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 unfairness 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