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

He nodded and waved a hand reassuringly. “The rumors have been put to rest.” At least he assumed so. It had been two days since he bumped into Imogen leaving Mrs. Hathaway’s house, when she had assured him everything was set to rights. He had not verified it one way or another.

Not that he was overly concerned anymore. People could talk. People always talked. He was not worried as his mother was. His future did not depend on finding a rich heiress. At least not anymore. He’d let that particular ambition go, replacing it with actual ambition.

“Well, that is a relief.” His mother stopped two steps above him. “Are you calling on the baroness tomorrow? Or perhaps Mr. Blankenship?”

“No. That is not my errand.”

His mother’s smile faltered. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed, and before she could press for more information, he started away. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He left her staring after him, feeling her disappointment like a dagger in his back as he stepped out into the evening and closed the front door to the dower house firmly behind him.

He made quick work of fetching his mount from the stables and saddling the horse himself. He rode for town, his destination an amorphous thing in his mind. He rode without putting it into definitive words, but he knew.

He knew as well as he knew the shape of his own hand. It was instinctive. A burning impulse that he could not resist. He felt it in his bones, in the rush of blood through his veins, in the primal pump of his heart.

He was going to see her.





Chapter Nineteen




Imogen was still awake, the lamp beside her bed only just put out, and her head still settling into the pillow when a scrabbling sounded at her window that had her lurching upright with a gasp.

Her first thought was highwaymen, and then she called herself ten kinds of silly. That’s what came of reading too many gothic romances before bed and taking to heart Mrs. Hathaway’s tales of wild rogues holding up coaches on the road south to London.

She fumbled in the dark, groping for the lamp, just managing to illuminate the room in time to spot the man emerging halfway through her bedchamber window, one long leg slung over the sill and a hessian boot on her floor. Not a highwayman. She recognized the dark hair and profile of Perry at once and quickly swallowed back the scream in her throat.

Gulping down the sound, she pressed a hand over her galloping heart, watching as he unfolded himself into a standing position.

She should scream. In many ways he was as dangerous to her as a highwayman. Ever since their kiss she could not trust herself with him any more than she could trust him.

Kiss? Ha! What transpired between them at Mrs. Blankenship’s garden had been child’s play compared to what took place at the pond. The things they had done on that rock were scandalous. She did not know men did those things. She did not know that a woman could feel those things.

She flung back the coverlet and jumped to her feet. Snatching a pillow off her bed, she tossed it at him. It bounced off him like a feather.

A man had invaded her bedchamber. She should be terrified, but she could only summon outrage and reach for another pillow.

She should be screeching with all the quivering virtue of a maiden. It would be the ordinary and expected reaction. If she were ordinary. And yet she knew she was not. She was a spinster with more carnal knowledge than she ought to possess.

She took a measured breath. It would do no good to cause a commotion. She would spare Papa the ordeal and scandal of discovering Mr. Butler in her bedchamber. His health was fragile. She would handle this herself as she did most all things since Mama died and Papa was struck down with his first fit of apoplexy. She did not need anyone taking care of her or managing this situation for her. She was a capable person. She could send him on his way back at her window all by herself.

Hugging the pillow in front of her like a shield, she demanded, “How dare you! What are you doing climbing through my window? Are you mad?”

He dusted off his clothing. “Oh, I am a great many things right now, none of which I had ever imagined, so that is quite possible. I would not discount it.”

She closed her mouth with a snap, absorbing that. She assessed him, taking in his broad chest lifting on several labored breaths. He was strong and fit. She did not think a simple climb up her trellis would wind him so greatly. So there was something more happening here. The way he stared back at her, intent and devouring, she had a suspicion that it was something to do with the crackling energy swelling between them.

She looked him up and down, noting that he had eschewed his customary dress again. It was just his boots, trousers and a fine lawn shirt. No vest. No jacket even in the chill evening air. She inhaled, wondering why her lungs felt so uncomfortably tight. It was as though she could not draw enough air. That V of bare skin at his throat and the top of his chest mesmerized her. She studied that patch of skin, marveling at how warm and inviting it looked. She moistened her lips and crossed her arms tightly, needing to pin her hands to keep them from reaching out to touch him.

Goodness. One illicit afternoon with him and she was insatiable. She did not even know herself anymore. Apparently she could not be in his company or within five feet of proximity without wanting to put hands on him, without wanting his hands and his mouth on her again. More. She wanted more. To fly out of her skin again.