The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,41

into a kiss that she delighted in and seized and took ownership of for herself. It had fueled her in some bewildering way.

Her face hotter than ever, she took a much too big bite and chewed, glad for a reason to abstain from conversation.

They fell into companionable silence as they ate. Mrs. Garry left them and there was only the scrape and clink of cutlery and glass for a good few minutes. Thankfully Papa still very much possessed an appetite, and he very much enjoyed his food, almost to the point of gluttony. Not that his lanky frame gave any hint of that.

Imogen studied Peregrine Butler beneath her lashes as he sat in the chair across from her. The chair her mother once occupied. It had been empty a long time now. Usually it was just Imogen and Papa in this dining room, at this table, except when they accepted one of the invitations extended by members of his flock and dined out.

Lately, of course, they accepted fewer of those invitations given Papa’s condition, and they rarely ever invited anyone into their home anymore. Except for tonight. Papa had taken it upon himself to break custom.

And yet it felt nice to have a third person at their table again. Even if it was Mr. Butler. His body nicely filled the usually empty space.

Butler patted his napkin at his mouth. Only crumbs remained on his plate. “Any time you want to invite me over to reap the benefit of your labors, Miss Bates, please do not hesitate.”

Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. He had certainly never sat across the table from a lady who had harvested with her own two hands the meal he ate. Now, contrary to her early self-consciousness, she felt a twinge of selfish pride to be unlike what were doubtlessly scores of females in his life.

“Of course, Mr. Butler. You are welcome whenever you choose,” she said and strangely the words did not even stick in her throat.

He motioned to the pie at the center of the dining table. “Might I?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Of course.” Before she could move to assist him, he was lifting up from his chair and helping himself to another slice of the savory pie.

The warm pleasure she had felt in her face now spread even further throughout her.

Until she recalled that one final wicked rumor she had whispered about him to Mrs. Hathaway. It would have made its way through town by now.

Her pleasure dashed, suddenly the food she had just eaten settled like stones in her stomach. Observing him last night with Mr. Blankenship, she’d had a knee-jerk reaction. Very well. An overreaction. Now she could acknowledge that.

Perhaps nothing would come of it.

Perhaps Mrs. Hathaway would say nothing. It was an unlikely hope.

Imogen closed her eyes in a long, pained blink as she reflected on the impulsive words she had uttered to the town’s biggest gossip.

Thankfully Papa was engaging Mr. Butler in conversation and neither gentleman noticed anything untoward in her expression. She was simply relieved to be spared the burden of carrying the conversation all by herself.

She listened with half an ear as her own thoughts whirled and twisted through her. She caught only snatches of their discussion. Papa’s topics ranged from theology, to history, to the upcoming fall fair and which farmer might win the prize for the best sow.

She knew she should better monitor what was being said in case Papa lost his train of thought and needed her to step in to keep him on track. Usually, she was more diligent about doing that very thing . . . but then a distraction the likes of Peregrine Butler was not usually in the vicinity.

The dinner might not boast multiples courses, but Cook had prepared dessert and they indulged in a refreshing raspberry flummery.

“Now I must come back,” Butler declared with relish as he tucked into the creamy custard. “This is bliss on a spoon.”

Papa twirled his spoon in a small circle. “Cook is a marvel. She could work in any household in the land.”

Finished with dinner, they rose and retired to the parlor. Imogen almost expected Butler to take his leave at this point, but he lingered.

At Papa’s request, Imogen settled before her harp and began to play. Most ladies played the pianoforte, but her mother had taught her the harp, and although she was not nearly as proficient as Mama, she could adequately strum a tune.

She played the solo from Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, closing her