The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,54

virtually ruined.” His gaze narrowed on her. “But that is what you set out to achieve, is it not?”

She nodded. “It is. I thought it important to protect the ladies of this community.”

“Protect them? From me?” He stepped closer and the breadth of his chest struck her as so very broad and solid looking. Not merely in appearance though. She knew he was solid because she had felt that chest. Against her. Against her palms. Crushing her breasts. “Because I am such a despicable person?”

“Not . . . despicable,” she replied.

“Oh? What am I then that makes me so very unsavory?”

“You’re insincere,” she snapped, disliking being pressed on the matter.

“Insincere?” he echoed. “That is my greatest fault?”

He lifted a hand and she flinched.

He hesitated, awaiting her tacit consent, holding his hand midair. She released a breath and he continued, bringing his hand toward her face and wrapping his fingers around a tendril that had fallen loose from her pins. She knew her hair must be an untidy mess given her recent exertions.

His touch was gentle on her hair as he tucked it behind her ear. She shivered as his fingertips grazed the tender skin below her ear. Goosebumps broke out all over her body and she shivered.

“Have I been insincere with you?” His fingers lingered, tracing her earlobe.

His deep voice rumbled between them, rubbing along her skin like a caress. She supposed not. He had been many things with her, but not insincere. Her mind flashed back to their time in the garden and the kiss and the way his mouth had felt over hers.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, recalling the taste of him, the texture, the pressure of his mouth and tongue and teeth. Nothing about that encounter had felt insincere. It felt as real and as honest as anything that had ever happened to her.

“Have you nothing to say?” That appealing mouth of his curled into a slow, languid grin.

She moistened her lips, but still did not speak.

He continued, “Astonishing. I did not think it possible to silence the garrulous Miss Bates.”

She found her voice and said, “Your reputation is not ruined.” Even though she did not fully believe that herself, she needed something to say and it felt like she should try to reassure him at the very least.

“Oh, but I think my prospects in all of Shropshire are officially dashed, much thanks to you.” The annoyance was back in his voice—if it had ever left him at all.

“Can a man’s reputation ever truly be lost?” She shook her head, grabbing a fistful of her skirts and starting up a steep incline. He kept stride with her. “It does not work that way for your sex. In my experience, nothing can happen so grievously to a man’s name that it can’t be repaired.”

She’d seen it time and time again. Men pardoned for infractions simply by the grace of their gender. The same tolerance could not be applied to females. It was the same everywhere. She had seen it even in her beloved Shropshire. Women were not even granted full rights under British law. That alone spoke volumes on the inequitable treatment of women.

“Spoken like a true bluestocking.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. A woman needs keen intelligence to secure herself even a fraction of the rights men have for simply being born.”

“You hardly seem a woman subject to oppression. There are not many women your age with independence and the respect of her community . . . and no pressure to be a wife and mother.”

“I suppose I am fortunate,” she agreed lightly. “At least as long as my father lives I am fortunate. My well-being merely depends on his ability to conquer death, after all.” She forced her eyes wide, blinking up at him. “Perhaps he will live forever, and I will have nothing to fret over.”

Mr. Butler’s expression looked decidedly less confident at that.

With a smug lift of her eyebrow, she pushed on ahead.

He followed, trailing after her through the sudden thickening of brush until they broke out into a small watering hole. He made a small sound at the lovely little spot that she had discovered years ago on a walk.

“What is this place?” he marveled.

“My pond.”

“Your pond?”

“Indeed. It’s my special place.”

“But it’s on my land.” He didn’t know the place, but he knew it was on Penning property.

“No,” she said slowly. “It’s on Penning land. Not yours.”

He released a breath, looking both chastened and annoyed. “Very well. Trust you to correct me