The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,29

Historically, he rather preferred to like his partners—or to at least find them unobjectionable—before kissing took place.

Evidently there could be exceptions, and Imogen Bates was one of them.

In the before times, when his life had included a dukedom, he was not usually so free with his passions. He did not kiss just anyone. Contrary to his reputation and what his own mother seemed to think of him, he was judicious where he spent his passions. He cared not to contract the pox, after all. Many a nobleman was riddled with it from far too many peccadilloes of a less than discerning nature. It was Perry’s instinct to be more cautious.

And in this new life, shagging had been the last thing on his mind. He’d spent the last year wading through the quagmire of his lost life, trying to make sense of what had happened. He’d only recently thrown himself into the task of finding an heiress.

And yet Miss Imogen Bates triggered his ire.

Learning she was responsible for the rumors circulating should not have come as a surprise. He had no enemies in Shropshire. Only Miss Bates, of course. She never hid her distaste for him. Not when they were children and not in adulthood.

True, he may not have been decidedly warm toward her. There was the time that Thirza shoved her into the pond and he had laughed. Not well done of him, but they’d been children then. He winced, recalling also when she’d caught him saying those less than gentlemanly things about her in the conservatory. He hadn’t been a child then. Just an arse.

Of course, she was the one spreading tales of him. Who else? He would have eventually landed on the conclusion that Imogen Bates was his saboteur. In time. Once he ran through all the possible suspects in the shire.

And yet she had gone too far.

Now he had gone too far and hauled her against him.

He’d acted without thinking. Nothing else could explain his impulse to kiss her. He should have restrained himself. It was reckless. He should have behaved better. She’d done nothing to entice him. Quite the opposite.

He generally liked cheerful and good-humored women. Lusty women whose big hearts matched their passions.

Miss Bates was not that.

She never smiled. In fact, more often than not, a scowl graced her face—at least in his company.

Desire had not propelled him to kiss her. His temper had gotten the best of him.

And yet every pore, every fiber of his being was humming and vibrating, consumed by this kiss and proclaiming him a liar. Whatever this had started out as, it was all about desire now.

Nothing could account for her ability to kiss like a well-seasoned paramour.

Her hands fisted in his jacket, no doubt ruining Thurman’s efforts. The man had taken great pains to press his clothing this evening. He’d made certain that Perry left the house impeccably attired. “You might not be a duke anymore, but that does not mean you face the world looking like a vagabond,” the old butler had said.

Her fists twisted, pulling his jacket tighter and bringing him closer. She was surprisingly forceful. And skilled. Her tongue knew precisely what to do.

He tightened his hand in her silky hair—somehow his hand ended up in her hair. It was as if his body—and his mouth—had a will of their own.

She made a breathy little sound at the back of her throat. He growled and kissed her harder. He never had a kiss like this before. It was deep and hard and soft all at the same time. She angled her head side to side as though she could not get enough of him—as though she wanted to gobble him up, eat him alive.

Then—astoundingly—she nipped at his lip with a tiny little snarl.

Lust shot straight through him in a hot spear. His cock went rock hard, straining against his trousers, and before he could check himself he was pushing his hips into her, loathing her voluminous skirts, loathing all their bulky garments.

Where had the genteel and demure Miss Bates gone? Perhaps she wasn’t real.

He knew something about leading a fake life. Perhaps this was the real and true Miss Bates and that other creature was merely the facade.

Her fists unclenched the edges of his jacket and her hands slid beneath. She stroked her palms over his chest as though desperate to get through the layers of his vest and shirt to his skin. He could understand the impulse. He felt the wild need to touch her