The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Perry spotted the good vicar slowly ambling down the lane outside of Shropshire and paused astride his horse.

The older man leaned heavily on his cane as he advanced, both of his gnarled hands gripping the brass head for support.

Perry grimaced. Advanced was a gentle euphemism. He was not making much progress at his current pace.

Dismounting from his horse, he held on to the reins and hailed the vicar, tipping his hat as he called out a greeting.

The man broke his focus from his shuffling feet and looked up, his expression lighting with delight when it landed on him. “Oh, good day to you, Mr. Butler.” His rheumy-eyed gaze skipped to the horse beside Perry. “Out for an afternoon ride on that fine beast of yours? It’s a fair day for that.”

“Indeed it is, sir.”

After a restless night, Perry had risen early. He had tossed and turned. Fraught with the memory of the prior evening’s events, he’d scarcely slept. Not only did he discover who was spreading rumors about him, but he caught her in the act—and then he kissed her.

He had kissed Imogen Bates.

He still felt it in his gut. Deep in his blood. He had kissed her as though she was his to kiss and hold. As though there was not hostility and long-standing aversion between them. As though she were not a prim and gently bred lady but instead a hot-blooded lover. The kind of lover you took in broad daylight and cover of night equally. Without modesty. Without caution. With only wild abandon.

God, he had been too long without female companionship of the intimate variety. That was the only explanation. For no other reason could the painfully straitlaced vicar’s daughter ever entice him. Hellfire. She’d looked down her nose at him since the day they first met.

Ironic, of course. She was a humble vicar’s daughter whilst he had been a duke’s son. And yet she had somehow always made him feel lacking. A lad in mismatched shoes with spots on his face. She could wither him with a look even when they were children. It had made him uncomfortable. Rank alone demanded he feel superior. And yet in her presence he never had.

He should have felt no desire for her.

Oh, she was not unattractive, but no ravishing beauty either. He’d seen far more eye-catching women in London ballrooms. Her large brown eyes were fine enough. They’d been luminescent in the gardens. Following their kiss, though, those eyes had gleamed as if lit from flame.

Upon rousing from his bed, he’d dressed and departed the dower house.

He’d spent most of the morning at the local tavern before remounting his horse and riding aimlessly, lost in his thoughts. But he didn’t bother saying any of that to the vicar. Indeed not. The pious man would think he’d been at the tavern as a patron, there to drink—and it was much too early in the day for a respectable gentleman to spend his time in a tavern.

Perry could not very well explain he was there for something else, something more. That reason was too elusive, too outrageous even for him to wrap his thoughts around yet.

Hellfire.

He didn’t know what he was doing at the tired tavern, surveying the derelict place, talking to old Mr. Compton, the owner, asking him all manner of questions. He could only think that as far as taverns went it was a humble establishment . . . and the only one in Shropshire.

In a village that was bustling and becoming more metropolitan with each passing day, The Hare and The Basket could be more.

It should be more.

Perry knew about first-rate establishments. He’d spent all of his life in them. As a customer, of course. As a patron. Never the proprietor, but he’d certainly known his share of proprietors, and he could still recall the best ones. The ones who greeted him at the door, who saw to his needs with charm and easy grace and style. Several of them he had called friends. He’d liked them. He’d respected them.

All of this he thought about as he had sat in The Hare and The Basket and considered the many ways in which it could be better—the ways it could be made into a premier attraction for the denizens of the shire and even beyond.

He shook his head, dismissing those notions as he smiled at the vicar. Such thinking was fanciful and eccentric. No good member of the ton went into trade. His mother would be scandalized to know he was even thinking along such lines. Marriage to an heiress was supposed to be his way out of his troubles, as she was wont to tell him. A gentleman did not so much as dabble in commerce.

And yet it could be argued Perry was no longer a member of the ton. He realized that was the very thing at stake here—his place in the world. He’d been assigned a place at birth, but now that was gone and he had to decide where he fit.

He glanced down the lane in the direction of the vicarage. “Are you heading home, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m just returning from a delightful visit with Mr. Gupta.” He pulled out a leather-bound book that he had tucked inside his wide jacket pocket and brandished it in the air. “The man is in possession of an enviable, ever-growing library and always so kind to loan to me from it.”

“Mr. Gupta is indeed a well-read man.” Perry nodded. Looking ahead, he gestured down the lane. “Shall I accompany you home?”

The man straightened his hunched shoulders with a touch of righteousness. “I don’t need an escort, young man. I am quite able to stand on my own two legs. They are not yet completely useless.”

“Of course. I simply always enjoy your company. I intended to ride past the vicarage on my way home at any rate. It’s lovely at dusk, the light gilds the ivy covering the stone of your cottage.”

The vicar’s expression softened. “Ah. You’ve noticed that, too? It is lovely. You know, that was exactly how the house looked when I first clapped eyes on the place all those years ago. We’d arrived just as dusk settled. My dear wife was beside me. Of course Imogen, too. She was such a precocious child. She took one look at the house and declared it home.” The vicar sighed and paused for a long thoughtful moment, shaking his head as though clearing it of that tender reverie. “Very well then. Thank you, lad. Let us walk together. You remind me of your father. He always did enjoy a lively discussion.”

Together they walked on, moving at the vicar’s crawling pace. Perry’s horse nickered impatiently and tossed his head as they strolled.

Perry and the vicar kept up a steady conversation. The man mostly talked about Roman history, the topic of the borrowed book currently in his possession. Perry noticed he did tend to jump from topic to topic a little erratically, without much transition. Perry had never noticed this about the man before, so he could only surmise it was a development of age and his recent health woes.

The combination of walking and talking seemed to labor his breathing. Perry frowned in concern at the man and slowed their pace further.

What was his daughter thinking letting him wander so far from home? Anyone could see he was not up to the task. They reached the cozy vicarage in twice the amount of time it would have taken Perry were he walking alone.

The housekeeper greeted them both at the door and he suspected the lady had been looking out the window, hoping to spot her employer returning home in the waning day.

She tsked as she helped him out of his coat. “You should have been home an hour ago. You promised to be back in time for dinner and the hour is nearly upon us.”

The vicar inhaled deeply. “Oh, my. That does smell heavenly, Mrs. Garry. I am famished.” His gaze shot to Perry. “You must stay and join us.”

“Oh, I have no wish to intrude.”

“I insist.”

The housekeeper looked at him expectantly, smiling in welcome. He was certain Imogen Bates, wherever she lurked, would not smile so welcomingly when confronted with him. No doubt she would have words to say that did not echo her father’s kind invitation.

Perry’s lips twitched as he imagined that. His last glimpse of her had been across the Blankenship ballroom. Her eyes had glinted at him in challenge.

“Yes, thank you,” he heard himself saying. “I think I should enjoy that. I should enjoy staying for dinner very much indeed.”

Imogen placed her last beetroot in her overflowing basket and pressed a hand at the small of her back, rubbing the tight area as she stretched. She had tended the garden well into the afternoon, pulling it free of weeds before gathering two baskets of vegetables.

Mrs. Garry had arrived earlier to collect the first basket so she might reap its rewards and get Cook started on the vegetables for their dinner.

Hefting the last basket indoors, Imogen left it in the kitchen for Cook, and then took herself upstairs to wash and change her clothes for dinner.

Papa, she assumed, was having his afternoon nap. She knew his walk must have tired him, although he would never dare to admit it.

When she emerged from her chamber to check on him it was to find his room empty. He must have already roused himself for dinner and was waiting downstairs for her. It was a familiar routine.

Patting her freshly tidied hair, she descended the narrow stairs, humming lightly. Mrs. Garry was just passing through the small foyer with a tray of Papa’s favorite claret. He often liked to indulge in a glass before dinner, and she thought it did help take the edge off some of the ache in his joints.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Imogen. Dinner is almost on the table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garry. I take it Papa is in the parlor?” she inquired as she fiddled with the lace fichu tucked inside her bodice and started for the double doors.

“Yes. They’re in there,” Mrs. Garry called as she vanished into the dining room with the tray.

Nodding in satisfaction, she strode toward the room before Mrs. Garry’s words penetrated. Imogen stopped hard in her tracks.

They?

Had they a guest?

Her curiosity piqued, she resumed her pace, entering the parlor where she once again froze.

There, seated across from Papa, sat Mr. Butler, his arm flung along the settee’s back with casual arrogance, as though he was accustomed to making himself at home in her tiny parlor.

Her throat squeezed tight.

“Ah. Miss Bates.” Those devilish eyes of his alighted on her. He lifted to his feet, ever the gentleman. At least superficially. He had not behaved as a gentleman with her in the Blankenship gardens. “Lovely to see you again.”

She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Words strangled in her throat.

“There you are, daughter,” Papa said, the sound of his voice, when she could not find her own, sweet music to her ears. “I’ve brought us a guest for dinner.”

“Ah. I . . . see that,” she managed to get out as she hastened to her father’s side, offering him her arm as he clambered to his feet.

“I happened upon your father coming home, Miss Bates,” Mr. Butler offered.

She cut him a sharp glance. Was that judgment she heard in his voice?

“Dinner is on the table.” Mrs. Garry arrived just then, hovering in the threshold.

“Let us eat. I am famished,” Papa declared, moving ahead of them in his eagerness.

Imogen hung back to demand of Mr. Butler, “What are you doing here?”

“It is as your father said. He invited me to dinner.” Mr. Butler canted his head and looked down at her in disapproval. “You really should mind your father better. He was struggling to make it home today on his walk.”

She fought against the burning flash of guilt. Alongside the guilt, her resentment stirred that he should criticize her care of her father. Except he was right. She should not have permitted Papa to walk himself to Mr. Gupta’s. She had known it was too much for him, but it was impossible to tell him that and she let Papa persuade her, hating to treat him like the invalid he so desperately resisted becoming.

“I don’t need your instruction on how to care for my father.”

She started for the doors, intent on following her father to the dining room. The quicker they ate, the sooner this whole thing would be over. The sooner Mr. Butler could take his leave and go home.

His hand on her elbow stopped her and sent a jolt of awareness through her. She sucked in a breath and turned to face him, yanking her arm away from his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“I was only attempting to escort you in to dinner. It is the polite thing to do.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt silly. She sniffed and attempted to look more composed. “We don’t stand on such formalities here, Mr. Butler. You needn’t escort me anywhere.”

He held up both his hands in the air as though attempting to pacify an unpredictable animal. “Very well. I meant no offense.”

She glared at him. He stared back, looking decidedly composed. She suspected he was enjoying himself—enjoying her discomfiture. Alone like this, she could only think of the last time it was just the two of them together, and this did not feel like such a grand idea.

The air between them crackled as though a storm was imminent. Imogen swallowed against the impossibly large lump in her throat.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered there, marking their shape, their color, recalling their pressure, their taste. Struggling with mortification, her gaze flew back to his and in his eyes she read his awareness.

He was remembering, too.

With a ragged breath, she tore her gaze from him and looked longingly to the door through which Papa had just passed.

Of course, that intimacy was there, hovering between them like a fluttering moth, impossible to ignore.

He gestured for her to precede him. “After you.”

With a single dignified nod, she ventured forward, wishing he would not follow, but knowing he would. He was here. No changing that now.

He was in her home and they were about to dine together in some bizarre alternate reality where the former Duke of Penning was happy to fraternize with her small, humble family. With her.