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

You never know where life may take you. Perry could not argue with that. A year ago he could not have contemplated himself this way—with nothing. With no one.

An image of Imogen Bates flashed through his mind.

He had no right to think of her except that he could not stop doing so. He held no claim on her. She was not his to ponder and yet he could not forget about the taste of her or her response to him or what it would be like to be with her fully . . . in all ways.

Mr. Gupta clapped him on the back, jarring him back to the present. “You should think on it, Your Grace. Er. Mr. Butler, that is.”

Perry nodded. “I will.” I will continue to think about it.

Still shaking his head, he tried to temper his mounting excitement. It clung, however. He could not stop churning over various ideas. Deep buttery leather chairs. Soft sofas by the fireplaces. A fine cook with a menu that brought people from all over the shire. Roasted pheasant with buttered turnips. Smoked oysters with herbs. Meat pie with the richest gravy, so savory one would be forced to lick the plate.

Mr. Gupta chuckled. “I see you are already thinking the matter over. Good for you.” He nodded as though Perry had, in fact, already accomplished something. With a few more genial claps on Perry’s shoulder, he started off down the lane, turning back with a jolly wave and calling out, “I look forward to seeing what the future holds for you, Mr. Butler. I am certain it will be quite extraordinary.”

Extraordinary?

Perry had not thought so. He’d been in such a low state this last year, convinced a marriage of convenience was the only way to salvage his life. What a fool he had been. His life yawned before him. A blank slate. He could fill it in any way he wished.

Now he was beginning to hope . . . to believe.

Why not? Why could it not be extraordinary? Just because he was no longer the highborn Duke of Penning but merely the lowborn son of the late Duke of Penning? He could do anything—be anything.

Anything except be noble. Somehow that mattered a little less to him.

Perry continued, walking with a lighter step. He squinted, peering down the lane as someone emerged from Mrs. Hathaway’s cottage.

Strange that a year ago he would not have known Mrs. Hathaway, not by name or sight, should he have encountered her on the street. He certainly would not have known which house was hers. Now he knew. It was the one with the scalloped trim and yellow front door.

Indeed, he knew where Mrs. Hathaway, widow to the late owner of the Shropshire Gazette, lived. He supposed when one married a newspaperman charged with dispensing all news throughout the shire, peddling the latest on dit would be as natural as breathing to her, even all these years after her husband expired and someone else operated the Shropshire Gazette.

Now he knew about Mrs. Hathaway and most everyone else in the shire. Attending church with his mother and venturing out to other social engagements in the village, he at last knew his neighbors.

He knew this town . . . and he liked it.

Strange how this place had become his home once he lost his home. Ironically, he knew Shropshire better than he had when he’d had a stake in it, when he had been charged as its lord with its prosperity.

The back of his neck prickled with premonition as the woman who emerged from the house started down the walk and turned onto the cobbled street. He knew her instantly.

She wore no hat. The sunlight struck her brown hair, gilding it in the afternoon. She was wearing a prim yellow walking dress, her steps smart, her hips swaying slightly.

How had he never noticed that about her before?

There was an undeniable sensuality to her. Now he noticed it. Now he at once recognized her across any distance. His body immediately reacted. His skin tightened, vibrating over his flesh and bones.

He would recognize her anywhere.

Now and forever.

He stepped forward slowly, enjoying watching her undetected for a moment. It was as though her feet scarcely touched the ground. She was in perpetual movement, a flurry of action—always in motion, always with purpose. He admired her as she went along . . . envying that purpose. Perhaps because he had just reached the conclusion that he wanted that in his life, too.

He opened his mouth to call out to her, stopping himself at the last moment from shouting her Christian name across the village. That would not do much for discretion. She would not appreciate it. He might as well take out an advertisement in the Shropshire Gazette proclaiming himself infatuated with the vicar’s daughter. True or not, he did not need to let the entire village know it.

“Miss Bates!”

She stopped and turned in his direction.

Across the distance, her expression was unreadable, but he had the definite sense that she was not glad to see him. Her entire body stiffened ramrod straight and her chin went up a notch. It dawned on him then.

She had been coming from Mrs. Hathaway’s home. Mrs. Hathaway. The town gossip. Following Imogen’s promise to restore his reputation, he could guess why she would be calling on that particular lady today.

He fought back a small grin. He supposed he could inform her that there was no longer any urgency to the matter of salvaging his reputation.

He moved forward.

She held herself still, watching him approach until he was but a few strides away, and then she bolted like an animal startled from the brush.

That was unexpected.

“Imogen,” he whispered loudly after her, still hoping for discretion. He jogged a few paces to catch up with her. A quick glance around revealed none of the few people walking on the sidewalks paying them any heed.