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

When had he become this man who felt more at home among the common denizens of Shropshire?

It was not as though he was invited into the ballrooms and drawing rooms of the ton anymore. He actually felt some relief that he was beginning to acclimate to his new life. There was an ease and naturalness to moving about and navigating this new existence. No butler or valet or man of affairs hounding him and keeping on top of his schedule—making appointments for him without even his knowledge, telling him where to go, whom to meet, what to do.

His life was his own in a way it had never been.

A few local yeomen chatted at one end of the table, their rough, work-hewn hands moving on the air as they spoke and lifted their tankards of ale. He recognized them from about the shire. They nodded at him and he nodded back in greeting even as he lifted his ale and took a drink.

He was not one to drown his troubles in drink, but today he felt the urge . . . and he’d been so drawn to this tavern of late, contemplating ways in which to improve it, to make it the shining attraction that Shropshire deserved. All his visits here . . . the place was starting to feel like home in a way his mother’s home was not.

His thoughts drifted back to Imogen Bates. They never strayed far from her lately. She had promised to put the rumors to rest for him. He was not certain how she would accomplish that. And yet he would not put it past her. The woman was the type of person who got things done. She exuded efficiency. She had made a promise and he believed she would keep it.

So why did he not feel more relieved?

It might be nice for everyone to know he did not carry a festering disease that would slowly erode his mind. Why was he not plotting his next move and narrowing down his list of heiresses? If his reputation was repaired as Imogen promised, then the baroness’s young daughter would be the perfect choice and a great win indeed for him given he had not a penny to his name. The baroness had always liked him and she seemed more concerned with her daughter’s happiness than with her marrying a well-heeled gentleman with deep pockets. And from the way the girl always giggled and blushed in his presence, he knew she was not averse to his suit.

If he put his mind to it, he could make the lass happy. It would not be that difficult. He would be doting and kind. He would eventually care about her. How could he not? He was not so heartless that he would not develop feelings for someone he lived with day in and day out. Someone with whom he shared a bed and who gave him offspring. Feelings of affection would be normal.

Except it did not seem that very urgent that he wed an heiress anymore. The burning resolve to do so, to find his rich bride and restore his life to a trace of what it had been before, was gone. He searched, probing around deep inside himself, but he could not find that desire anywhere anymore.

Suddenly he did not feel as though matrimony to an heiress was the answer to all his woes. He’d been fine enough for the last year. Very well. Perhaps not fine. He’d moped around for far too much of it.

This had not been the best year of his life. Losing everything would do that to a person. He’d faced the loss of everything he knew and was forced to move in with his mother. He could state unequivocally that grown men should not live with their mothers. He did not relish sleeping in her cherub-infested guest room. He had to rectify that and soon.

He was not a man without education and verve. He’d made good marks in school, and more than one of his instructors had praised him for his cleverness. He could do something besides attaching himself like a parasite to a woman and leeching off her for his livelihood. Blast it. Imogen had gotten into his head. Never before had he doubted himself or his plans. Now this was the only thing he could consider—an alternate method to support his way through life.

He could settle on something else, an enterprise of some sort. It was very bourgeois of him and his mother would hate it. Thurman would be appalled. His friends, both the remaining ones and the ones that wanted nothing to do with him, would all be entertained at his evolution. It would give them something to talk about over drinks and cards at the club.

In any event, he was well qualified to run an estate as a manager or acquire a position as a man of affairs or a secretary. If nothing else, he could use his own two hands and put himself to work. He looked around the tavern again consideringly, seeing it again for all it could be.

As scandalized as his mother and sister would be to see him reduced to actually toiling for his occupation, there was honesty in it. Integrity. He could be satisfied with himself at the end of the day.

It would feel better than sulking about and pining for his old life and plotting which woman to woo into marriage to save him.

Imogen had been right. It was all a rather unsavory business, this matter of bride hunting. There was no honor in it . . . and he was done with it. Finished. No more.

He exhaled a great breath. Suddenly he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest as he released himself from the notion that he must marry and marry soon.

In its place, an unfamiliar sense of energy bubbled up in his chest. He had never felt it before, but he suspected it could be . . . freedom.

He was free.

Free in a way he had never been as the lauded Duke of Penning, but he was now free as a penniless bastard.

“Another drink, sir?” A young barmaid approached to ask.

“That will be all, thank you.”

Perry finished his drink and pushed up from the table. With a parting nod for the men who shared it with him, he marched for the door with a bounce and lightness to his step.