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

Shaking her head, she found a discreet place to stop and slip her drawers back on beneath her skirts. She tied the drawstrings with angry movements, telling herself this would never happen again.

First a kiss. Now this? It was beyond scandalous.

Clearly she needed to give Perry—no, Mr. Butler—a wide berth. He was looking for a wife and . . . well, she was not on the market.

Even if she was on the market, she would never meet his criteria. She blinked suddenly burning eyes and took a moment to rub at the center of her chest, wondering at the spreading discomfort there.

She would do as she promised and set matters right, clearing the path for him so that he could court all the blasted heiresses of Shropshire to his heart’s content. He would have what he wanted. Somehow she would restore his reputation and then she could continue with her life as though none of this had ever happened.





Chapter Sixteen




I will make it right.

Imogen repeated this mantra over and over in her mind as she marched from her house into the village with purposeful strides the following day.

She had promised Perry—Mr. Butler—and she intended to keep her word.

She had permitted herself to get carried away. She fully realized that now. Her hurt feelings in the past and overzealous need to protect the women of Shropshire had overruled her good sense and morals. She winced. She was no great arbiter of justice, and yet she had told herself she was right and he deserved all of her judgment and every bit of misfortune to befall him. That was its own form of transgression. One would think a vicar’s daughter would know better and be more generous in spirit. Apparently no one was immune from turpitude.

Undoing what she had done was the correct thing to do. Not only for him, but for herself. Her conscience longed for that relief.

And there was another matter.

A not so insignificant matter.

If he could reclaim his reputation and once again be free of all the rumors she had started, then she would be free of him.

There would be no more tense conversations. No more staring across her dining table at him. No more turning around to find him there, charming Papa, or directly in front of her, or tromping after her—or seducing her on a rock.

She grimaced. Very well. Seduction had little to do with what happened between them on that rock. It made her sound unwilling and she had been a full participant.

He would have no reason to see her at all.

No reason to kiss her ever again. No reason to run his mouth all over her thighs and on . . . other parts of her body. Heavens. She needed to put it all from her mind.

They would be as they were before. Coolly distant strangers.

She swallowed thickly and let that whirl around in her mind for a while, like a marble spinning and looking for a place to land and settle.

No reason to kiss her ever again. Coolly distant strangers.

If that caused a twinge in her chest, she ignored it. She had long ago accepted that she would never know intimacy. No more than that brief tryst she had so foolishly indulged in with Edgar. She would never be a wife and she was content with that fate. In fact, it had been a great comfort knowing she would not have to risk herself again.

There was fear in putting herself out there where she could be harmed again. Cocooning herself in her familiar and beloved Shropshire, in her childhood home, in her frilly girlhood bed, in her cozy bedchamber with its faded rose wallpaper, away from all potential dangers made her feel warm and safe and cozy. Even if a small part of her would miss him, she was relieved.

She marched past the smithy shop, slowing her militant advance as Gwen Cully emerged out into the yard, carrying a bucket, lifting it as though it weighed nothing at all, and dumping the contents over the fence that bordered the smithy and her house. She was strong. Not just for a female but for a person.

Imogen supposed that was her birthright. She came from a long line of blacksmiths. Her grandfather and father and uncle. She’d been working alongside the men in her family ever since she could stand in front of a forge. She was easily the tallest woman in the village, towering over most men. She wasn’t willowy tall either. She was solid. Sturdy. There was no mistaking she worked her muscles every day toiling at the anvil.

The villagers called her an Amazon. Often to her face and in her hearing, but they said it in a teasing manner as though that mitigated any potential sting. It was one of those things that made Imogen uncomfortable. No woman wanted to be broken down to a designation based on her appearance. As though they were all nothing more than their facades.

“Miss Cully. Good day to you,” Imogen called out in greeting. “How is your uncle?”

Miss Cully looked up, wiping her forearm against her perspiring brow and smiling as she caught a glimpse of Imogen. They were of a like age. Whenever Papa had called on the blacksmith, Imogen had quite enjoyed accompanying him. She and Gwen would play outside. It was a decidedly different experience than when Imogen had tagged along with Papa to Penning Hall. Gwen would show her the inner workings of a smithy. The girls had laughed and gotten on well together.

Gwen wore trousers, but no one in these parts blinked an eye over it anymore. With her father gone these three years past and her uncle practically bedridden due to his poor back, she was the only blacksmith around, and Shropshire was glad to have her, nontraditional or not. When one needed something wrought from metal, they would accept anyone with the skill to do it, and Gwen had proven herself quite capable in that area.