The Duke Goes Down (The Duke Hunt #1) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,6

and harboring some decidedly less than charitable thoughts over one man’s misfortune. Not very virtuous behavior. She tried to stamp down her glee. It was not well done of her.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of her prayer book, digging into the leather, and she sent a guilty glance where the erstwhile duke sat beside his mother, looking unreservedly bored as her father pontificated from the pulpit—and any guilt she may have harbored for her less than charitable thoughts toward the man vanished.

Impudent man. Once the real duke arrived, he would then sit among the denizens of Shropshire like the mortal he was. Her smile deepened. She longed for that day. The final reckoning come to fruition. Mama had been right. As you sow, so shall you reap.

Her gaze drifted back to the front of the church. Papa stood on the other side of the altar, one hand gripping the pulpit for support. He scarcely looked up from the parchment as he haltingly read, squinting through his spectacles. She silently encouraged him. Come now, Papa. You can do it.

He was no longer the rousing orator he once had been. He had not been that in some time. Not since his last fit of apoplexy, but as long as Papa was still here with her, and he could stand up in front of his congregation and read the sermon she had written for him, then all was not lost. He still enjoyed society, and society enjoyed him. It was enough.

Imogen shifted restlessly in her pew. Penning—no, that was not correct. He had ceased to be the Duke of Penning for nigh on a year. One would think that fact would have fully absorbed into her head by now.

Mr. Butler attempted to hide his yawn behind his hand. Rude man.

Why was he even here today? He rarely ever put in an appearance at the vicarage—or Shropshire, for that matter. It was typically left to his mother to grace the hallowed confines of their country church.

To be fair, he was still glorious. Dark locks and silvery gray eyes. He was a dark angel. Imogen well knew that angels came in all shapes, however. Ever since she was a child and found herself launched into a pond on the Penning estate, choking on pond scum, the little lordling’s laughter ringing in her ears, she knew what manner of angel he happened to be.

The boy had been a devil then, and the man was no better now. A smile again threatened to overtake her lips. He would soon learn that the world no longer bowed down to him.

Papa finished and the congregation lifted as one to their feet.

Imogen collected Papa’s cane she was charged with keeping for him, and stepped out from her pew. Moving forward, she patiently held out her gloved hand for Papa to accept as he stepped down from the dais. He took his cane, gripping it with one hand and latched onto her arm with his other, leaning a significant amount of his weight on her. Fortunately she was sturdy. Helping Papa to and fro over the last couple years had developed muscles where none had previously existed.

They started down the center aisle together as the choir sang its departing hymn. Her gaze landed on Mr. Butler for a heartbeat. He wore an impatient expression, as though he could not wait to be free of this church. Imogen sniffed in disdain and snapped her gaze forward.

She and Papa took their positions just outside the double doors. Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and smiled and greeted the denizens of Shropshire. Papa managed this part of his duties quite well. He still loved the social aspect of his role. That had not changed. He had always been a marvelous listener. He smiled and nodded and appeared wholly invested in conversations flowing around him—even if he was not quite the loquacious speaker he once was. Even if it took him a long time to arrive at his words. That did not mean he failed to appreciate the community around him.

Imogen likewise nodded and smiled and said all the right and usual things as congregants exited the church.

Thank you for coming. Have a lovely day. How is your dear grandmam? We would love to join you for tea this week. Oh, my what a splendid bonnet! My compliments on your freshly painted fence. It is the highlight of Shropshire.

The banalities ended as the last family passed through the doors and moved on.