The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,39

have already roused himself for dinner and was waiting downstairs for her. It was a familiar routine.

Patting her freshly tidied hair, she descended the narrow stairs, humming lightly. Mrs. Garry was just passing through the small foyer with a tray of Papa’s favorite claret. He often liked to indulge in a glass before dinner, and she thought it did help take the edge off some of the ache in his joints.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Imogen. Dinner is almost on the table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garry. I take it Papa is in the parlor?” she inquired as she fiddled with the lace fichu tucked inside her bodice and started for the double doors.

“Yes. They’re in there,” Mrs. Garry called as she vanished into the dining room with the tray.

Nodding in satisfaction, she strode toward the room before Mrs. Garry’s words penetrated. Imogen stopped hard in her tracks.

They?

Had they a guest?

Her curiosity piqued, she resumed her pace, entering the parlor where she once again froze.

There, seated across from Papa, sat Mr. Butler, his arm flung along the settee’s back with casual arrogance, as though he was accustomed to making himself at home in her tiny parlor.

Her throat squeezed tight.

“Ah. Miss Bates.” Those devilish eyes of his alighted on her. He lifted to his feet, ever the gentleman. At least superficially. He had not behaved as a gentleman with her in the Blankenship gardens. “Lovely to see you again.”

She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. Words strangled in her throat.

“There you are, daughter,” Papa said, the sound of his voice, when she could not find her own, sweet music to her ears. “I’ve brought us a guest for dinner.”

“Ah. I . . . see that,” she managed to get out as she hastened to her father’s side, offering him her arm as he clambered to his feet.

“I happened upon your father coming home, Miss Bates,” Mr. Butler offered.

She cut him a sharp glance. Was that judgment she heard in his voice?

“Dinner is on the table.” Mrs. Garry arrived just then, hovering in the threshold.

“Let us eat. I am famished,” Papa declared, moving ahead of them in his eagerness.

Imogen hung back to demand of Mr. Butler, “What are you doing here?”

“It is as your father said. He invited me to dinner.” Mr. Butler canted his head and looked down at her in disapproval. “You really should mind your father better. He was struggling to make it home today on his walk.”

She fought against the burning flash of guilt. Alongside the guilt, her resentment stirred that he should criticize her care of her father. Except he was right. She should not have permitted Papa to walk himself to Mr. Gupta’s. She had known it was too much for him, but it was impossible to tell him that and she let Papa persuade her, hating to treat him like the invalid he so desperately resisted becoming.

“I don’t need your instruction on how to care for my father.”

She started for the doors, intent on following her father to the dining room. The quicker they ate, the sooner this whole thing would be over. The sooner Mr. Butler could take his leave and go home.

His hand on her elbow stopped her and sent a jolt of awareness through her. She sucked in a breath and turned to face him, yanking her arm away from his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“I was only attempting to escort you in to dinner. It is the polite thing to do.”

“Oh.” Well, now she felt silly. She sniffed and attempted to look more composed. “We don’t stand on such formalities here, Mr. Butler. You needn’t escort me anywhere.”

He held up both his hands in the air as though attempting to pacify an unpredictable animal. “Very well. I meant no offense.”

She glared at him. He stared back, looking decidedly composed. She suspected he was enjoying himself—enjoying her discomfiture. Alone like this, she could only think of the last time it was just the two of them together, and this did not feel like such a grand idea.

The air between them crackled as though a storm was imminent. Imogen swallowed against the impossibly large lump in her throat.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered there, marking their shape, their color, recalling their pressure, their taste. Struggling with mortification, her gaze flew back to his and in his eyes she read his awareness.

He was remembering, too.

With a ragged breath, she tore her gaze from him and looked longingly to the door through which Papa had