The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Fortunately for Imogen she had thus far avoided her houseguests. Mostly.

She successfully occupied herself with tasks during the daytime and only had to endure Winnie and Edgar through the obligatory dinners. It wasn’t too difficult a feat, and the benefit was twofold.

Not only did staying busy spare her from her cousins, but it kept her from moping around, overwhelmed with thoughts of Perry Butler. Imogen had not seen him in two days, and she hoped that meant he had given up on whatever strangeness had seized him the other day.

He had intimated that there was something between them. Then he had gone so far as to say that the notion frightened her. Ludicrous. They were no romance in the making. Indeed not. She would not be so foolish as to believe in that bit of fancy.

Casting aside such thoughts, she fixed her gaze on her cousin across the table. Winnie was in the middle of a story about one of her friend’s daughters who eloped with an Italian painter.

At least these evening dinners weren’t too miserable. Winifred monopolized the conversation, as she was wont to do, and never seemed aware of how little Imogen spoke.

Usually Imogen was able to eat and excuse herself shortly after dessert with no raised eyebrows.

In the mornings, she made a point to be gone before they rose for breakfast. Thankfully they were late risers.

According to Winnie’s letter, they would only be staying two nights before resuming their way north, but it was starting to feel quite the prolonged stopover. Two nights had come and gone and they were still here. Imogen began to wonder: When would they depart?

Imogen knew the question had to be put forth. She had not anticipated they would stay this long. She needed to know there was an end in sight. Gathering her nerve, she asked, “How much longer do you intend to stay here, Winnie?”

She directed all comments to her cousin. She could not bring herself to speak directly to Edgar. Thankfully no one seemed to notice the snub. Oh, Edgar likely noticed, but Imogen did not care what he thought.

“Oh.” Winifred lifted her napkin from her lap and patted her lips daintily. “Well, it’s just been so lovely here.” Her gaze darted to her husband. “Have I not been saying how lovely it’s been visiting with Uncle Winston and Imogen, Edgar?”

“Mm-hmm.” He nodded as he chewed, lifting a forkful of cabbage and peas to his mouth. “Indeed. Indeed.”

“It’s going to be a struggle to tear ourselves away.”

A non-answer if Imogen ever heard one . . . and that was perhaps the most concerning point of all. They seemed unable or unwilling to tell her when this visit might come to an end.

Mrs. Garry gathered Papa’s empty plate, sending Imogen a meaningful and rather desperate look that seemed to say, please tell me these people aren’t going to be here forever.

Imogen knew they added considerable work to the household. It was just Cook and Mrs. Garry tending to the house with occasional help from Molly and Mrs. Garry’s nephew when he wasn’t attending school.

Imogen pitched in when she could, but much of her days were spent executing Papa’s duties. He no longer managed the number of visits to parishioners as he once did. Whenever he accomplished a call, it wearied him so much that he usually returned home to collapse in his chair by the hearth and nap for the rest of the day with Mrs. Garry doting on him, making certain he ate and drank whilst Imogen went about the shire seeing to his flock.

Mrs. Garry’s distress at the imposition of their guests was understandable. It was difficult enough for Mrs. Garry keeping the house with only Cook and Molly to occasionally assist, but waiting hand and foot on Winnie went above and beyond her duties. Imogen winced. She would likely offer forth her resignation if she had to wait much longer on the demanding woman, longstanding loyalty to the Bates family or not.

“So you have no definitive departure date?” she pressed, determined to get an answer.

Papa frowned slightly. It was ill-mannered and apparently it did not escape his notice, even as absentminded as he was these days.

“My, my, coz. You sound almost eager to be rid of us.” Winnie wagged her fork at Imogen in rebuke, sending tiny bits of ham and grease flying onto the tablecloth. She didn’t even blink at the mess, merely fixed her gaze on Imogen.

“No. Not at all,” she lied.

Mrs. Garry gave her a pointed look as she lowered a dish of bread rolls down before Papa on the table.

As Edgar’s mouth was stuffed full of ham, the juices from which ran down his chin unchecked, he grunted in happy approval and snapped at Mrs. Garry, gesturing for her to fetch him the steaming rolls. Imogen shuddered in distaste. He was revolting. What had she ever seen in the wretched man?

Mrs. Garry’s lips tightened, but she said not a word. She waited for Papa to select his roll and then rounded the table to serve Edgar.

“What do you do for entertainment in your little hamlet here, coz?” Winnie asked, avoiding Imogen’s original question regarding their plans for departure.

She exhaled, wishing Winnie would answer that question but realizing that perhaps she already had. Perhaps her silence on the matter was answer enough.

Imogen plucked agitatedly at the edges of her napkin on her lap. “Oh, I visit with members of the congregation. Help Papa with his sermons.” No way would she admit to Winnie that Papa’s mind could no longer track long enough to write a full sermon from beginning to end. It was what Imogen did. It was all part of pretending that Papa was still a man in full possession of himself. “I tend to the garden. Help Mrs. Garry about the place.”

“Oh, it all sounds perfectly menial. How dreadful!” Winnie’s pretty face pulled into an exaggerated grimace. “How do you abide it, coz? You really should have more staff to support you. It’s uncivilized,” she said as though that was a matter which Imogen could easily change.

Her cousin had only ever led a life of privilege . . . to such a degree that she could not fathom anyone living differently than she did. But then Imogen supposed that was the nature of privilege—the inability to empathize with other people and their lot in life.

Imogen nodded dispassionately, not at all inclined to explain her situation or how she far preferred this lifestyle to that of living in Town. “I am sure you will want to leave soon for far greener pastures that provide more diversions worthy of you.”

“Oh, in good time. It has been much too long since we’ve had a visit. Remember the fun we used to have?”

“Yes,” Imogen agreed. “We did have fun together.” When they were girls. Before Winnie had married. “I do miss those days.” Yet Imogen knew those days were gone. They could not go back to that time.

“How about we venture out tomorrow?” Winnie suggested. “I’ve been here nearly a week. Why don’t you show me more of your dear little shire. You have a baroness here, do you not? And a duke? Where are these most exalted personages? I would very much enjoy accompanying you on your calls to them.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not to that lady farmer you visited today.”

Imogen took the gig and called on Mercy today. She had gone on the pretext that it was Mercy’s birthday. That was next week, in truth, but no one contradicted her on the matter. Mrs. Garry did not question it; merely packed a sweet bread for Imogen to take her to her friend.

“Mercy Kittinger is my friend,” she defended.

“You should be socializing more with the baroness or this duke.”

“Well, the duke is not in residence.” Whomever he was and wherever he might be. “No one knows when he will arrive.” If he did at all.

“Oh, that is unfortunate. What of the baroness?”

“Um—”

“The baroness is lovely. And quite fond of our Imogen,” Papa unhelpfully chimed in to the conversation.

“Oh, la! Well done, coz. You made no mention you had such lofty friends. We must call on her.”

Imogen sighed. She supposed getting Winnie out of the house was the least she owed to Mrs. Garry, and the sooner she exhausted all the interesting aspects of Shropshire (interesting to Winnie), the sooner Winnie and Edgar would leave. Perhaps. She could only hope.

“Will you join us, Edgar?” Winnie turned to her husband to ask.

Imogen tensed, hoping the answer was no. She had managed to avoid any conversation with Edgar beyond superficial niceties. She was proud of herself for that. She did not relish squishing herself into the gig alongside him and Winnie for an afternoon social call.

“Depends, my dear. When do you plan to go? You know I’ve been quite enjoying my afternoon naps since arriving here. And Uncle Winston’s cook makes the loveliest iced biscuits. Far better than anything our own cook ever bakes.” Ah. All the naps and iced biscuits explained his thickening middle then.

Winnie looked expectantly at Imogen. “What time shall we depart tomorrow?”

She took a breath. It appeared they would be calling on the baroness tomorrow. Never mind that she had not even agreed. Winnie would have her way. She always did. Evidently she had wanted Edgar. Imogen had not realized it when she was in London all those years ago. Her cousin had shown him no partiality. Several young gentlemen had been courting her at the time and she had reveled in all their attentions.

In any case, Imogen was so very glad Winnie had snared him. Now she realized marrying Edgar would have been a grave mistake, leading to a future of unhappiness.

Even as uncertain as her life was these days with Papa’s questionable health, she preferred her life, this life, to the one she had so desperately longed for at ten and eight. Thankfully, her prayers had gone unanswered on that score.

She might be an aging spinster, but she felt happier and more fulfilled than she possibly could be in any alternate reality as Mrs. Edgar Fernsby. Just the thought made her shudder. Happy alone was better than miserable with someone. She heartily believed that, and she wondered why more women did not subscribe to that notion. She’d seen evidence of plenty of unhappily married women. She acknowledged that some women did not have the luxury of choice. She was fortunate in that regard because she did, and she never forgot it.

For some reason, Perry flashed across her mind. Mr. Butler. She needed to keep things in their proper place—starting with his name.

He had shown her what manner of husband he would be. At least in the marriage bed. He’d given her a taste of that passion. Just a taste . . . and now she longed for the full glorious meal.

Heat flushed through her, starting at her face and spreading through her body, pooling into the parts that he had paid particularly ardent attention. She did not think she would ever be able to touch herself there without thinking of him and remembering what he did to her on that rock.

She had fled from their conversation, letting Mrs. Merrit haul her away. Cowardly of her, she knew. As tempting as it was to see him again, nothing could come of it. It was just lust and to be avoided—he was to be avoided.

Desire was ephemeral in nature. It was not substantive. It did not last. Her experience with Edgar had taught her that.

She gave herself a mental shake, casting off all such thoughts of him. They were neither here nor there anymore.

She had fulfilled her promise. They were done. She had to remember that and focus on going back to the way she was before. Before he fixed his attention on her. Before he touched her. Before she started to like him.

Before she knew to long for anything else, for anything more.

“Peregrine? Where are you going?”

His mother’s lofty tones stopped him cold. He turned with a respectful smile on his face, the familiar longing to have his own home, his own independence, seizing him. “Into town.”

“At this hour?” She stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her elegant dressing gown.

The hour was not so very late. They’d had dinner and he had even sat with her for a while in the drawing room afterwards, pretending as though it felt normal to do so—as though it could be his life.

“I won’t be gone very long.”

“Where could you be going at this hour?” she pressed.

“For a ride.”

“At night?”

“There’s a full moon.”

That was not true, but his mother did not know that. She was an abject indoorswoman. The only time she stepped outside was on the way to her carriage.

“Hm.” She looked down her slim nose at him. He felt her disapproval keenly. It did not help that she loomed above him several steps. He swallowed back his aggravation at being questioned. He was a grown man. He had not apprised his mother of his activities since he was a lad.

“Do not be too late,” she directed. “You’ll be tired tomorrow and I wanted to go over our upcoming travel plans. We have several decisions to make. I’d like to visit Aunt Judith, but then there is your sister. She always expects me to be there for Thomas’s birthday celebration.”

This was his mother’s life. These were his mother’s plans. She was lumping him into them as though he were a child to be dragged along with her.

It was miserable.

He supposed he should be grateful for her unwavering support—even though she was the cause for the current circumstances of his life—but he longed for his freedom. Her actions might have determined his present situation, but it did not determine his future. That was up to Perry.

“Ah. I won’t be about much tomorrow. I have some errands. Do not wait on me. Feel free to decide whatever you like.” She did not know it yet, but he would not be accompanying her.

“Errands? Such as?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Just some business to attend to.”

“Business? What manner of business do you have in Shropshire?” The level of derision in her voice was insulting. Then her expression suddenly transformed into one of hopefulness. She grasped the railing and descended the stairs. “Is it a marital prospect? Did you sort out that vile . . . matter?” She fluttered her fingers, clearly unable to put to words the rumor that he had the pox.

He nodded and waved a hand reassuringly. “The rumors have been put to rest.” At least he assumed so. It had been two days since he bumped into Imogen leaving Mrs. Hathaway’s house, when she had assured him everything was set to rights. He had not verified it one way or another.

Not that he was overly concerned anymore. People could talk. People always talked. He was not worried as his mother was. His future did not depend on finding a rich heiress. At least not anymore. He’d let that particular ambition go, replacing it with actual ambition.

“Well, that is a relief.” His mother stopped two steps above him. “Are you calling on the baroness tomorrow? Or perhaps Mr. Blankenship?”

“No. That is not my errand.”

His mother’s smile faltered. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed, and before she could press for more information, he started away. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He left her staring after him, feeling her disappointment like a dagger in his back as he stepped out into the evening and closed the front door to the dower house firmly behind him.

He made quick work of fetching his mount from the stables and saddling the horse himself. He rode for town, his destination an amorphous thing in his mind. He rode without putting it into definitive words, but he knew.

He knew as well as he knew the shape of his own hand. It was instinctive. A burning impulse that he could not resist. He felt it in his bones, in the rush of blood through his veins, in the primal pump of his heart.

He was going to see her.