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

Her gaze drifted back to the front of the church. Papa stood on the other side of the altar, one hand gripping the pulpit for support. He scarcely looked up from the parchment as he haltingly read, squinting through his spectacles. She silently encouraged him. Come now, Papa. You can do it.

He was no longer the rousing orator he once had been. He had not been that in some time. Not since his last fit of apoplexy, but as long as Papa was still here with her, and he could stand up in front of his congregation and read the sermon she had written for him, then all was not lost. He still enjoyed society, and society enjoyed him. It was enough.

Imogen shifted restlessly in her pew. Penning—no, that was not correct. He had ceased to be the Duke of Penning for nigh on a year. One would think that fact would have fully absorbed into her head by now.

Mr. Butler attempted to hide his yawn behind his hand. Rude man.

Why was he even here today? He rarely ever put in an appearance at the vicarage—or Shropshire, for that matter. It was typically left to his mother to grace the hallowed confines of their country church.

To be fair, he was still glorious. Dark locks and silvery gray eyes. He was a dark angel. Imogen well knew that angels came in all shapes, however. Ever since she was a child and found herself launched into a pond on the Penning estate, choking on pond scum, the little lordling’s laughter ringing in her ears, she knew what manner of angel he happened to be.

The boy had been a devil then, and the man was no better now. A smile again threatened to overtake her lips. He would soon learn that the world no longer bowed down to him.

Papa finished and the congregation lifted as one to their feet.

Imogen collected Papa’s cane she was charged with keeping for him, and stepped out from her pew. Moving forward, she patiently held out her gloved hand for Papa to accept as he stepped down from the dais. He took his cane, gripping it with one hand and latched onto her arm with his other, leaning a significant amount of his weight on her. Fortunately she was sturdy. Helping Papa to and fro over the last couple years had developed muscles where none had previously existed.

They started down the center aisle together as the choir sang its departing hymn. Her gaze landed on Mr. Butler for a heartbeat. He wore an impatient expression, as though he could not wait to be free of this church. Imogen sniffed in disdain and snapped her gaze forward.

She and Papa took their positions just outside the double doors. Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and smiled and greeted the denizens of Shropshire. Papa managed this part of his duties quite well. He still loved the social aspect of his role. That had not changed. He had always been a marvelous listener. He smiled and nodded and appeared wholly invested in conversations flowing around him—even if he was not quite the loquacious speaker he once was. Even if it took him a long time to arrive at his words. That did not mean he failed to appreciate the community around him.

Imogen likewise nodded and smiled and said all the right and usual things as congregants exited the church.

Thank you for coming. Have a lovely day. How is your dear grandmam? We would love to join you for tea this week. Oh, my what a splendid bonnet! My compliments on your freshly painted fence. It is the highlight of Shropshire.

The banalities ended as the last family passed through the doors and moved on. Imogen and her father turned to face the bustling churchyard.

As with every Sunday, members of the congregation lingered and mingled. There was nothing unusual with such a sight. The duke—blast it! Mr. Butler—in their midst, however? That was unusual, and highly suspect as far as Imogen was concerned.

In the last year since his disinheritance, he had not accompanied his mother to church. It was a curious thing. What brought about this development now? Why was he here? Should he not be in London leeching off his friends now that he found himself without rank and funds? At least she assumed he was without funds. She was not privy to the nature of his finances. Or perhaps now that the truth of his birth had been revealed those friends wanted nothing to do with him.

She tugged down on the brim of her bonnet so that she might survey him more inconspicuously.

He stood beneath the shady drape of a tree, adjusting his hat, looking resplendent in his blue frock coat and brocade waistcoat, his cravat impeccable beneath his chin. He still dressed in the height of fashion. At least he was fashionable by Shropshire standards. Evidently it would take more time for his state of penury to become perceptible to the outside world.

“Come, daughter.” Papa patted her gloved hand and together they stepped down the front stone walk of the church.

Mrs. Blankenship and her daughters immediately waylaid Papa. Imogen stepped to the side, largely forgotten as they started chattering excitedly about their impending house party. Their guests were very important and well-heeled people from London. The entire shire was invited to the country ball they would be hosting on the third night of their house party.

Imogen smiled as though interested in the banter, but she had no interest in balls. At nearly six and twenty, balls were no longer high on her list. Indeed, they had not been for some time.

Lifting her face, she let the rare sunlight skim over her skin with no fear of any resulting freckles. Her nose was already spotted with them. She’d been born that way. Freckled and cheeky, her mother had oft asserted.

Lowering her face, she allowed her gaze to roam over the inhabitants of her beloved Shropshire—or at least those who had shown up to hear her sermon today. It filled her with secret delight when people complimented Papa. No one could know they were her words—that would not go over well at all—but she knew and that was enough to make Imogen feel warm inside.