The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

A London trip, 1841

Imogen fell in love on the summer of her eighteenth year during her annual trip to London to visit Aunt Bernadine’s family. Summer trips to Aunt Bernadine were customary.

Falling in love was not.

It happened on the third day of her visit. She was with Winifred in Hyde Park, joined by several of Winnie’s very fashionable friends. Their dress, their manners, their many stories that always seemed to involve people and places she had never heard of made her feel less than . . . less.

Imogen struggled not to look so very immature and unsophisticated in their company. Hopefully no one noticed her for the fraud she was.

Her cousin was quite popular, she soon learned, and was never short on companionship. Her drawing room was always full to the brim and Winnie never went anywhere without a small army of friends hanging on her every word.

It had not always been that way. Imogen’s visits to London had not always been like that. When they were little girls, it was just the two of them. They spent their days playing together, frolicking in the garden and making floral wreaths from the tulips and lilacs and lavender.

Occasionally a maid would take them to the park or the subscription library, but Imogen never had to compete for her cousin’s attention. She never had to beat out others. She’d had Winnie all to herself. She missed those days fiercely.

If becoming an adult meant forgetting your friendships and all the little things you liked to do in favor of talking about parties and dresses and boys, then Imogen longed to stay a child who wove floral coronets forever. That, she thought, sounded like heaven.

Now Winifred was a debutante and apparently quite the sought-after one, from the perpetual crowd surrounding her.

Imogen watched from the fringes of every room as Winnie and her friends entertained each other. She watched, battling loneliness, missing her cousin, but she valiantly tried to adjust to this new reality.

She attempted to follow the conversations, focusing on their words and trying to summon the interest to care. But it was difficult feigning interest in the new millinery shop that opened on Bond Street boasting some choice riding caps.

It was in the midst of this discussion that Edgar Fernsby first sidled beside Imogen in the park. “I wager you never knew such a variety of riding caps were in existence?”

Once she overcame her astonishment that one of Winnie’s set had singled her out for exclusive attention, she found her voice.

In fact, over the following days Mr. Fernsby continued to single her out for his sole and flattering attention. Perhaps even more astonishing was that Imogen regularly spoke back, quite at ease in his company. It felt natural talking to him, natural becoming his friend.

Remarkably, his interest in Imogen didn’t wane. He strolled alongside her at the back of Winnie’s group of doting friends as though she were the most fascinating person in the party.

He began to call regularly at Winnie’s house, each time fixing his attention on Imogen, inquiring after her health. He was intrigued by everything about her. Her hobbies and interests. Her favorite books and flowers and foods. The names of her pets. No one ever took such an interest in her before. At least no gentleman.

Edgar Fernsby returned again and again to Uncle Hugh’s house, flattering her with his company until she realized the unbelievable truth. He was courting her.

He joined them at the theater and the museum and at the park. He was as constant as the stars and when one evening he coaxed her into slipping from Winnie’s drawing room amid the musicale Aunt Bernadine was hosting for two dozen guests, she obliged him and followed him into the dark and empty library that smelled of leather and parchment.

She should have known better, but she did it anyway. She trusted him.

When he kissed her against the double doors, she permitted it, reveling in the moment, in the warm fuzzy sensation that swept over her.

After that evening they were sneaking kisses whenever they could. Behind potted ferns. In Aunt Bernadine’s garden. In a dark alcove at the theater.

All very discreet, of course. They made sure of that. She thought him very considerate to keep her reputation in mind.

Kissing became like breathing. Something she needed every day from him. It was their secret. A luscious little gem she held in her hands, cupped between them like fairy dust. The secrecy of it all was part of the thrill. That much she knew.

He spoke of them spending the rest of their lives together and she was eager for Papa’s visit in less than a month to collect her. At that time Edgar would reveal his intentions to her father and ask for his blessing. That was the plan. It was decided. They had discussed it. He had proposed. She had accepted.

It was happening. Before the year was out she would be a married woman. She would be Mrs. Edgar Fernsby. Imogen only wished her mother was alive to meet her dear Edgar—to see her so blissfully happy. Mama had always said one day would arrive when Imogen found her perfect partner. Imogen had had her doubts, but clearly Mama knew what she was talking about because Imogen had found him.

She’d had no notion when she left to visit her cousin for the summer that she would meet the love of her life. Her young heart was bursting from the newness and unexpectedness of it all. She saw stars and hearts and rainbows in everything. Which would explain why her maidenly reserve was nonexistent. Nothing had prepared her for such an ardent suitor or his cajoling words. She’d never been the object of any man’s lusts.

Perhaps it was because her father was a vicar. Gentlemen tended to steer clear of her. Or perhaps it was her provincial existence that did not boast an abundance of suitors or even potential suitors. She was unaccustomed to such an assertive gentleman.

A few afternoons before Papa was set to arrive, Imogen and Edgar found themselves alone in the garden. A common enough place for them in their interludes.

Edgar kissed her and the pressure of his lips on hers grew more and more insistent and coaxing.

She gave a feeble protest as his hand pawed over the front of her gown, her fingers circling his wrist. “Edgar, I don’t think . . .”

“It’s all right, love.” His gaze fastened on her face, his eyes reminding her of a pleading puppy dog. He brushed his thumb down her cheek. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“Then let me make you feel good.”

She released her grip on him and let him touch her at will. He wanted to and she did love him . . . and trust him. She wanted to please him. They were going to be married, after all.

Pinning her against the tree, his hand found its way beneath her skirts and he fondled her between her thighs. His fingers unerringly found the slit in her drawers. It was wicked, but not . . . unpleasant. She wouldn’t say his awkward strokes were making her feel good though. Not as he promised.

“Ahh, there, there, my love,” he panted in her ear, increasing the pressure of his fingers until he probed inside her. “You feel splendid.”

She winced, inching away from his touch. “Ouch.”

“Beg your pardon,” he murmured, sliding his fingers out from beneath her skirts. “Let’s try something else, eh?”

“Something else?” she queried, slightly relieved for an end to that bit of awkwardness.

“It’s my turn,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, taking her hand and guiding it to his manhood.

With a quick glance around, he hastily freed himself of his trousers.

“Edgar?” She looked around nervously. “Are you certain—”

“It won’t take long. I’m almost there, love.” He guided her and showed her how he wanted her to move her hand up and down the length of him.

He wasn’t very large. She didn’t know what to expect, but he was far from intimidating even as he grew slightly in size at her ministrations.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, dropping his hand away and leaving her to her rubbing and stroking of his rod. His breathing grew erratic. “Oh, I’ve dreamt of you touching me like this, my love. I knew you would be brilliant at it.”

With a groan, he spent himself and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sudden wetness coating her palm and fingers.

He quickly removed a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it to her as he tucked himself back inside his trousers.

“That was brilliant, love,” he said in approval, nodding as he tidied himself.

Strangely, she did not feel brilliant.

They returned inside. Separately, of course, for the sake of discretion. But he did not look at her the rest of the evening. She tried to meet his gaze, but he avoided her eyes, and she could not help wondering if she had perhaps been less than brilliant.

In fact, he stayed away the next couple of days. No calls. No joining them for their walks in the park or for tea.

Papa arrived and Imogen grew desperate to see Edgar again. Perhaps he had confused the date of Papa’s arrival?

His absence was worrisome. Beginning to fear that he had fallen ill or to injury, she entrusted a letter to a servant with instructions to deliver only to Edgar at his residence.

When the servant returned, he assured her that he had placed it directly in Edgar’s hand.

She had no choice but to wait.

Just as she had no choice but to leave with Papa as scheduled two days later and return home to Shropshire.

For days, for weeks, she foolishly looked to the horizon, staring forlornly out the window, wondering what could have happened and searching for Edgar’s figure to appear to fulfill his promise of marriage.

It was two months later when they received the news.

Word reached them via a letter from Aunt Bernadine. Winnie was betrothed.

To Mr. Edgar Fernsby. They would wed at the end of the season.

A bit of Imogen died that day.

Her heart most certainly broke, but so did something else inside her. Her last bit of childhood, the innocent inside her that believed in things like love and happily-ever-after and blind trust.

Mama had been wrong. There was no perfect partner waiting for her. She would never be so foolish to believe that again.