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

“Depends, my dear. When do you plan to go? You know I’ve been quite enjoying my afternoon naps since arriving here. And Uncle Winston’s cook makes the loveliest iced biscuits. Far better than anything our own cook ever bakes.” Ah. All the naps and iced biscuits explained his thickening middle then.

Winnie looked expectantly at Imogen. “What time shall we depart tomorrow?”

She took a breath. It appeared they would be calling on the baroness tomorrow. Never mind that she had not even agreed. Winnie would have her way. She always did. Evidently she had wanted Edgar. Imogen had not realized it when she was in London all those years ago. Her cousin had shown him no partiality. Several young gentlemen had been courting her at the time and she had reveled in all their attentions.

In any case, Imogen was so very glad Winnie had snared him. Now she realized marrying Edgar would have been a grave mistake, leading to a future of unhappiness.

Even as uncertain as her life was these days with Papa’s questionable health, she preferred her life, this life, to the one she had so desperately longed for at ten and eight. Thankfully, her prayers had gone unanswered on that score.

She might be an aging spinster, but she felt happier and more fulfilled than she possibly could be in any alternate reality as Mrs. Edgar Fernsby. Just the thought made her shudder. Happy alone was better than miserable with someone. She heartily believed that, and she wondered why more women did not subscribe to that notion. She’d seen evidence of plenty of unhappily married women. She acknowledged that some women did not have the luxury of choice. She was fortunate in that regard because she did, and she never forgot it.

For some reason, Perry flashed across her mind. Mr. Butler. She needed to keep things in their proper place—starting with his name.

He had shown her what manner of husband he would be. At least in the marriage bed. He’d given her a taste of that passion. Just a taste . . . and now she longed for the full glorious meal.

Heat flushed through her, starting at her face and spreading through her body, pooling into the parts that he had paid particularly ardent attention. She did not think she would ever be able to touch herself there without thinking of him and remembering what he did to her on that rock.

She had fled from their conversation, letting Mrs. Merrit haul her away. Cowardly of her, she knew. As tempting as it was to see him again, nothing could come of it. It was just lust and to be avoided—he was to be avoided.

Desire was ephemeral in nature. It was not substantive. It did not last. Her experience with Edgar had taught her that.

She gave herself a mental shake, casting off all such thoughts of him. They were neither here nor there anymore.

She had fulfilled her promise. They were done. She had to remember that and focus on going back to the way she was before. Before he fixed his attention on her. Before he touched her. Before she started to like him.

Before she knew to long for anything else, for anything more.



“Peregrine? Where are you going?”

His mother’s lofty tones stopped him cold. He turned with a respectful smile on his face, the familiar longing to have his own home, his own independence, seizing him. “Into town.”

“At this hour?” She stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her elegant dressing gown.

The hour was not so very late. They’d had dinner and he had even sat with her for a while in the drawing room afterwards, pretending as though it felt normal to do so—as though it could be his life.

“I won’t be gone very long.”

“Where could you be going at this hour?” she pressed.

“For a ride.”

“At night?”

“There’s a full moon.”

That was not true, but his mother did not know that. She was an abject indoorswoman. The only time she stepped outside was on the way to her carriage.

“Hm.” She looked down her slim nose at him. He felt her disapproval keenly. It did not help that she loomed above him several steps. He swallowed back his aggravation at being questioned. He was a grown man. He had not apprised his mother of his activities since he was a lad.

“Do not be too late,” she directed. “You’ll be tired tomorrow and I wanted to go over our upcoming travel plans. We have several decisions to make. I’d like to visit Aunt Judith, but then there is your sister. She always expects me to be there for Thomas’s birthday celebration.”

This was his mother’s life. These were his mother’s plans. She was lumping him into them as though he were a child to be dragged along with her.

It was miserable.

He supposed he should be grateful for her unwavering support—even though she was the cause for the current circumstances of his life—but he longed for his freedom. Her actions might have determined his present situation, but it did not determine his future. That was up to Perry.

“Ah. I won’t be about much tomorrow. I have some errands. Do not wait on me. Feel free to decide whatever you like.” She did not know it yet, but he would not be accompanying her.

“Errands? Such as?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Just some business to attend to.”

“Business? What manner of business do you have in Shropshire?” The level of derision in her voice was insulting. Then her expression suddenly transformed into one of hopefulness. She grasped the railing and descended the stairs. “Is it a marital prospect? Did you sort out that vile . . . matter?” She fluttered her fingers, clearly unable to put to words the rumor that he had the pox.