The Duke Goes Down

by Sophie Jordan

  He inhaled the crisp night air until his erection subsided and he felt his composure return. Suddenly it occurred to him that if he left now, Imogen Bates would win this battle. He didn’t want to be at war with her, but it seemed they were. Without his wanting it, a war had somehow started between them.

  He might not have started it, but he would not lose it. He was not defeated. He was not running away. He came here tonight to mingle with the heiresses of Shropshire, and he would do just that.

  He was going back inside that ballroom.

  Chapter Nine

  “What happened? Were you accosted?” Mercy demanded, her eyes afire, ready to fight for Imogen.

  “What?” Imogen blinked from her distracted and whirling thoughts as they walked deeper into the gardens for more privacy. It took everything in her not to turn and glance over her shoulder in search of Mr. Butler. “Accosted? No, no. Not at all.”

  If anything, Mr. Butler might feel as though she accosted him. Certainly he had initiated the kiss, but she took over from there and led the way.

  “Then what happened to your hair?” Mercy’s gaze scanned her face and hair worriedly.

  “It simply fell,” she lied. “There was a fierce wind.”

  Mercy shot her a dubious look and then glanced around them. “There was a gale-force wind and we somehow did not notice it inside the house?”

  Imogen shrugged weakly. She could scarcely pay attention to her friend. She was too busy reeling from what had just transpired with Mr. Butler—what she had done to Mr. Butler. With Mr. Butler. It was scandalous.

  She was a perfect scandal and she could not forgive herself. She knew better.

  She had vowed never again. No more romantic peccadilloes. She had thought herself above such needs and desires. She had thought herself stronger than that. One heartbreak a lifetime was enough as far as she was concerned.

  Heartbreak?

  The thought jarred her. What had occurred tonight did not involve the heart. Nothing had changed regarding her feelings toward Mr. Butler. Er, nothing other than the disconcerting knowledge that she now possessed.

  Peregrine Butler smelled good. He tasted good. And he possessed the most intoxicating lips. So intoxicating that she knew she could never kiss them again. Never taste them again. One time she could chalk up as a mistake. Twice would be a grave character failing.

  She needed to forget all about it—pretend as though this night had never happened.

  Mercy stopped and forced them to sit down on a bench. Imogen went willingly, numbness stealing over her as she stuffed away the emotions of the evening.

  The stone bench was cold and immediately seeped through her gown. She didn’t move or speak as Mercy attacked her hair. She was grateful to have Mercy contend with it for her. One thing she did not have to think about.

  Mercy cleared her throat. “If you tell me not to worry, I won’t—”

  “Then don’t worry,” she hurriedly supplied.

  Mercy huffed a breath, clearly unconvinced with Imogen’s quick reply. “If something happened . . . you know you can talk to me, yes, Imogen?”

  “I know that. Of course.” And she did, but she was not ready to discuss what happened. Not even to her friend. “Nothing happened. Let’s just set me to rights and go back inside. We don’t want to leave your sister unsupervised.”

  Mercy stared at her for a long, searching moment before nodding and finishing her hair. “I suppose all that experience tending to Grace’s hair served me well. There you go.” She patted the sides. “A fairly decent chignon considering I didn’t have a brush to work with.”

  Imogen stood up from the bench, nodding vaguely, not even bothering to touch her hair with her hand to verify if it felt intact. She and Mercy fell into step together. As they reached the fountain, Imogen scanned the area for a glimpse of Butler. She didn’t see him. Perhaps he went home. That seemed likely considering the heiresses he was stalking were less than receptive. What reason did he have to stay?

  Her chest eased and lightened a bit at that prospect as they ascended to the veranda. She would not likely see him again this night. There was that. There would be no avoiding his gaze and fighting back a flush of heat if she stood in proximity to him.

  The ball was still very much underway. She immediately spied the whirling couples through the glass French doors. The flash of colors and the lively music seemed in direct opposition to her mood.

  Still, she loathed the idea of going back inside and pasting a smile on her face—mingling with everyone like nothing was amiss. Like nothing shattering had just occurred.

  She sucked in a breath and rejoined the masses.

  Everything in her yearned to slip around the house and hop in a carriage and take flight for home. She longed to lock herself away in the comfort of her bedchamber. The only problem was that they had not taken their own carriage here tonight.

  They had accepted the gracious offer from the baroness to ride with her and her daughter this evening. Imogen was well and truly stuck. She could not walk home. It was dark and much too far, even if she knew every road and path in this shire as well as her own face. Doing so would be overly dramatic and only alert Papa and others that something was amiss.

  Well and truly stuck.

  Moving through the bustling ballroom, she was immediately assailed with all the scents and sounds of the Blankenship ball. The sweat from so many bodies crammed in one space mingled with cloying colognes and perfumes and the rich smell of congealing food.

  “Shall we refresh ourselves with a drink?” Mercy asked.

  Imogen nodded in agreement and followed Mercy, single file, through the crowd.

  A quick sweep of the room and she spotted Papa deep in conversation with Gwen Cully, the local blacksmith. She had taken over her family’s smithy as her father was deceased and her uncle was getting long in years and not quite up to the task anymore. She had worked alongside the men in her family for many years, ever since she could walk. No one in Shropshire blinked over her role in a male-dominated enterprise.

  The Blankenship sisters were dancing.

  The baroness was at the center of a group of ladies who were engaged in an animated conversation. Imogen could guess what—or rather who—might be their topic of discussion. She continued after Mercy, surveying the ballroom as she went.

  And her gaze collided on him.

  Mr. Butler was still here. Bodies quickly obscured him, and she lost sight of him, but she had spotted him. Her eyes had not deceived her. He was still here.

  She stopped hard in her tracks, not even moving when someone jostled her from behind.

  “Pardon me.”

  She didn’t even turn to see who addressed her. She could only stare across the room, searching for another glimpse of him, starkly handsome in the bright light of the ballroom.

  She might be rattled over what transpired and battling a chronic blush, but in that brief flash he’d seemed as composed as ever. She peered through the crowd, trying not to look conspicuous in her quest to locate him.

  A crack split the crowd, and she spied him again through the opening. He was mingling with several gentlemen. No ladies in their midst. She smiled slightly. Apparently he was still a pariah among that gender.

  One of the men conversing with him turned, and she was granted a full view of Mr. Blankenship, the only other gentleman in attendance who was dressed as richly as Mr. Butler. His color palette might be more flamboyant, but there was no doubting his peacock-blue jacket threaded with gold was costly.

  Butler was speaking. Something he said struck Mr. Blankenship as the height of amusing. The older gentleman tipped his head back and laughed uproariously, clapping Butler on the back jovially. It dawned on Imogen then that it did not matter how unsavory she made him in the eyes of the ladies. If the papas, in this case Mr. Blankenship, liked him, then that was all there was to it.

  Heiresses had fathers who decided upon the husbands for their daughters. Imogen winced at the unfairnes
s of that. Luckily, she was no heiress. But that meant Mr. Butler only had to win over the papas.

  Butler’s gaze locked with hers across the ballroom, and there was such knowing smugness in his smoky gaze that she felt a fresh wave of indignation sweep through her. Understanding passed between them.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. He knew a father would not care about the rumors she had started. The things she had said would be deemed trivial and, sadly, not serious enough to dissuade a father.

  Mercy lightly touched her arm, capturing her attention. “Imogen? Are you well? You’re looking pale. Can I get you anything?”

  “Oh. Um. The crowd is a bit of a crush. Perhaps some ratafia would refresh me.”

  “Of course. Wait here. I’ll be but a moment.”

  As Mercy disappeared into the press of bodies, Imogen faded back against the edge of the ballroom, taking position alongside the wallflowers and widowed dames—one dame in particular whom she knew to be a salacious gossip, even greater than any of the Blankenship women.

  There was one queen of gossip in every town, and in Shropshire that was Mrs. Hathaway.

  “Mrs. Hathaway,” she greeted.

  “Ah, Miss Bates. Not taking your spot on the dance floor this evening?”

  “No, not tonight.” Or ever again.

  “Just as well. I’ve counted and the ladies present far outnumber the gentlemen. Not ideal. Not ideal at all. Shropshire must work to even these odds.”

  Imogen nodded as though in agreement.

  “Perhaps when the new duke arrives he will have brothers,” Mrs. Hathaway added hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” Imogen murmured, not bothering to point out that the previous two Dukes of Penning had never deigned to grace any of the local fetes. Why would the new duke, once they hunted him down—or his possible brothers—be any different?

  Whenever he returned from Newfoundland or Greenland or wherever he was, he would be just as socially distant as previous dukes. If he had brothers, they would be remote, too. It was the way of the aristocracy. They were all pompous prigs. The baroness was singular in her willingness to socialize with country society.

  “It’s a shame about Mr. Butler though.” Imogen cleared her throat, relieved at how normal her voice sounded. “He has had a most difficult year.”

  “Indeed. His parents’ sins are no fault of his,” Mrs. Hathaway generously admitted. “I am glad to see him settling into the happy arms of our little hamlet. Long overdue, I say.”

  “Oh, yes.” She paused, struggling with her next words. “And then there’s the other thing. Such a shame.”

  Mrs. Hathaway abruptly ceased fanning herself and pinned her cloudy-eyed gaze on Imogen. “What other thing?” She blinked. “What first thing?”

  Apparently the rumors had not reached the great keeper of rumors. That was a strange bit of irony.

  “Miss Bates?” Mrs. Hathaway prompted. “What is it?”

  Imogen hesitated, momentary doubt seizing her. She had a flash of Mr. Butler’s face as he asked her to restore his reputation, insisting she owed him that.

  Between the dancing figures, she spotted Mr. Butler still chatting with Mr. Blankenship. They talked with their heads bent close together. They looked like the closest of acquaintances, allies, and it was galling. She doubted Butler had ever talked to their host for the evening for any significant length of time before he was forced to move in with his mother and pay court to women he would have considered far beneath his notice a year ago. Imogen recognized this so clearly. Why did no one else?

  Mr. Blankenship was talking now, nodding and motioning eagerly toward the dance floor. Imogen tracked his attention directly to his daughter, Emily. She was finishing dancing with her partner, curtsying lightly before him as the song drew to a close. Imogen’s head whipped back to gauge Butler. He smiled, nodding as he said something in turn to Mr. Blankenship. The sight made her stomach clench.

  Splendid. She needn’t hear their words to know. Their conversation was about young Emily. Mr. Blankenship was probably giving his daughter away to Butler right now—lock, stock and barrel—and, of course, Mr. Butler was accepting. Moments ago he had been kissing Imogen, but now he was across the room negotiating marriage to another.

  Over my dead body.

  Hot emotion swept over her. With indignant heat burning a fiery maelstrom in her chest, she leaned in beside Mrs. Hathaway and began speaking in hushed tones with great relish, catching the lady up on all she had missed . . . and adding a new story about Mr. Butler—perhaps the most creative one of all—with grand flourish. The pièce de résistance. A story that would have any papa snatching up his daughter and keeping her far from the clutches of Mr. Butler.

  By this night’s end Peregrine Butler would be the most ineligible man—to daughters and papas alike—in Shropshire.

  Imogen sat at her dressing table, vigorously brushing her brown hair until it crackled. Thankfully, they had not stayed at the ball much longer after she had whispered those words to Mrs. Hathaway.

  Those words.

  She winced. She could not even bring herself to say them in her mind. It was difficult now to even contemplate them in the peace and security of her bedchamber.

  She had wanted to start a rumor that would chase off prospective fathers-in-law and not simply repel prospective brides. Imogen suspected she had now succeeded at that. Oh, very well. Beyond her wildest dreams she had succeeded at that. No man worth his salt would want his daughter to marry Mr. Butler now. She had seen to that.

  Thankfully, she had not lingered to see the ramifications of her efforts. Papa had grown weary and the kindly baroness insisted they depart before he overtired himself.

  Lowering her brush, Imogen tapped it anxiously on the surface of the dressing table.

  She stared at her reflection in reproach until she could endure it no longer. She looked away from herself and fiddled with the various perfumes and creams littering the surface. Most of them had belonged to her mother. Imogen only used them sparingly, as when they were gone they would be gone forever. Just like Mama was gone from her. Imogen wanted them to last.

  Silly, she supposed. They were inanimate things, but sometimes, inhaling the fragrances, it was like Mama was still with her. Talking and smiling. Imogen would have a flash of her so clearly in her mind, bending over her knitting or working in the garden or bringing baked goods to a neighbor. For a moment it felt real. It felt like she was right beside her.

  Imogen wondered if they would have had the kind of adult relationship that begged confidences. It was difficult to imagine confessing to Mama her actions from this last week. She would not have approved of Imogen inventing rumors. Mama had been unfailingly honest. She’d lived as she preached—or rather as Papa preached. And now as Imogen preached since she was the author of his sermons.

  Imogen frowned, thinking how her actions would disappoint both her parents. Perhaps she had gone too far. Especially that last fabrication she had told to Mrs. Hathaway. And then there was the other thing that had transpired this very night.

  How could she have kissed him?

  You didn’t kiss him. He kissed you.

  “And then you kissed him back,” she accused her reflection as though the Imogen Bates in the mirror was someone other than herself.

  But tonight she did feel like someone else. She felt like she was gazing at a stranger.

  It had been a long time since she put her lips to a man’s, and she had assumed the last time would be the last time. She’d never thought to do it again, and especially not with someone so wholly inappropriate.

  She’d vowed never to make that mistake again. Never to put her lips where they did not belong—and they definitely did not belong on Peregrine Butler.

  A knock sounded at her door and she bade enter, glad to put an end to those particular thoughts of the past. No more. She’d finished with it years ago. She’d made peace with herself and those days when she had been foolish enough to believe in a scoundrel’s word
s.

  “Good night, my love.” Papa shuffled in wearing a robe and mismatched slippers. She was certain he was not aware of the color of his slippers. His eyes were not what they used to be even with the benefit of his thick spectacles. He leaned down to press a kiss on the top of her head. “What plans have you for the morrow, daughter?”

  “I was thinking of working in the garden.”

  The garden was long overdue her attention. She would never be as attentive to it as Mama had been, but Imogen did what was necessary to tend it and keep it from perishing. There were some cabbages, beetroot and leeks that needed gathering and Imogen knew they would be delicious in their dinner tomorrow. There would be enough for a few vegetable pies. Doubtless a few of their congregants would enjoy their culinary labors.

  Gwen Cully had her hands full with her uncle bedridden these days. She would doubtlessly appreciate a day when she did not have to come home from toiling in the smithy to then prepare a meal.

  “What of you, Papa? What are your plans?”

  “Well, I wanted to catch up on some correspondence and then I was thinking of calling on Mr. Gupta. He mentioned receiving a new book on the fall of Rome that I would very much like to peruse.”

  “Lovely. Do you need someone to—”

  He patted her shoulder. “I am not so infirm I cannot walk myself. It is scarcely a mile.”

  Imogen resisted correcting him that it was a little farther than that. She knew it was important to not make him feel feeble in body or mind. If she were in his situation, she would like to maintain some of her independence, too. It was a tricky game they played—he asserting his independence and she trying not to offend and overly curtail him.

  “You could take the gig,” she suggested.

  As much as she did not love him operating conveyances—his reflexes were not what they once were—it was a small carriage and it would be a short drive. Better that than him walking such a distance.