The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

I will make it right.

Imogen repeated this mantra over and over in her mind as she marched from her house into the village with purposeful strides the following day.

She had promised Perry—Mr. Butler—and she intended to keep her word.

She had permitted herself to get carried away. She fully realized that now. Her hurt feelings in the past and overzealous need to protect the women of Shropshire had overruled her good sense and morals. She winced. She was no great arbiter of justice, and yet she had told herself she was right and he deserved all of her judgment and every bit of misfortune to befall him. That was its own form of transgression. One would think a vicar’s daughter would know better and be more generous in spirit. Apparently no one was immune from turpitude.

Undoing what she had done was the correct thing to do. Not only for him, but for herself. Her conscience longed for that relief.

And there was another matter.

A not so insignificant matter.

If he could reclaim his reputation and once again be free of all the rumors she had started, then she would be free of him.

There would be no more tense conversations. No more staring across her dining table at him. No more turning around to find him there, charming Papa, or directly in front of her, or tromping after her—or seducing her on a rock.

She grimaced. Very well. Seduction had little to do with what happened between them on that rock. It made her sound unwilling and she had been a full participant.

He would have no reason to see her at all.

No reason to kiss her ever again. No reason to run his mouth all over her thighs and on . . . other parts of her body. Heavens. She needed to put it all from her mind.

They would be as they were before. Coolly distant strangers.

She swallowed thickly and let that whirl around in her mind for a while, like a marble spinning and looking for a place to land and settle.

No reason to kiss her ever again. Coolly distant strangers.

If that caused a twinge in her chest, she ignored it. She had long ago accepted that she would never know intimacy. No more than that brief tryst she had so foolishly indulged in with Edgar. She would never be a wife and she was content with that fate. In fact, it had been a great comfort knowing she would not have to risk herself again.

There was fear in putting herself out there where she could be harmed again. Cocooning herself in her familiar and beloved Shropshire, in her childhood home, in her frilly girlhood bed, in her cozy bedchamber with its faded rose wallpaper, away from all potential dangers made her feel warm and safe and cozy. Even if a small part of her would miss him, she was relieved.

She marched past the smithy shop, slowing her militant advance as Gwen Cully emerged out into the yard, carrying a bucket, lifting it as though it weighed nothing at all, and dumping the contents over the fence that bordered the smithy and her house. She was strong. Not just for a female but for a person.

Imogen supposed that was her birthright. She came from a long line of blacksmiths. Her grandfather and father and uncle. She’d been working alongside the men in her family ever since she could stand in front of a forge. She was easily the tallest woman in the village, towering over most men. She wasn’t willowy tall either. She was solid. Sturdy. There was no mistaking she worked her muscles every day toiling at the anvil.

The villagers called her an Amazon. Often to her face and in her hearing, but they said it in a teasing manner as though that mitigated any potential sting. It was one of those things that made Imogen uncomfortable. No woman wanted to be broken down to a designation based on her appearance. As though they were all nothing more than their facades.

“Miss Cully. Good day to you,” Imogen called out in greeting. “How is your uncle?”

Miss Cully looked up, wiping her forearm against her perspiring brow and smiling as she caught a glimpse of Imogen. They were of a like age. Whenever Papa had called on the blacksmith, Imogen had quite enjoyed accompanying him. She and Gwen would play outside. It was a decidedly different experience than when Imogen had tagged along with Papa to Penning Hall. Gwen would show her the inner workings of a smithy. The girls had laughed and gotten on well together.

Gwen wore trousers, but no one in these parts blinked an eye over it anymore. With her father gone these three years past and her uncle practically bedridden due to his poor back, she was the only blacksmith around, and Shropshire was glad to have her, nontraditional or not. When one needed something wrought from metal, they would accept anyone with the skill to do it, and Gwen had proven herself quite capable in that area.

“He is quite well. Resting right now. Thank you, and thank you for dropping off dinner last week for him. He loves your cook’s biscuits.”

“I will extend your compliments. She is quite proud of them, and always makes more than we could possibly eat. I will drop by with some more.”

“My uncle will love that.” She propped her empty bucket on the top rail of the fence and rested her boot on the bottom rung, showcasing the shapeliness of her calves and thighs. She was always so at ease with herself. Dressing in trousers was clearly second nature to her. “Any time you have more than you can eat, we’re happy to reap the surplus.”

Imogen nodded. “By all means. I will send them your way.” She glanced from the bucket and back to Gwen. “Very busy today?”

“I’m repairing some copper wall sconces for up at Penning Hall. Miss Lockhart wants the place in order before the arrival of the duke.”

“Ah.” Imogen nodded. “Of course. She is a most diligent housekeeper.”

“She is that. She has always kept me busy, but she has a whole slew of things for me to do after I repair these fixtures.” Gwen grinned. “No complaints, of course. I appreciate the business.”

“You work too hard, Gwen. I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask you to come and check on the gate behind our house. The latch is sticking. It might need replacing.”

“Oh, I’ll always have time for you. I’ll come by later this week. Perhaps a little before dinner.” Gwen grinned cheekily, shaking her head and tossing the shorter strands of fair hair back from her forehead. The pale wisps only fell back in place with a bounce. She wore her hair in double plaits and pinned them to the back of her head. It wasn’t the tidiest arrangement, and it brought to Imogen’s mind a Norwegian milkmaid, but Gwen somehow made it look fetching even with all the flyaway strands.

Imogen smiled. “That would be fine. You can stay and we will feed you and send a plate home for your uncle.”

Gwen placed a hand over her heart. “You are far too good for this earth, Imogen Bates.”

Imogen’s smile turned shaky. She didn’t think she could hold on to it much longer. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She did not feel too good for this earth lately. Not at all.

Not even close.

As though Gwen’s words reignited the sudden urge to get on her way and set matters to rights, she said her farewell with a promise to see Gwen soon.

Waving, she turned and took a bracing breath. Time to put her plan to action.

Imogen walked until her destination loomed ahead. She opened the little white gate and walked through it up the stone walk to the front of Mrs. Hathaway’s house.

She stood before the door for several moments, letting the sunny yellow paint comfort and embolden her. Promises have been made. The demands of her conscience begged a resolution.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and knocked briskly.

She would blame it all on a misunderstanding. Indeed. She nodded once determinedly. That should work.

She would insist she had not said he had the pox. No. No. She had simply misheard. The ballroom had been too loud. What she had said was: He has a bantam cock. He tripped on a clock. He has a head full of rocks. He needs new socks. He just purchased a red bantam cock.

Certainly one of those things was plausible and only a little ridiculous. From there, Imogen would dive into another topic. She would regale Mrs. Hathaway with some bit of news or harmless gossip. Imogen’s houseguests would be a topic of interest.

This was all about correcting the rumor she had started and moving on to another more interesting subject. Imogen could do it. She would fix it. And then she could move on.

Perhaps her life would return to how it was before she had tangled with Mr. Butler. They could go back to being nothing to each other.

As opposed to what?

What were they now?

She shook her head, shying from answering that question, but knowing, at the very least, that they weren’t nothing to each other. They were definitely something. It was indefinable and complicated. But something.

She looked skyward, freezing as her gaze landed on a silvery spiderweb in the corner of the porch ceiling. Squinting, she stared at that web, at the large spider with its delicately thin legs dancing over the threads. That web, that spider, transfixed her. As did the smaller bug stuck in its snare, helpless to do anything other than let its fate play out. She felt an odd kinship to that small bug.

The door creaked open and she soon found herself being greeted by Mrs. Hathaway. “Miss Bates! How lovely to see you. Come in. Come in.”

Imogen murmured a greeting and stepped inside.