The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,26
her throat. “If you will excuse me. It’s growing chilly.” She turned then and fled, abandoning Imogen like a soldier bolting at the first sight of a skirmish.
Imogen knew she could make her own excuses, too. She could flee. Propriety alone would recommend she do that. Although it was not outright scandalous behavior for her to remain. They stood within the light. Anyone could step out on the veranda and peer down at them. But she was the vicar’s daughter. She held herself to a higher standard just as everyone else in the shire did. She really should go inside. And yet she was planted in place.
He said nothing for several moments and neither did Imogen. She willed him to speak, to reveal what he had or had not heard in her conversation with the buxom widow.
The intensity in which he stared at her implied that he’d overheard everything. She couldn’t help herself. She took a sliding step back, away from him and the blast of his knowing and withering gaze.
“So,” he finally said. “You’re the reason everyone has been treating me like a bloody leper.”
She gulped. “I beg your pardon?”
A muscle ticked wildly in his handsome jaw. “I think you heard me perfectly well, Miss Bates. You have been spreading lies about me.”
Apparently she no longer had to envision what the conversation with him would be like when he confronted her about the rumors. She didn’t have to wonder. Now he knew, and now they would have that very fraught conservation. She had been correct. It was no easy matter.
“Who? Me?”
“Yes. You, you conniving little witch.” He advanced on her like a predator in the night.
She resisted the urge to run and held her ground. He wouldn’t dare do anything with people—
She yelped as he seized her hand and pulled her around the fountain, into the shadows and out of the arc of light swelling from the house.
She tugged her hand free. “Unhand me!”
He promptly released her and she rubbed her gloved fingertips together as though she felt him through the fabric and on her skin.
His gaze, impenetrable as ever, cut through the dark. “You have never liked me, and this is clearly how you’ve chosen to exercise your vendetta.”
“Vendetta?” She laughed nervously. “Absurd. Do not be so dramatic. I assure you, I have no vendetta against you, Mr. Butler.” She lifted her chin sharply. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, no. This conversation is long overdue.”
She sent a wary glance toward the house, partially obscured by the fountain. When she looked back at him he had started counting off on his fingers. “I’m bald. I have a few extra toes. I’m a terrible kisser. And now it seems I have excessive and chronic flatulence.”
She shrugged and crossed her arms. “Who is to say if any of that is . . . untrue?”
He blinked. “I say.” He patted his chest fiercely. “I do!”
She laced her gloved fingers demurely in front of her. “I’m sure your charm will shine through and you will lure some young lady to the altar.”
That silenced him for a long moment. He settled back on his heels and squared his shoulders as though digesting this. “Who’s to say,” he began, echoing her words, “that is what I am trying to do?”
Was he claiming that he wasn’t on the hunt for an heiress?
“Everyone,” she countered. “That’s what everyone says. You’re on the search for a bride, for an heiress, and everyone knows it. Given your circumstances, your agenda is clear.”
“My circumstances?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing. “You speak of my loss of fortune?”
Now it was her time to count off on her fingers. “Fortune. Title. Home. All property and honors therein.” She cocked her head. “Am I leaving anything out?”
He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten just what an impertinent chit you are.”
“Only to you,” she reassured sweetly. “Everybody else thinks me a perfect delight.”
“And why is that? What did I do to deserve your dislike?”
She scoffed. “Please. Do not act as though you have been kind to me all these years and I’m just this . . . this bully. Our animosity is long-standing and dual-sided.”
It was his turn to cock his head at her in challenge. “Animosity? I can’t claim such an emotion when it comes to you. I can only characterize any feelings toward you as . . . indifference, Miss Bates.”
Indifference? That stung.
He added, “I confess I don’t give you much thought at all.”