The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

Perry did not return home—or rather, to his mother’s home.

He knew it would be impossible to go there without talking to someone, either to his mother or Thurman. Any time he was in the house, they seemed to find him. He could be hiding in a mouse’s den, and they would find him.

They had interrogation down to an art form, and that was the very last thing he was in the mood for.

So he walked.

He walked the countryside as the sun lit up the morning sky. He crossed through pastures and fields, jumping fences. He walked through woods as morning faded to afternoon and the sun grew warmer on his skin.

He walked aimlessly, thinking over the letter he had discovered, thinking over the words he had said to her. The words she had said to him. He thought of her attempt to apologize and her insistence that she had accidentally outed him.

He thought about all the things.

Gradually he realized it could have been as she said. She could have made an innocent inquiry that led to the revelation of his birth.

Did it really matter?

Whatever the case, it was the truth.

How could he blame her for the truth, for the reality of his life?

He only knew that moments before he read that letter he had been blissfully happy, in love with the woman beside him and planning a future with her.

And then he had wrecked that.

He wanted to feel blissful again. He wanted love.

Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair, realizing it could be too late for that now. He’d been an arse and had quite perhaps pushed her away forever.

A terrible hollowness spread through his chest.

Perry glanced around, taking measure of his location with sudden awareness. He’d walked far, his feet following a familiar path, for he stood on a familiar hill overlooking the familiar sight of Penning Hall.

His feet had carried him here involuntarily. He looked down at the grand mausoleum with its stone face and countless windows. The vast green grounds. The burbling fountain with its swans. And he felt nothing.

No ache. No loss or sense of longing.

“Mr. Butler,” a voice called. “Good day.”

Turning, he spotted his former housekeeper walking toward him. “Miss Lockhart,” he greeted. “Good day.”

She stopped beside him and looked from him to the panorama of the grand house she so diligently maintained. “Lovely view,” she remarked.

“Indeed, it is.”

Miss Lockhart was relatively young. Not much older than himself. She was certainly young for her position, but she had seemed a natural fit for the role. She grew up at Penning Hall, at the skirts of her aunt, the former housekeeper. When her aunt had expired ten years ago, she had temporarily stepped into the position, but she quickly proved herself in his father’s eyes. What started out as a temporary arrangement became permanent.

He felt her thoughtful stare on the side of his face. “We all miss you,” she declared.

He smiled slightly. “That is kind of you to say.”

“Do you?” she asked abruptly. “Miss it very much?”

He studied the house. It was just stones. Brick and mortar. “I find that . . . I don’t actually.” He faced her. “Not anymore.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Oh. I’m . . . that is good, Your Grace.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Forgive me. Mr. Butler.”

“Old habits.” He shrugged. “When the new duke arrives, that will cease.”

She sighed and crossed her arms, looking back down at the hall. “That should be at the week’s end. He and his retinue are coming.”

“Oh?” The man to take Perry’s place would finally be here. He let that information roll around in his head for a bit, and felt . . . nothing. No reaction. No sadness. No resentment. It did not affect him. “Good. That’s for the best. It’s time for all of us to move on.” As he had. As he would. Nodding, he stepped back. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Lockhart.”

“Oh. Am I keeping you from something?”

He shook his head, his slight smile deepening. “No. Not at all.”

There wasn’t anyone or anything keeping him back anymore.

Least of all himself.

Imogen was tending the garden with Mrs. Garry, gathering peas and dropping them in a bowl with satisfying clinks and trying not to think of Perry’s departure as the most devastating thing to happen to her. Even if it was. Not even Edgar’s betrayal compared to Perry walking out of her life.

It was simple to understand why she felt this way. She never loved Edgar.

She loved Peregrine Butler.

She loved him and wanted only the best for him. He deserved only the best of everything in life, and it crushed her to know that she was the reason he would not have everything. She’d seen to it that he didn’t have anything.

He thought she had betrayed him, and she supposed she had. She had not meant to, but she had outed the circumstances of his birth to the world.

She had not realized what would happen when she wrote to the cleric of the shire of his birth. She had no suspicions. She thought she was correcting a simple error in the mess of her father’s bookkeeping. Not destroying a man’s life. The mistake had been hers, but he had paid the price.

She blinked burning eyes, and picked peas faster, appreciating having something to occupy her fingers if not her mind. Her thoughts could not help straying to Perry. It was best he knew the truth now, of course. She could not have kept it from him forever. He had to know she was the one who had instigated the events that led to his disinheritance.

Inadvertent or not, she had ruined his life.

She closed her eyes in an awful, squeezing blink. Goodness. That thought rang terribly in her mind.

Opening them, she got back to the task of picking peas.

She had it in her mind to prepare a few vegetable tarts, some of which she would deliver piping hot to the Blankenships to thank them for their annual hosting of the ball. She should have already done so. It was the kind of thing her mother had done and she tried her best to live up to her mother’s example—the spreading of salacious rumors notwithstanding.

“My bowl’s full,” Mrs. Garry announced, straightening and stretching the kinks out of her back.

Imogen opened her mouth to respond when she heard the distant shout of her name. She stopped and glanced around.

Young Teddy from the Henry farm to the east of them was running with a vengeance through the field, his skinny legs lifting and cutting through the tall grass.

He called out wildly, his voice cracking on the air. “Miss Bates! Miss Bates!”

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, peering into the direction of the afternoon sun. “Teddy? What’s wrong?”

Mrs. Garry stepped beside her, muttering, “I can wager what’s wrong.”

Imogen nodded grimly, dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Indeed. She could, too.

“It’s Ma! He’s killing her! He’s really killing her this time.”

At this panicked confirmation of her fears, she dropped the bowl of peas and grabbed her skirts.

“Miss Imogen!” Mrs. Garry squawked.

She clambered over the fence of her property—something she had done countless times as a girl, but older now and weighed down in her skirts, she executed it with far less grace.

“Come, Miss Bates! Hurry. He’s really going to kill her this time!”

“Fetch the constable!” she shouted back to her housekeeper.

“Miss Imogen! No! Come back! You can’t go alone!”

She didn’t obey. She didn’t stop. The Henry family lived under a perpetual dark cloud. If Teddy was running to her for help, then things were past dire. Help was needed.

She made good time, speeding across the field, trailing after Teddy who had quite a good lead on her. She was quick, but not as quick as a fourteen-year-old lad.

She clambered over another fence, this time falling inelegantly on the other side and scraping her elbow before hopping back up to her feet.

Her arms pumped at her sides as she raced the rest of the way to the Henry farm. By the time the house came into view, Teddy was already there.

She spotted the lad as he latched onto his burly father. He’d plastered himself like a little monkey to the bigger man, his spindly legs latched around his thick torso.

It was chaos.

Mr. Henry jerked around wildly in the small yard in front of the house, trying to toss his son from his back to no avail. The smallest children sat in the dirt crying amid darting chickens and a barking dog and a few grunting hogs that had escaped their pen.

Mr. Henry was dragging his wife by the hair, his fingers buried deep in the strands, locked at the roots. She resembled a limp rag doll, scarcely struggling. Blood marked her face, dribbling from her nose. One eye was swollen shut. Her arms curled around her swollen belly protectively.

“Mr. Henry! Stop!” Imogen charged into the fray.

He lifted bleary, bloodshot eyes to Imogen. “Mind yer business, lass! This is a family matter.”

Imogen clamped down on his arm, shaking it in an attempt to free his grip. “Unhand her!”

“Stop it, Pa!” Teddy bellowed.

Mr. Henry whirled around with a roar, effectively dislodging both Teddy and Imogen.

Imogen dropped down to the ground beside the boy.

It was madness. Mrs. Henry was sobbing, pleading with her husband. “Please, please, Archie.”

He gave her another shake by her hair, snarling at her. “Wot did I tell ye about disrespecting me?”

Valiant Teddy was not even close to giving up his defense of his mother. He started lashing out with his legs, kicking at his father. He landed one solid kick to the older man’s knee.

Mr. Henry howled and released his wife, clutching his leg. “Ye little bastard!” He raised a thick arm to strike his son, but Imogen dove in the way, covering the boy, shielding him with her body.

Pain exploded in her back, just below her shoulder. She cried out, arching against the impact.

“Pa!” Teddy looked over her shoulder with a stricken expression. “No! Don’t hurt her, Pa!”

Imogen clutched the boy tighter and braced herself for another blow.

It never came.

There was a loud grunt and scuffling behind her.

She cracked open one eye and then the next.

There was no pain radiating through her body. She was . . . fine. Unharmed.

Loosening her arms from Teddy, she peered around her—just in time to see Perry lowering his fists and standing over Mr. Henry who was writhing in agony on the ground. Clearly Perry had used those fists to knock the man down.

“Perry?” she whispered.

He looked like an avenging angel, his dark hair windblown, his gray eyes like a storm as his chest lifted high and deep on serrated breaths. His fists uncurled, relaxing at his sides as the threat subsided.

He moved from where he stood over the wretched man and crouched down beside her. “Imogen?” He brushed a hand down her face, his gaze assessing her, roaming over her body, searching for evidence of injury. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, motioning to Mrs. Henry. “She is the one who needs attention.”

Teddy and the other children surrounded Mrs. Henry. The constable and Mrs. Garry arrived in a wagon and joined the children to fuss over Mrs. Henry.

Perry didn’t leave Imogen’s side. Several minutes passed and he said, “She is well cared for now and you look quite pale.” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “Allow me to escort you home.”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded shakily.

“I came for you and spotted your frantic housekeeper. She told me where you had gone.”

Imogen watched as the constable shackled a foul-tempered Mr. Henry and secured him in the back of the wagon.

Mrs. Garry harangued them through it all, insisting they lock Mr. Henry away forever. “He’s a menace! Not just to his family, but the entire community. What would he have done to my Miss Bates if Mr. Butler had not arrived in time?”

“We will handle him, Mrs. Garry,” the constable gruffly assured her. “This is one time too many for his shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans,” Imogen murmured under her breath. It seemed a very insignificant word to describe the horribleness she had just witnessed. What would have happened if Teddy had not gone for help? If she had not arrived? If Perry had not?

Mrs. Garry helped Mrs. Henry and her children into the house. She looked back over her shoulder and called, “I will tend to Mrs. Henry here. Can you manage, Miss Imogen?”

Imogen opened her mouth, but before she could speak Perry called out, “I have her, Mrs. Garry. Fret not.”

Imogen looked at him sharply. “You have me?”

He stared back down at her. “Yes. I’ll escort you home.”

With a sniff, she started walking, trying not to wince at the tenderness in her back. “I can get home on my own.”

He fell in beside her. “But I’d rather walk you.”

She released a snort of laughter. “I thought you were angry at me, Mr. Butler.”

“It’s Perry. Or did you forget?”

How could she forget that? She fell silent as they continued through the tall grass. When they reached the fence, she stopped and gathered her skirts, ready to climb over. Before she realized his intent, he scooped her up in his arms and set her down on the other side of the fence.

“I’m capable of climbing a fence. I do it all the time.”

“But now you have me. I know you can do things, but you’ll have to forgive me for wanting to be there for you.”

She whirled around to face him, watching him as he vaulted the fence. “I do not have you. You despise me.”

“You do have me,” he immediately countered. “If you want me. And I don’t despise you. How could I? I’m in love with you.”

She stared at him in astonishment, searching for her voice. It took some time. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. She shook her head, reprimanding her heart to slow its sudden wild beating. “I destroyed your life, remember? I think that’s what you said.”

“That was badly done of me. I said many things I regret. Many things I didn’t mean. I was surprised, and I acted like an arse. Forgive me.”

She blinked in disbelief.

He went on, “It does not matter. Accident or not, I don’t even care. I’m not the duke, and I don’t care.”

Mystified, she shook her head. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the man in love with you.”

She staggered back a step. It was just as astonishing to hear that a second time. In love with me?

“Forgive me,” he said again. “Forgive me, Imogen.”

“Forgive you?” She blinked burning, tear-blurred eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I do. You didn’t do anything wrong. Now say you forgive me, and let me love you.”

She ignored the treacherous little thrill wiggling through her, still frightened. None of this could be real. It could not be her reality.

“I can’t make you happy. I’m not what you want. I’m a poor vicar’s daughter. I don’t have anything to help restore you to your old life.”

He closed the distance between them then, his hands closing on her arms in a demonstration of sudden earnestness. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t even know who I was until I lost everything. It took losing everything to find me. To find you . . . and I could not be more grateful for that.”

She blinked several times, marveling at the tears springing from her eyes.

“I . . . I’m frightened,” she admitted.

Frightened of believing in them and trusting this.

Trusting what her heart was telling her to do.

His hands flexed on her arms. “Do you love me, Imogen Bates? Even a little?” His gray eyes scanned her face, devouring her, missing nothing.

She nodded slowly, choking back a sob. “I do. Of course. More than a little,” she sobbed.

He kissed her then. Swept her up in his arms and lifted her off her feet, kissing her and spinning her in a small circle.

She laughed joyously against his lips.

Even when he stopped spinning her, she still felt like she was flying.

They ended their kiss, and he rested his forehead against hers, his warm breath colliding on her lips. “Shall we go together to tell your father and ask for his blessing?”

“Of course. Then you won’t need to climb in and out of my window anymore.” She grinned. “As delightful as that was.”

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you every once in a while and do just that.”

“As long as you don’t have to sneak out before I wake up.”

“Oh, Imogen. I promise to be there beside you every morning for the rest of our lives.”