The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,23

that he did not suffer from another fit.

Hope also throbbed in her chest that Papa would find favor with the new Duke of Penning. The appointment of the vicar was completely at his discretion. The Duke of Penning not only selected the vicar, he could force him to resign.

Not that anyone knew when His Grace might arrive. There were rumblings that the man lived in Newfoundland working in the cod trade or in Greenland mining for iron. There were several stories, all unsubstantiated. An agent had been sent abroad to find him many months ago. Everyone waited with bated breath to see what manner of man he would be once he was located and appeared—especially as so many people had their livelihoods tied to him.

“Oh, there are many fine gentlemen about tonight. I’m sure any number of them could tempt you.” Mrs. Berrycloth’s eyes glittered and stopped to rest somewhere across the ballroom.

The skin at the back of Imogen’s neck prickled. She followed Mrs. Berrycloth’s gaze, already knowing what she would find, knowing what—or rather who—had captured the lady’s most ardent attention.

Imogen sighed. The widow fixed her attention on Mr. Butler with clear admiration as he cut through the packed crowd, his long strides purposeful. Imogen’s own gaze lingered on him, on his handsome features set in grim lines. Anyone else would look off-putting wearing such a moody expression, but he still managed to look handsome. Still compelling. She gave a slight shake of her head.

No doubt he was about claiming his next waltz with an eligible young lady who met his criteria for marriage.

Mrs. Berrycloth continued, “I must confess, it’s nice to see His Grace out and about at village functions.”

“Hm. Yes. But he’s not the duke anymore, is he?” Imogen felt like she would be making that correction all her life.

“Oh, indeed, but what are we supposed to call him?” Mrs. Berrycloth sniffed. “I can’t imagine calling him anything else. It feels rather . . . impolite.”

Impolite?

“Mr. Butler,” Imogen supplied. “We’re supposed to call him Mr. Butler now.”

Mrs. Berrycloth swatted her arm with her fan and giggled. “Oh! Can you imagine? I could not do that. It would seem so rude.”

“It is his name,” she grumbled, annoyed at the widow’s interest in Mr. Butler. She certainly wasn’t behaving as Emily Blankenship had been. Evidently the recent rumors had not reached the lady’s ears. It was difficult to imagine she would not care.

“I saw him earlier in the week and promised him a dance tonight.”

“Indeed?” Mercy sent Imogen an amused look.

The widow nodded gleefully, as though she had managed a great coup. “What’s more . . . he suggested we take an afternoon stroll one day soon.”

Mercy’s grin to Imogen seemed to say: you did not run off all matrimonial prospects.

“Oh. Did he now?”

The gentleman worked fast. Imogen had not realized that he had cast his web so wide as to include Mrs. Berrycloth. She fought down a derisive snort. But of course he had. The lady had her own fortune. That made her a viable candidate. She gave her head a small shake. Apparently she needed to work quickly, as well.

“Mrs. Berrycloth,” Imogen began, “would you like to step out for some air with me?” She motioned to the double doors leading out into the gardens. “You look like you might enjoy a refreshing breeze.”

“Oh, am I perspiring?” With a look of dismay, she waved her fan over her face with more vigor. Before Imogen could put her at ease, Mrs. Berrycloth was looping her arm with Imogen’s and guiding them out to the veranda. “We can’t have that. I don’t want to appear red-faced and discomposed.”

“Mercy?” She turned to her friend. “Care to join us?”

“I’ll stay here. Grace is dancing a little too closely with a certain young man for my tastes. I best intervene.”

“You do that.” Nodding, and smiling sweetly, she and Mrs. Berrycloth advanced to the veranda.

At her first sweet inhale upon emerging outside, Imogen felt much improved. The air was cooler and less pungent than in that stuffy ballroom, to be certain.

“That is more like it, Miss Bates. Excellent suggestion. Much better.” Mrs. Berrycloth descended the steps toward the burbling fountain. Imogen kept pace alongside her. The widow sent her a mischievous wink. “I can’t look less than my best for my dance with the duke.” She looked rapturous at her own delusional words and pressed a hand over her impressive bosom as though her heart threatened to explode from her chest. “La, I