The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Imogen woke with a long luxurious stretch. She let her hands drop above her head and remain there. She had no difficulty recollecting what had transpired last night. Even as the early morning light streamed through the window, she recalled every moment of what happened in her bed. And if her memory was somehow faulty, she had only her body to remind her with all its new and unfamiliar aches. The delicious soreness asserted itself any time she made the slightest move.

She had not meant to fall asleep, but she lost that battle. She’d fought to stay awake, unwilling to miss a moment of their time together, but her tiredness had won out. Perry made for a most comfortable pillow.

She’d slept hard, not even stirring when he left her bed. She had been dimly aware of him leaving, recalling his weight lifting from the mattress, his form dressing beside the bed in the purpling air that hinted at the coming dawn.

Of course, he had left her. He couldn’t stay through the morning. They weren’t anything more than a fleeting affair. One night. That’s all she had wanted—all she could have.

She poked and prodded around inside her head. There was a whirl of emotions in there, but not regret. She didn’t regret what she had done. It might be all she ever had. One night with someone holding her and loving her. Her only intimacy with another human. No. She would not regret that.

She stretched again and her hand brushed something on the pillow. A faint crinkling sounded and she turned her head, glimpsing the parchment. She couldn’t help smiling. So she had not been left completely alone, after all. Reaching for it, she held the note up over her face, her eyes scanning the neat masculine scrawl in the light of dawn.

I’ll see you at church. I’ll be the man staring at you the entire time.

Her smile deepened slowly. She could not help it. As unaffected as she wanted to be, as calmly and levelheadedly as she wanted to approach this thing that had happened between them, she could not help it.

One hand clutched the letter, bringing it to her chest whilst the fingers of her other hand covered her lips, as though she could somehow suppress that smile and the twinge of hope stirring inside her.

Hope that perhaps this was more than a single foray into passion.

Hope that it could be something more—that it could last.

Perry could not look away from her.

He was aware that it was not the most inconspicuous behavior, but there was no preventing his gaze from going to Imogen, the proverbial moth to flame.

She, much to his chagrin, did not seem to be afflicted with the same compulsion. She sat straight in her pew, facing forward, listening to her father haltingly deliver his sermon with a serene expression on her face.

The baroness and her daughter occupied the space beside Imogen, so he could only assume that the Bates’s houseguests had departed. There was no sight of that scoundrel, Edgar, and he was relieved to know that he and his wife had indeed left. He couldn’t have stayed away if the man still resided with Imogen under her roof.

Imogen looked fetching in a pale cream gown with thin lavender stripes. So modest. A customary costume for demure young ladies. Only he knew what she looked like beneath it. Only he knew what it felt like to have her claw his back and the memory made him instantly hard. He brought his prayer book over his lap, hiding his erection.

He had full carnal knowledge of Imogen Bates, and he didn’t know how he would ever pretend otherwise.

The service ended, and they all filed outside. His mother lingered to talk with Imogen’s father. She’d always had a fondness for the man. He supposed that was because of the hours his father had spent with the Reverend Bates.

She then moved on to chat with the baroness, the only other person she deemed worthy of her company.

He found his own spot to stand nearby. Out of the way. Against a tree. A safe distance to watch Imogen. She played the gracious hostess, listening to every blue-haired lady with what appeared to be keen interest. Not simply because it was her role to do so, but because she did care. Because there was not a fiber of her being that did not care about others.

Had he really compared her to a rotten lemon? He shook his head. What a fool he had been. Everything about her delighted him. He could listen to her talk about wheat mites or anything else and be quite content.

She slipped back inside the church. Most of the congregation had thinned out by now. The vicar was once again in conversation with Perry’s mother.

Perry glanced around and then slipped inside the church after Imogen.

He entered stealthily and she didn’t look up from where she was gathering hymnals and stacking them.

He crept up behind her and circled her waist, hauling her flush against him.

She gasped, her hand flying to his arm wrapped around her waist.

He nuzzled the side of her hair and spoke into her ear, “I’ve missed you, Imogen Bates.”

“Perry! It’s just been a few hours since you last saw me.” She laughed softly and then gasped again as he bit down softly on the lobe of her ear.

“Let’s return to that warm bed of yours.”

She slapped his arm lightly. “You should not be doing this here. What if we’re seen?”

“Then where should we do this?” He unwrapped his arm from her waist and she turned to face him.

She stared at him in a scolding manner. “We shouldn’t be doing it anywhere.”

He frowned, not liking the notion of that at all. He brushed his thumb down the curve of her cheek. “You mean no more of this?”

She released a shuddery breath. “That was my understanding,” she whispered.

He bent his head and kissed her long and deep. True. He might be hoping to seduce her and make her forget her reticence.

Lifting his head, he stared down at her, watching her as she slowly opened her eyes, looking up at him dreamily.

“You’re incorrigible,” she breathed.

“And you love it,” he countered.

Her dreamlike haze dissipated and she stepped back, her expression admonishing. “Behave yourself,” she lightly scolded.

His timing and choice of place could have been better, he supposed, because additional sunlight flooded into the church just then as the double doors opened.

“There you are, Mr. Butler,” a voice intruded.

He turned to watch as Mrs. Berrycloth advanced down the center aisle in a dashing plum gown. No demure maidenly colors for her. He longed to see Imogen in such colors. Rich hues that brought out the amber in her brown eyes.

“Mrs. Berrycloth,” he greeted.

The widow flashed a smile for Imogen. “Miss Bates.” She then turned her full attention back to Perry. “I thought I might take you up on that offer for an afternoon walk.”

He stared at her for a long moment, blinking and not recalling what she was talking about.

“Remember?” she prompted. “You suggested we take a stroll together.” She reached out and stroked his arm. “It wasn’t that long ago. Have you forgotten it?”

Yes, indeed he had. An unfamiliar heat crept up his neck. He could feel Imogen’s eyes on him.

He was no longer interested in pursuing any of the town’s heiresses. He had been clear on that matter—to himself and Imogen. He would not use an heiress to secure his fate. Apparently, however, he had a few loose ends to tie up.

Mrs. Berrycloth was every bit an heiress even if she was not in the first flush of youth any longer. She had been married multiple times and had accrued quite a tidy sum that would last her lifelong, which was why he had ever thought to consider her as a potential wife in the first place.

The lack of a papa managing her purse strings could be seen as a benefit to many gentlemen. Additionally, she was an attractive woman. There was much appeal to her . . . and yet he did not find her appealing.

She was precisely what he had thought he wanted. The operative word being “had.” Things had changed.

He had changed.

He did not want her, and yet he found himself presently in this awkward situation.

“Ah . . .” Again, his gaze went to Imogen. “When were you thinking—”

“Is right now an acceptable time for you? I walked to church this morning. You could escort me home.” She stared at him in patient expectation.

“Ah . . .”

“On a lovely day like this?” Imogen suddenly spoke. “You both should go around the village and cut through the Pritchards’ orchard.”

His gaze whipped to Imogen at the cheerful suggestion. What was she doing? Was she actually throwing him at Mrs. Berrycloth? He narrowed his gaze on her. He was not a toy to be cast aside. Did she think herself done playing with him and ready to be discarded now?

“Ah! Delightful suggestion!” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes danced and she looked at him in bright anticipation.

“I, ah. Yes.” He nodded. “Of course.” He motioned to the church doors, inviting her to precede him. There was no choice but to accept her request. He’d been asked directly by the lady, after all. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He had no ready excuse and Imogen had just sanctioned the event. Bloody hell.

Mrs. Berrycloth passed him and proceeded down the center aisle, moving for the doors.

“What are you doing?” he growled for Imogen’s ears alone.

She looked up at him with mock innocence. “You asked the lady to step out for a walk.”

“That was a while ago. Before us.”

She blinked at his plain language, and then slowly shook her head.

He pressed, “Is that what you want then? For me to spend my time with other women?” His gaze scoured her face, needing to hear her deny this.

She averted her gaze, turning her face away.

He glared at her furiously, whispering, “You know we have something here, Imogen. Do not run from this. Do not push me away.”

She turned her gaze back on him, her eyes bright with an emotion that looked akin to pain. “What is the point? This cannot be.”

“Says who? No. I do not accept that. And I don’t believe you do either.” With a disgusted shake of his head, he started down the aisle after Mrs. Berrycloth, only to stop at the sound of Imogen’s harsh whisper.

“Do not be a fool, Perry. You know as well as I do that we cannot have anything lasting. And I’m not the manner of female to be any man’s mistress.”

He opened his mouth, but had no chance to speak before she was striding past with a resolute look on her face, leaving him standing in the aisle of the church, her footsteps a soft fading tread on the runner.