The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,8

knew too well.

Mercy Kittinger sidled close to Imogen’s side.

“Your duke is looking as dapper as ever this morning,” she murmured for her ears alone.

“He is not my duke. Or a duke, for that matter,” she corrected her friend while trying not to sound too gleeful.

Mercy stared at Mr. Butler in a considering fashion. “’Tis a shame to see though.”

“What’s that?”

“Young Annis staring after the duke calf-eyed. You must not approve.” Mercy looked at her knowingly. Her long-time friend was well versed in Imogen’s dislike of the former duke. She did not fully understand it, of course, but she knew of it. Imogen had never shared the particulars of that day in the conservatory. Some shames were best kept private.

“She’s young and impressionable.” Imogen shrugged. “Mr. Butler is handsome and still possesses an air of consequence. It will take time for others to see that he is no longer eligible.” Papa chortled at something Mrs. Blankenship said. It reassured Imogen to see him happily occupied. “Will you be attending the Blankenships’ upcoming ball?” she asked her friend.

Mercy sighed. “I suppose I must. Grace will not forgive me if I keep her from it. She says I keep her isolated enough at the farm.” Mercy’s anxious gaze tracked to her sister, where she stood laughing with a gaggle of other young girls.

The Kittinger farm was sprawling and took up a considerable amount of land to the east of Shropshire. The Kittinger house itself was almost an hour’s ride by carriage. They did not often make trips to the village. Sunday was usually the only day Imogen could visit with her friend, unless she made a special trip to call on her, and lately she preferred to stay close to home in case Papa had need of her.

Imogen turned her attention back to Mr. Butler as he bestowed a brilliant smile on the baroness and her daughter. “I am certain that wretched man will be in attendance, wooing all the unattached young ladies who have two ha’pennies to rub together.”

“I think he’s looking for a bit more than two ha’pennies,” Mercy offered. “He’s searching for an heiress, and Shropshire does boast a few of those.”

Imogen made a sound of disgust. “Can you imagine it?” Now he would join their ranks. Now those heiresses were good enough for him. She sighed. “Dukes are the worst.”

“Except he is no longer a duke . . . as you are fond of reminding.”

“Indeed. Indeed, he is not.” She nodded once in accord.

Mrs. Blankenship’s twin daughters edged away from Papa’s and their mother’s side to stop before Imogen and Mercy.

“Good day, Miss Bates, Miss Kittinger,” they greeted in near unison. Turning then, they tracked Mr. Butler through the crowd. The girls sighed dramatically. “Penning is so handsome, is he not?”

“And no longer Penning,” Imogen offered with false cheer, but they did not seem to hear her.

“He has accepted Mama’s invitation to our ball,” Emily, the more effusive of the Blankenship sisters, trilled, very nearly dancing in place. “It is so thrilling.”

Imogen canted her head. “Is it?”

Emily continued as though Imogen had not spoken. “He’s never attended any of our fetes before, although we have been invited on occasion up to Penning Hall.”

“There has been nothing held at the hall following the late Duke of Penning’s passing. Not so much as a tea since then,” Imogen reminded, unwilling to let the point slide. She wished everyone would recall how little Mr. Butler had to do with anything or anyone in Shropshire. Unlike his father, he cared not one whit for their community. His present interest was only spawned by his need.

Emily fluttered her hand in dismissal, still staring dreamily after Mr. Butler.

It really was too much. What would it take for others to realize he was no grand catch anymore?

“And there is his other . . . affliction,” Imogen heard herself declaring.

Emily glanced at Imogen sharply, proving she was not completely oblivious of her remarks. “What affliction?”

“Yes, what affliction?” Mercy seconded, her expression rightly wary. She knew me only too well.

“I should not speak of it . . .” Imogen hedged, her mind working feverishly, wondering if she dared say what was even teasing at her mind.

Now both the Blankenship sisters were looking at her expectantly, waiting.

Imogen cleared her throat and glanced around as though to make certain there were no eavesdroppers . . . although she knew once she uttered the words, they would be the tattle of Shropshire. The girls, like their mother and brother, could not