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

She continued walking, but his longer strides easily kept pace with her.

“Why are you ignoring me?” he asked.

“I’m not.” She looked straight ahead as she walked, not sparing him a glance.

“You cannot even look at me.”

She did not respond to that, instead saying, “Why are you pursuing me? I did as I said I would. Your name is restored. I . . . handled that most problematic rumor. The rest I do not think much of an impediment to you.” She took a deep breath and continued, speaking with a slight edge to her voice, “You can go about your plans of courtship with no concern now. People will soon know that you are very marriageable. Now you can leave me alone.”

“Now I can leave you alone?” He wondered if he looked as confused as he felt. “Did we have some manner of agreement? Am I not to look or speak to you again now that you have corrected all the rumors about me?”

If that had been the understanding, then he would never have agreed to it. He did not want to stay away from her. He would not.

She sent him a wary glance. “That is precisely what I thought. We have no reason for further communication now. I won’t interfere with your quest any longer, Mr. Butler.”

Mr. Butler was it now?

Yesterday he had her shouting his name to the heavens but now they were polite and stilted again.

“My quest?” She almost made it sound honorable, like a noble mission. Ironic considering he had decided to give up on it for that particular reason—because it was not honorable, and she had been very clear on that point with him. She’d made her opinion heartily known. He continued, “I have decided to put my matrimonial goals to rest for a while.”

She fully looked at him then, her eyes widening. “What? Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think I need an heiress, after all.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

Because marrying an heiress would mean I’m done with Imogen Bates and I do not want to be done with her.

It was one reason—the first to pop into his head, but he knew better than to say it out loud. She did not strike him as receptive to his suit. Indeed not. She’d fled at the sight of him.

Suit? Was he actually considering courting Imogen Bates?

She continued walking, looking straight ahead as she spoke. “’Tis done. There is no need for us to communicate anymore.”

Other than the fact that he wanted to communicate with her.

He shrugged with a casualness that belied his seriousness, keeping pace alongside her. “Why can we not interact? Who’s to say we cannot?”

She shot a quick glance at him, her look one of horror. “I say.” She pointed to herself. “I say.”

“We cannot be friends then?” he asked with deceptive mildness, as though he was not hoping for more than friendship.

“Friends?” She shook her head, narrowing her eyes. “Is that what you want from me? Friendship?” Her expression hardened into something so very unlike her.

There had always been a softness to Imogen Bates. Perhaps not conveyed to him, but he had seen it. A warmth and kindness she exhibited to others. As the self-appointed caretaker of Shropshire, she had a big heart and wore it for all to see. Except right now. Right now she tucked that heart of hers out of sight from him. “You never wanted to be my friend before. In fact you said I was a rotten lemon.”

He winced and inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “The follies of one’s youth.”

“Not one’s youth. Yours.”

He did not care for this wall she was hastily erecting between them. He wanted her soft and melting and pliant in his hands again. Not this prickly creature breathing fire at him. He wanted her kindness and smiles. He wanted to reach that tucked-away heart.

He inclined his head. “Very well. My follies.” He held his arms out wide at his sides in apology. “Forgive me?”

She sniffed. Looked at him and away and back again, sliding him measured looks under her lashes with her big brown eyes. “You do not want to be my friend. You think me an easy conquest after yesterday’s sordid little play.”

“Sordid?” He pressed a hand over his heart as though wounded. “Bite your tongue, my dear. Dare not cheapen what we did. It is more aptly described as paradise.”

At that praise, she looked away, her cheeks burning a fiery red.

“You’re beautiful when you blush, Miss Bates.”

“Don’t say such things to me,” she hissed, her gaze snapping back to his face.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not real. You don’t mean it.” She motioned between them.

“Oh, it’s quite real. Your beauty is real. Yesterday was real.” He nodded decisively, holding her gaze, willing her not to look away from him.

The color in her cheeks deepened. “Don’t speak of that.”

He took a step closer, enjoying the way the pulse at the side of her neck thrummed above her modest collar. The overwhelming urge to lower his head and place his mouth there, to cover that madly drumming skin with his lips and tongue, seized him. He resisted the impulse.

“Why not? It happened. It can happen again if we—”

“No.” Her eyes widened, large with distress.

“What are you so afraid of?” he whispered, reaching out a hand and lightly brushing her elbow. “That it might happen again? Or might not?”