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

She sniffed and glanced down at herself, suddenly conscious that she wore only her nightgown. A prim floor-to-the-neck nightgown, but a nightgown nonetheless—even if it was hidden behind a plump pillow.

No man had seen her in so little clothing before—well, in a manner. She had not fully disrobed with Perry at the pond, but he had seen plenty of her from the waist down. Her cheeks went scalding hot at the memory.

Mr. Butler followed her gaze, tracking her form, up and down. Something passed over his eyes. A dark storm slid over the icy gray and she shivered.

She fiddled with the high collar at her throat. “You cannot be here. We have houseguests. And my father is just down the hall.”

He cocked his head and looked decidedly unmoved. “Reasons that don’t seem to affect me.” He shrugged. “I wanted to see you.”

“You are not above the rules, Mr. Butler. You cannot simply barge into my chamber.”

“I didn’t barge. I was quite stealthy. You gave me the idea. I seem to recall you scaling the ivy escaping your house. It was easy enough to slip inside.”

She advanced on him and stabbed him in the center of the chest with a finger. Recalling her vow not to touch him, she quickly withdrew her finger. “This is inexcusable.”

“And what of your behavior? Are you so above reproach, Miss Bates? You who creates rumors with the same ease one sips tea.”

“I’ve made amends for that and your name is restored,” she hotly defended. Doing so was to have severed their connection. There should be no reason for him to be here now. She had done nothing more to anger him or foil his matrimonial plans. She had not recently invited his wrath to precipitate this intrusion. “This is highly improper.”

“You are quite fetching in your outrage.” A corner of his mouth kicked up mockingly and she knew he was recalling their tryst at the pond. And why not? She had been thinking of it in an unending loop since then.

She shook her head, her cheeks like fire now. “Stop that. I think that you—”

A gentle knock sounded at her door and they both fell instantly silent.

She blinked, staring at the door like it was something alive—a beast that might jump out and bite her if she made so much as a move.

Moments ticked past and she began to doubt, to hope, that she had misheard it. That there was no knock.

Until another came, vibrating on the air.

Imogen looked back at Perry in horror. Had they been too loud? Had they roused someone? Papa?

Perry looked at her with a mild expression that seemed to ask: Expecting someone?

Of course, he was not concerned. His reputation was not at stake here. Only hers.

Shaking her head, she stepped forward to the door. Flattening a palm against it, she swallowed thickly and cleared her throat, asking in what she hoped was a normal voice and not one that revealed that she had a man in her bedchamber. “Yes?”

A whispered voice floated back through the door. “Imogen, it’s me.”

Me happened to be Edgar.

Repelled by the sound of his voice, she stepped several paces back, putting herself side by side with Perry, as though they were allies in this instance and not . . . whatever it was they were. Adversaries seemed too strong a description, but they were certainly not friends and definitely not allies. They were . . . something else.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, an undercurrent of tension vibrating in his voice.

Imogen waved a hand wildly in front of her lips. “Shush,” she whispered and then to the door, a fraction louder: “Go away, Edgar.”

Too late, she realized her mistake. She should not have said his name. She winced.

Perry’s eyes narrowed on her. “Edgar?” he asked, his dagger gaze shooting to the door. “Who is this Edgar?”

“My cousin’s husband.” She mouthed the words more than she spoke them, but from the look in his eyes he had no difficulty reading her lips.

“Please, Imogen.” Edgar’s hissed voice continued through the door. “Don’t be like this.”

She shook her head. Unbelievable. They had scarcely spoken since he and Winnie arrived here, and now he dared to come to her chamber in the middle of the night.

“Go away, Edgar. Leave me alone.”

A flush of angry color crept up Perry’s face. “Has he been harassing you?”

She expelled a breath. His mere presence in this house was a form of harassment.

“Um. Not precisely.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, glaring at the door, wishing Edgar gone—wishing he and Winnie had never come at all—wishing for an end to this untenable situation.

“Not precisely,” he echoed, shaking his head in a way that felt actually restrained and that only spiked her temper. Blasted man! What did he have to be angry about?

She curled her hands at her sides to stop herself from striking Perry in the chest. That would be unnecessary contact, and it seemed very advisable that she not touch him. Even as cross as she felt, she was still under a heady haze of desire when it came to him.

She was not the one who had done something wrong here. She had one man scratching at her door in the middle of the night and another one standing in the center of her bedchamber through no doing of her own.

He continued, “How does a man not precisely harass you? He either does or does not. What’s he doing at your door begging entrance into your bedchamber?”