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

He found his own spot to stand nearby. Out of the way. Against a tree. A safe distance to watch Imogen. She played the gracious hostess, listening to every blue-haired lady with what appeared to be keen interest. Not simply because it was her role to do so, but because she did care. Because there was not a fiber of her being that did not care about others.

Had he really compared her to a rotten lemon? He shook his head. What a fool he had been. Everything about her delighted him. He could listen to her talk about wheat mites or anything else and be quite content.

She slipped back inside the church. Most of the congregation had thinned out by now. The vicar was once again in conversation with Perry’s mother.

Perry glanced around and then slipped inside the church after Imogen.

He entered stealthily and she didn’t look up from where she was gathering hymnals and stacking them.

He crept up behind her and circled her waist, hauling her flush against him.

She gasped, her hand flying to his arm wrapped around her waist.

He nuzzled the side of her hair and spoke into her ear, “I’ve missed you, Imogen Bates.”

“Perry! It’s just been a few hours since you last saw me.” She laughed softly and then gasped again as he bit down softly on the lobe of her ear.

“Let’s return to that warm bed of yours.”

She slapped his arm lightly. “You should not be doing this here. What if we’re seen?”

“Then where should we do this?” He unwrapped his arm from her waist and she turned to face him.

She stared at him in a scolding manner. “We shouldn’t be doing it anywhere.”

He frowned, not liking the notion of that at all. He brushed his thumb down the curve of her cheek. “You mean no more of this?”

She released a shuddery breath. “That was my understanding,” she whispered.

He bent his head and kissed her long and deep. True. He might be hoping to seduce her and make her forget her reticence.

Lifting his head, he stared down at her, watching her as she slowly opened her eyes, looking up at him dreamily.

“You’re incorrigible,” she breathed.

“And you love it,” he countered.

Her dreamlike haze dissipated and she stepped back, her expression admonishing. “Behave yourself,” she lightly scolded.

His timing and choice of place could have been better, he supposed, because additional sunlight flooded into the church just then as the double doors opened.

“There you are, Mr. Butler,” a voice intruded.

He turned to watch as Mrs. Berrycloth advanced down the center aisle in a dashing plum gown. No demure maidenly colors for her. He longed to see Imogen in such colors. Rich hues that brought out the amber in her brown eyes.

“Mrs. Berrycloth,” he greeted.

The widow flashed a smile for Imogen. “Miss Bates.” She then turned her full attention back to Perry. “I thought I might take you up on that offer for an afternoon walk.”

He stared at her for a long moment, blinking and not recalling what she was talking about.

“Remember?” she prompted. “You suggested we take a stroll together.” She reached out and stroked his arm. “It wasn’t that long ago. Have you forgotten it?”

Yes, indeed he had. An unfamiliar heat crept up his neck. He could feel Imogen’s eyes on him.

He was no longer interested in pursuing any of the town’s heiresses. He had been clear on that matter—to himself and Imogen. He would not use an heiress to secure his fate. Apparently, however, he had a few loose ends to tie up.

Mrs. Berrycloth was every bit an heiress even if she was not in the first flush of youth any longer. She had been married multiple times and had accrued quite a tidy sum that would last her lifelong, which was why he had ever thought to consider her as a potential wife in the first place.

The lack of a papa managing her purse strings could be seen as a benefit to many gentlemen. Additionally, she was an attractive woman. There was much appeal to her . . . and yet he did not find her appealing.

She was precisely what he had thought he wanted. The operative word being “had.” Things had changed.

He had changed.

He did not want her, and yet he found himself presently in this awkward situation.

“Ah . . .” Again, his gaze went to Imogen. “When were you thinking—”

“Is right now an acceptable time for you? I walked to church this morning. You could escort me home.” She stared at him in patient expectation.

“Ah . . .”

“On a lovely day like this?” Imogen suddenly spoke. “You both should go around the village and cut through the Pritchards’ orchard.”

His gaze whipped to Imogen at the cheerful suggestion. What was she doing? Was she actually throwing him at Mrs. Berrycloth? He narrowed his gaze on her. He was not a toy to be cast aside. Did she think herself done playing with him and ready to be discarded now?

“Ah! Delightful suggestion!” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes danced and she looked at him in bright anticipation.

“I, ah. Yes.” He nodded. “Of course.” He motioned to the church doors, inviting her to precede him. There was no choice but to accept her request. He’d been asked directly by the lady, after all. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He had no ready excuse and Imogen had just sanctioned the event. Bloody hell.