The Duke Goes Down

by Sophie Jordan

  “And what of your behavior? Are you so above reproach, Miss Bates? You who creates rumors with the same ease one sips tea.”

  “I’ve made amends for that and your name is restored,” she hotly defended. Doing so was to have severed their connection. There should be no reason for him to be here now. She had done nothing more to anger him or foil his matrimonial plans. She had not recently invited his wrath to precipitate this intrusion. “This is highly improper.”

  “You are quite fetching in your outrage.” A corner of his mouth kicked up mockingly and she knew he was recalling their tryst at the pond. And why not? She had been thinking of it in an unending loop since then.

  She shook her head, her cheeks like fire now. “Stop that. I think that you—”

  A gentle knock sounded at her door and they both fell instantly silent.

  She blinked, staring at the door like it was something alive—a beast that might jump out and bite her if she made so much as a move.

  Moments ticked past and she began to doubt, to hope, that she had misheard it. That there was no knock.

  Until another came, vibrating on the air.

  Imogen looked back at Perry in horror. Had they been too loud? Had they roused someone? Papa?

  Perry looked at her with a mild expression that seemed to ask: Expecting someone?

  Of course, he was not concerned. His reputation was not at stake here. Only hers.

  Shaking her head, she stepped forward to the door. Flattening a palm against it, she swallowed thickly and cleared her throat, asking in what she hoped was a normal voice and not one that revealed that she had a man in her bedchamber. “Yes?”

  A whispered voice floated back through the door. “Imogen, it’s me.”

  Me happened to be Edgar.

  Repelled by the sound of his voice, she stepped several paces back, putting herself side by side with Perry, as though they were allies in this instance and not . . . whatever it was they were. Adversaries seemed too strong a description, but they were certainly not friends and definitely not allies. They were . . . something else.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked, an undercurrent of tension vibrating in his voice.

  Imogen waved a hand wildly in front of her lips. “Shush,” she whispered and then to the door, a fraction louder: “Go away, Edgar.”

  Too late, she realized her mistake. She should not have said his name. She winced.

  Perry’s eyes narrowed on her. “Edgar?” he asked, his dagger gaze shooting to the door. “Who is this Edgar?”

  “My cousin’s husband.” She mouthed the words more than she spoke them, but from the look in his eyes he had no difficulty reading her lips.

  “Please, Imogen.” Edgar’s hissed voice continued through the door. “Don’t be like this.”

  She shook her head. Unbelievable. They had scarcely spoken since he and Winnie arrived here, and now he dared to come to her chamber in the middle of the night.

  “Go away, Edgar. Leave me alone.”

  A flush of angry color crept up Perry’s face. “Has he been harassing you?”

  She expelled a breath. His mere presence in this house was a form of harassment.

  “Um. Not precisely.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, glaring at the door, wishing Edgar gone—wishing he and Winnie had never come at all—wishing for an end to this untenable situation.

  “Not precisely,” he echoed, shaking his head in a way that felt actually restrained and that only spiked her temper. Blasted man! What did he have to be angry about?

  She curled her hands at her sides to stop herself from striking Perry in the chest. That would be unnecessary contact, and it seemed very advisable that she not touch him. Even as cross as she felt, she was still under a heady haze of desire when it came to him.

  She was not the one who had done something wrong here. She had one man scratching at her door in the middle of the night and another one standing in the center of her bedchamber through no doing of her own.

  He continued, “How does a man not precisely harass you? He either does or does not. What’s he doing at your door begging entrance into your bedchamber?”

  Was that accusation in his voice? Did he think she had a lover in this house? That she would take a married man (her cousin’s husband, no less!) into her bed.

  Was he jealous?

  The idea intrigued her more than it should. She did not want Perry’s interest or his jealousy or his anything. Truly.

  “You are one to talk,” she shot back at him. “I did not invite him.” She waved at him. “Just as I did not invite you!”

  He angled his head sharply. “Oh, come now. You want me here.”

  She blinked, heat flashing through her. “Oh!” She puffed out an indignant breath. “The arrogance of you.”

  A familiar squeak scraped over the air. The noise was slight, but she knew it well. She had been meaning to oil the latch for weeks. She turned to stare at her bedchamber door once again, gawking in distress as the latch began to turn down.

  Edgar was entering her chamber.

  Chapter Twenty

  There had never been a need for locks in the vicarage before, but now Imogen yearned for one on her bedchamber door. And locks on her window, for that matter, as this was, apparently, a night for intruders.

  The door swung inward and Edgar slunk into her bedchamber in naught but his dressing gown. As though he was in the habit of strolling into her chamber all the time.

  She felt the tension radiating from Perry beside her, but she could not take her horrified gaze off Edgar. The wood planks of her floor creaked beneath the weight of his bare feet. She could not believe he was here—that his long, bony feet were treading over her floor.

  He wore a haughty grin that quickly faded away once his gaze swept over the room—once he realized she was not alone and there were three of them in the chamber.

  She actually felt a flash of relief for Perry’s presence beside her.

  Edgar’s gaze shot between her and Perry several times before settling on Perry. He squared his shoulders in his floral-patterned dressing robe as he looked Perry up and down. “What are you doing in here, sirrah?” he demanded.

  “What are you doing in here?” Perry countered, taking a threatening step forward. Imogen’s hand shot out to close around his arm, stalling him from doing anything rash.

  Edgar opened and closed his mouth several times before turning his accusing gaze on Imogen. “Imogen? What is the meaning of this?”

  “My exact question to you,” she returned, lifting her chin up a defiant notch. “What is the meaning of you entering my room uninvited?”

  “Indeed,” Perry cut in. “As you can see. She already has company.”

  “Perry,” she hissed, mortified. He made it seem as though they . . . as though they were in the midst of an assignation.

  “Perry, is it?” Edgar asked tightly.

  “And you’re Edgar, Imogen’s cousin’s husband. I wonder what your wife would think of you here? Hm? Shall we call for her and ask for her thoughts on the matter?”

  Edgar’s lips pressed into a hard line.

  “No?” Perry tilted his head.

  Edgar answered with a hard shake of his head.

  “Sound decision.” Perry sent a long measuring look her way before facing Edgar again. “Permit me to suggest another sound decision for you.”

  Edgar visibly swallowed. “And what would that be?”

  Yes. What would that be?

  “Pack your things and leave here in the morning.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Edgar sputtered. “It is not your place to—”

  “You heard him.” Imogen found her voice, appreciating that at least she now had the ammunition to hasten Edgar’s departure. “You’re not welcome here, Edgar.” He was demented to think he ever would be, especially after this latest offense. “Take Winnie and be on your way at first light.”

  Edgar attempted a smile. “Come now, Imogen. We cared for each ot
her once.”

  “No. That is not how I remember it. Caring does not describe our past association.” She knew that now. Pain and manipulation best described their history. “I don’t know what you thought would happen here tonight, but you need to be gone from this place.” Imogen would not feel safe in her bed until he was gone. She would not sleep a wink as long as he was under her roof. “Be gone in the morning or I will tell Winnie what you attempted here tonight.”

  His expression grew tight and pinched, his lips compressed as though he’d sucked on something sour. His gaze flicked back and forth between her and Perry. “Very well. I see that I made a mistake.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “Well.” He nodded once. “Good night.” He left then, closing the door behind him with a smart click.

  She faced Perry again, her shoulders sagging a bit. It was on the edge of her tongue to thank him, but she stopped herself. She would not thank him. He should not be here. She quickly put aside her relief for his presence in her chamber. Helping her did not absolve him from invading her room.

  Sighing, she buried her face in her hands for a moment before lifting her head and settling her gaze back on Perry. “You should go.”

  “You want me to leave you?” He glanced to the door with a baleful look, as though he longed to go through it after Edgar. “There’s no lock on that door and he’s still in this house with you.”

  “Very well.” Nodding, she moved to her desk and picked up the chair. Walking it across the chamber, she secured it beneath the latch. “There now. Satisfied?”

  His lips curled. “That would not stop a toddler.”

  “Well, fortunate for me there is not a toddler in the house.”

  His lips twitched. “Only your cousin’s randy husband.”

  “I think I’m safe from him tonight. And tomorrow, in fact.” She gave a small wincing smile. “Thanks to you.” Very well. That was a semblance of gratitude.

  “You stood up for yourself quite admirably,” he said.

  Silence stretched between them. That crackling energy was back.

  “I know I should not have barged in here. I hope I did not . . .” His voice faded. Clearing his throat, he finished, “I wanted to see you.”

  She motioned to the window. “Apparently.”

  “We were interrupted the other day—”

  “We’d said everything that needed to be said.” She shook her head. “I said everything I had to say.” She wrapped her arms tighter around the pillow she still clutched, hugging it herself.

  “You said a year from now you won’t cross my thoughts, and I need you to know that’s not true.”

  “You can’t know that,” she whispered.

  “I can. I do. You’re under my skin. A fire in my blood. I’ve never felt this . . . never wanted a woman the way I want you.” He stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between them. “I’ll never forget you.”

  She inhaled. Exhaled. She’d been fooled by seductive words before, but none like this. None she felt as tangibly as this.

  Trust did not come easily for her, but she understood what he was offering. It was temptation. More of what happened at the pond. No promises beyond. That’s it, and she’d take it.

  Against her better judgment, her hand stretched out to rest on his chest, palm down against the cool fabric of his shirt, his skin warm through the linen, his heartbeat fast beneath her fingers. She smiled shakily. Her heart was beating just as fast. Faster even.

  His hand followed, his bigger one covering hers. She sighed, reveling in the sensation. All that warm skin and strength over hers. Suddenly he bent down and swept her up in his arms. She swallowed back a small yelp.

  It was a short walk to her bed, both terrifying and thrilling. She trembled in his arms and closed her eyes in a long, fortifying blink.

  He lowered her down on the bed and proceeded to strip off his shirt, grabbing it from behind his neck and pulling it over his head in one smooth move, revealing the muscled perfection of his chest. She watched, still hugging her pillow as though it were protective armor.

  The candlelight danced over his body, and her gaze followed it, licking over every inch of his smooth skin, every hollow and curving muscle.

  Her palms tingled, imagining the texture, the sensation of him. Her fingers flexed in the softness of the pillow. Her breath fell harshly, eyes burning for lack of blinking. She shook her head once, hard and swift. It did no good. She couldn’t manage to gawk less.

  Accept this. Take what he’s offering—take what you want.

  The dark whisper didn’t have to work very hard to convince her.

  He bent and removed both boots, not tossing them, but setting them carefully beside the bed as though not to make a sound. Straightening, he fastened those slate-gray eyes on her.

  His hands moved to his trousers and then stopped, lingering for a long moment. Her gaze locked with his. He arched a dark eyebrow in question. This was it. He was giving her a choice.

  She nodded.

  He removed the last of his attire, shamelessly and unabashedly exposing himself—gloriously, beautifully naked. More beautiful than any statue she’d giggled and gawked at alongside Winnie at the museum in Town . . . and certainly more abundantly proportioned. Heat swamped her face as that specific part of his anatomy grew before her eyes.

  She tossed her pillow aside and propped up on her elbows, trying to peer around him to see more, to see all of him.

  “You want to see me?” Still arching that dark eyebrow of his at her, he turned, rotating slowly. Her stomach dipped and twisted at the sight of his derriere. Tight and round, with an indent along the side of each curved and flexing buttock. Who knew the sight could be so arousing? It was . . . mouthwatering. Saliva rushed over her tongue.

  She held out her hand, extending it to him.

  He may have barged into her bedchamber, but she was inviting him into her bed.

  Stepping forward, he lowered one knee onto the bed. His hand seized the hem of her nightgown.

  Her hands shot to the little buttons at her throat, feverishly liberating them of their constraints. When she’d freed enough of them, he tugged the nightgown the rest of the way, dragging it up and over her head and tossing it to the floor.

  He looked her over, staring at her face. It seemed just as important to him as the rest of her. He stroked her skin, sliding the rough pads of his fingers along the curve of her cheek. His entire hand spanned half her face and it made her feel almost delicate—a wholly new sensation. She had never been considered a small female, after all, but she felt like he could wreck her in the best, most glorious sense.

  His hand continued its exploration, moving down her throat, tracing her collarbone. As each moment of prolonged contact passed, her breathing grew raspy and shallower. Her blood pounded, hot and heavy in her veins.

  Her eyes dipped, straying to his swollen manhood jutting forward, so close now that she could reach out and touch it. And why not?

  He was here for the offering. She wanted to touch it. Him.

  She yearned for him with a fierceness that should have shamed her, but it did not. Perhaps a modicum of this had always been there. This longing. This craving. For no other reason had his unkind words hurt her so much when she was a girl at his birthday party—or all those times she had visited his house as a child and been largely ignored by him. He’d enamored her. She’d thought him as beautiful and glittering as some distant star. And that was the truth she had never permitted herself to acknowledge before.

  Now that star was before her. Bright and burning, but hers to touch and hold.

  Perhaps this was it. He was it. Her one chance, her one taste of passion until she returned to a life of spinsterhood.

  Holding his gaze, she scooted back on her elbows, her arms trembling with tension as she made more room for him on her bed.

  He watched her for a long moment, his gaze scouring her in a hot sweep that she felt deep in her bones.

  “Yo
u are certain you want this?” he rasped, his voice a husky growl—the words like a gauntlet thrown down, waiting for her to pick it up and accept. And of course, she would.

  She nodded her assent and he lowered his second knee to the bed. The mattress dipped from his weight. He moved in, walking on his knees like a great seductive beast intent on devouring her, his muscles undulating beneath his smooth taut skin. Her thighs instinctively parted for him, welcoming him in, even as she was both thrilled and petrified.

  The intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her was like a physical touch. She forgot to breathe under that stare. Her hands fluttered to rest on his shoulders—so delightfully, shockingly naked.

  “So lovely,” he murmured, brushing the hair back off her forehead.

  She laughed nervously. That was the first time someone said that . . . someone who actually meant it. And he meant it. He was not a pretender. Not a man to say things he did not mean. She knew that much about him.

  He smiled wickedly, knowingly, as he settled deeper between her knees, the warmth of his body, his skin, singeing the insides of her thighs. His chest pressed against hers, grazing her sensitive nipples into stiff points. She arched her spine, enjoying the sensation, craving more, to which he delivered.

  Dipping his head, he sucked the tip of her breast deep into his warm mouth. His teeth scraped the hard point, spiking her need.

  She cried out at the intense pleasure and he quickly covered her mouth, gently admonishing her with a “Ssh” against her ear. “You don’t want to wake the house, do you?” She felt his smile against the whorls of her ear.

  She nodded and he slid his hand away, dragging it back down to her breast, fondling the mound until her entire body was an inferno, boiling from the inside and ready to burst.

  His manhood nudged at her core, the hard heaviness of him rubbing against her. The intimacy of him over her, splayed between her thighs, prodding her, left her gasping, desperate to be filled. Her inner muscles clenched, aching with need.

  Perry seized her lips in a consuming kiss. There was no sliding into it. No gentle easing. Nothing soft or mild. His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking her own tongue until she moaned, a writhing wreck beneath him. She pushed up toward the hard length of him.