The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Imogen was still awake, the lamp beside her bed only just put out, and her head still settling into the pillow when a scrabbling sounded at her window that had her lurching upright with a gasp.

Her first thought was highwaymen, and then she called herself ten kinds of silly. That’s what came of reading too many gothic romances before bed and taking to heart Mrs. Hathaway’s tales of wild rogues holding up coaches on the road south to London.

She fumbled in the dark, groping for the lamp, just managing to illuminate the room in time to spot the man emerging halfway through her bedchamber window, one long leg slung over the sill and a hessian boot on her floor. Not a highwayman. She recognized the dark hair and profile of Perry at once and quickly swallowed back the scream in her throat.

Gulping down the sound, she pressed a hand over her galloping heart, watching as he unfolded himself into a standing position.

She should scream. In many ways he was as dangerous to her as a highwayman. Ever since their kiss she could not trust herself with him any more than she could trust him.

Kiss?Ha! What transpired between them at Mrs. Blankenship’s garden had been child’s play compared to what took place at the pond. The things they had done on that rock were scandalous. She did not know men did those things. She did not know that a woman could feel those things.

She flung back the coverlet and jumped to her feet. Snatching a pillow off her bed, she tossed it at him. It bounced off him like a feather.

A man had invaded her bedchamber. She should be terrified, but she could only summon outrage and reach for another pillow.

She should be screeching with all the quivering virtue of a maiden. It would be the ordinary and expected reaction. If she were ordinary. And yet she knew she was not. She was a spinster with more carnal knowledge than she ought to possess.

She took a measured breath. It would do no good to cause a commotion. She would spare Papa the ordeal and scandal of discovering Mr. Butler in her bedchamber. His health was fragile. She would handle this herself as she did most all things since Mama died and Papa was struck down with his first fit of apoplexy. She did not need anyone taking care of her or managing this situation for her. She was a capable person. She could send him on his way back at her window all by herself.

Hugging the pillow in front of her like a shield, she demanded, “How dare you! What are you doing climbing through my window? Are you mad?”

He dusted off his clothing. “Oh, I am a great many things right now, none of which I had ever imagined, so that is quite possible. I would not discount it.”

She closed her mouth with a snap, absorbing that. She assessed him, taking in his broad chest lifting on several labored breaths. He was strong and fit. She did not think a simple climb up her trellis would wind him so greatly. So there was something more happening here. The way he stared back at her, intent and devouring, she had a suspicion that it was something to do with the crackling energy swelling between them.

She looked him up and down, noting that he had eschewed his customary dress again. It was just his boots, trousers and a fine lawn shirt. No vest. No jacket even in the chill evening air. She inhaled, wondering why her lungs felt so uncomfortably tight. It was as though she could not draw enough air. That V of bare skin at his throat and the top of his chest mesmerized her. She studied that patch of skin, marveling at how warm and inviting it looked. She moistened her lips and crossed her arms tightly, needing to pin her hands to keep them from reaching out to touch him.

Goodness.One illicit afternoon with him and she was insatiable. She did not even know herself anymore. Apparently she could not be in his company or within five feet of proximity without wanting to put hands on him, without wanting his hands and his mouth on her again. More. She wanted more. To fly out of her skin again.

She sniffed and glanced down at herself, suddenly conscious that she wore only her nightgown. A prim floor-to-the-neck nightgown, but a nightgown nonetheless—even if it was hidden behind a plump pillow.

No man had seen her in so little clothing before—well, in a manner. She had not fully disrobed with Perry at the pond, but he had seen plenty of her from the waist down. Her cheeks went scalding hot at the memory.

Mr. Butler followed her gaze, tracking her form, up and down. Something passed over his eyes. A dark storm slid over the icy gray and she shivered.

She fiddled with the high collar at her throat. “You cannot be here. We have houseguests. And my father is just down the hall.”

He cocked his head and looked decidedly unmoved. “Reasons that don’t seem to affect me.” He shrugged. “I wanted to see you.”

“You are not above the rules, Mr. Butler. You cannot simply barge into my chamber.”

“I didn’t barge. I was quite stealthy. You gave me the idea. I seem to recall you scaling the ivy escaping your house. It was easy enough to slip inside.”

She advanced on him and stabbed him in the center of the chest with a finger. Recalling her vow not to touch him, she quickly withdrew her finger. “This is inexcusable.”

“And what of your behavior? Are you so above reproach, Miss Bates? You who creates rumors with the same ease one sips tea.”

“I’ve made amends for that and your name is restored,” she hotly defended. Doing so was to have severed their connection. There should be no reason for him to be here now. She had done nothing more to anger him or foil his matrimonial plans. She had not recently invited his wrath to precipitate this intrusion. “This is highly improper.”

“You are quite fetching in your outrage.” A corner of his mouth kicked up mockingly and she knew he was recalling their tryst at the pond. And why not? She had been thinking of it in an unending loop since then.

She shook her head, her cheeks like fire now. “Stop that. I think that you—”

A gentle knock sounded at her door and they both fell instantly silent.

She blinked, staring at the door like it was something alive—a beast that might jump out and bite her if she made so much as a move.

Moments ticked past and she began to doubt, to hope, that she had misheard it. That there was no knock.

Until another came, vibrating on the air.

Imogen looked back at Perry in horror. Had they been too loud? Had they roused someone? Papa?

Perry looked at her with a mild expression that seemed to ask: Expecting someone?

Of course, he was not concerned. His reputation was not at stake here. Only hers.

Shaking her head, she stepped forward to the door. Flattening a palm against it, she swallowed thickly and cleared her throat, asking in what she hoped was a normal voice and not one that revealed that she had a man in her bedchamber. “Yes?”

A whispered voice floated back through the door. “Imogen, it’s me.”

Mehappened to be Edgar.

Repelled by the sound of his voice, she stepped several paces back, putting herself side by side with Perry, as though they were allies in this instance and not . . . whatever it was they were. Adversaries seemed too strong a description, but they were certainly not friends and definitely not allies. They were . . . something else.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, an undercurrent of tension vibrating in his voice.

Imogen waved a hand wildly in front of her lips. “Shush,” she whispered and then to the door, a fraction louder: “Go away, Edgar.”

Too late, she realized her mistake. She should not have said his name. She winced.

Perry’s eyes narrowed on her. “Edgar?” he asked, his dagger gaze shooting to the door. “Who is this Edgar?”

“My cousin’s husband.” She mouthed the words more than she spoke them, but from the look in his eyes he had no difficulty reading her lips.

“Please, Imogen.” Edgar’s hissed voice continued through the door. “Don’t be like this.”

She shook her head. Unbelievable. They had scarcely spoken since he and Winnie arrived here, and now he dared to come to her chamber in the middle of the night.

“Go away, Edgar. Leave me alone.”

A flush of angry color crept up Perry’s face. “Has he been harassing you?”

She expelled a breath. His mere presence in this house was a form of harassment.

“Um. Not precisely.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, glaring at the door, wishing Edgar gone—wishing he and Winnie had never come at all—wishing for an end to this untenable situation.

“Not precisely,” he echoed, shaking his head in a way that felt actually restrained and that only spiked her temper. Blasted man! What did he have to be angry about?

She curled her hands at her sides to stop herself from striking Perry in the chest. That would be unnecessary contact, and it seemed very advisable that she not touch him. Even as cross as she felt, she was still under a heady haze of desire when it came to him.

Shewas not the one who had done something wrong here. She had one man scratching at her door in the middle of the night and another one standing in the center of her bedchamber through no doing of her own.

He continued, “How does a man notprecisely harass you? He either does or does not. What’s he doing at your door begging entrance into your bedchamber?”

Was that accusation in his voice? Did he think she had a lover in this house? That she would take a married man (her cousin’s husband, no less!) into her bed.

Was he jealous?

The idea intrigued her more than it should. She did not want Perry’s interest or his jealousy or his anything. Truly.

“You are one to talk,” she shot back at him. “I did not invite him.” She waved at him. “Just as I did not invite you!”

He angled his head sharply. “Oh, come now. You want me here.”

She blinked, heat flashing through her. “Oh!” She puffed out an indignant breath. “The arrogance of you.”

A familiar squeak scraped over the air. The noise was slight, but she knew it well. She had been meaning to oil the latch for weeks. She turned to stare at her bedchamber door once again, gawking in distress as the latch began to turn down.

Edgar was entering her chamber.