The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,33
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.