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

His fingers clasped the generous flesh of her thighs and she felt the imprint of each one like a fiery mark. He growled deeply and thrust again. And again. And again.

He reached between them, finding her slick warmth, that tiny nub of pleasure he had lavished such attention on at the pond, and put his fingers to it, pushing and rolling and rubbing until she began to tremble.

The pressure gave way inside her. Snapped like a band. Shudders racked her, starting at her core and eddying out through her body as she burst.

She collapsed back on the bed, her body a limp, boneless heap. Gasping and winded, her chest heaved as though she’d run a great distance. He thrust a few more times and followed fast on her heels with his own release. He quickly withdrew from her body at the last moment and spent himself in her bedding.

He dropped down on the bed beside her with his arm wrapped around her, tucking her into his side. His breath fell hard beside her, ruffling her hair. “That was . . .”

“Lovely,” she supplied.

“Lovely,” he agreed with a chuckle.

“Marvelous,” she added.

“Yes. That, too.” His hand stroked her arm in gentle, rhythmic movements, up and down, from her elbow to her shoulder.

“That’s nice.” She sighed and nestled closer into his side. Just for a little while.

It couldn’t last. She knew that, but for just a moment she would enjoy it. She’d enjoy him. She would revel in his closeness, in his touch, in the warmth of his body and not think about how he would eventually have to leave her.

She settled her hand on his chest, enjoying the sensation of his heart beneath her palm, wondering if it matched the beat of her own.





Chapter Twenty-One




Imogen woke with a long luxurious stretch. She let her hands drop above her head and remain there. She had no difficulty recollecting what had transpired last night. Even as the early morning light streamed through the window, she recalled every moment of what happened in her bed. And if her memory was somehow faulty, she had only her body to remind her with all its new and unfamiliar aches. The delicious soreness asserted itself any time she made the slightest move.

She had not meant to fall asleep, but she lost that battle. She’d fought to stay awake, unwilling to miss a moment of their time together, but her tiredness had won out. Perry made for a most comfortable pillow.

She’d slept hard, not even stirring when he left her bed. She had been dimly aware of him leaving, recalling his weight lifting from the mattress, his form dressing beside the bed in the purpling air that hinted at the coming dawn.

Of course, he had left her. He couldn’t stay through the morning. They weren’t anything more than a fleeting affair. One night. That’s all she had wanted—all she could have.

She poked and prodded around inside her head. There was a whirl of emotions in there, but not regret. She didn’t regret what she had done. It might be all she ever had. One night with someone holding her and loving her. Her only intimacy with another human. No. She would not regret that.

She stretched again and her hand brushed something on the pillow. A faint crinkling sounded and she turned her head, glimpsing the parchment. She couldn’t help smiling. So she had not been left completely alone, after all. Reaching for it, she held the note up over her face, her eyes scanning the neat masculine scrawl in the light of dawn.

I’ll see you at church. I’ll be the man staring at you the entire time.

Her smile deepened slowly. She could not help it. As unaffected as she wanted to be, as calmly and levelheadedly as she wanted to approach this thing that had happened between them, she could not help it.

One hand clutched the letter, bringing it to her chest whilst the fingers of her other hand covered her lips, as though she could somehow suppress that smile and the twinge of hope stirring inside her.

Hope that perhaps this was more than a single foray into passion.

Hope that it could be something more—that it could last.



Perry could not look away from her.

He was aware that it was not the most inconspicuous behavior, but there was no preventing his gaze from going to Imogen, the proverbial moth to flame.

She, much to his chagrin, did not seem to be afflicted with the same compulsion. She sat straight in her pew, facing forward, listening to her father haltingly deliver his sermon with a serene expression on her face.

The baroness and her daughter occupied the space beside Imogen, so he could only assume that the Bates’s houseguests had departed. There was no sight of that scoundrel, Edgar, and he was relieved to know that he and his wife had indeed left. He couldn’t have stayed away if the man still resided with Imogen under her roof.

Imogen looked fetching in a pale cream gown with thin lavender stripes. So modest. A customary costume for demure young ladies. Only he knew what she looked like beneath it. Only he knew what it felt like to have her claw his back and the memory made him instantly hard. He brought his prayer book over his lap, hiding his erection.

He had full carnal knowledge of Imogen Bates, and he didn’t know how he would ever pretend otherwise.

The service ended, and they all filed outside. His mother lingered to talk with Imogen’s father. She’d always had a fondness for the man. He supposed that was because of the hours his father had spent with the Reverend Bates.

She then moved on to chat with the baroness, the only other person she deemed worthy of her company.