to avoid him in the days and years to come.

At future gatherings, she kept her distance. Greeted him as required, but said little else. An outsider looking in would think naught of it. One might remark that the vicar’s daughter was merely reserved in nature around her betters.

Only young Penning would be able to read more into her reticence. If it even occurred to him to do so. If he cared. Perhaps he recalled that long-ago lawn party and the girl in the garish pink dress who stared at him with wounded eyes. Perhaps not.

In the years that followed, young Penning attended her mother’s funeral alongside his family. Imogen was aware of him there, a tall, silvery-eyed figure on the periphery, an unwanted presence amid her grief.

Two years later, on the death of his father, Imogen returned the courtesy and did the same, standing among mourners and offering stilted condolences.

Following the demise of the old duke, there was little occasion for them to interact further.

Five years passed with minimal sightings.

She heard of his exploits, of course. The young illustrious Duke of Penning spent most of his time in London, expanding his reputation as a feted nobleman about Town whilst Imogen’s life turned to that of caretaker.

She settled into spinsterhood and loyally tended to her father and the vicarage and the people of Shropshire, telling herself it was all she ever wanted. This duty was her calling.

It was enough.

Her life was one of purpose. She harbored no regrets even if, on occasion, the whisper of rotten lemon chased through her mind like a slithering snake. Especially every time she came face-to-face with Amos Blankenship in the village. That snake slithered yet.

Her single consolation was the proverb Mama had frequently chirped: As you sow, so shall you reap.

The Duke of Penning would have his turn.

She did not know when or how, but when it came for him, she would not pity him.





Chapter Two





Ten years later, 1848



The once glorious and venerable Duke of Penning sat as bold as he pleased in the first pew of Imogen’s church.

Except he was a grand duke no more.

The young nobleman had gotten his comeuppance.

The mighty had fallen from his perch and landed upon earth to mingle alongside the rest of them—even if he still happened to sit in the pew reserved for the Duke of Penning and his family.

Duke no more.

A tight little smile of satisfaction curved Imogen’s lips—until it occurred to her that she was sitting in church and harboring some decidedly less than charitable thoughts over one man’s misfortune. Not very virtuous behavior. She tried to stamp down her glee. It was not well done of her.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of her prayer book, digging into the leather, and she sent a guilty glance where the erstwhile duke sat beside his mother, looking unreservedly bored as her father pontificated from the pulpit—and any guilt she may have harbored for her less than charitable thoughts toward the man vanished.

Impudent man. Once the real duke arrived, he would then sit among the denizens of Shropshire like the mortal he was. Her smile deepened. She longed for that day. The final reckoning come to fruition. Mama had been right. As you sow, so shall you reap.