Only young Penning would be able to read more into her reticence. If it even occurred to him to do so. If he cared. Perhaps he recalled that long-ago lawn party and the girl in the garish pink dress who stared at him with wounded eyes. Perhaps not.

In the years that followed, young Penning attended her mother’s funeral alongside his family. Imogen was aware of him there, a tall, silvery-eyed figure on the periphery, an unwanted presence amid her grief.

Two years later, on the death of his father, Imogen returned the courtesy and did the same, standing among mourners and offering stilted condolences.

Following the demise of the old duke, there was little occasion for them to interact further.

Five years passed with minimal sightings.

She heard of his exploits, of course. The young illustrious Duke of Penning spent most of his time in London, expanding his reputation as a feted nobleman about Town whilst Imogen’s life turned to that of caretaker.

She settled into spinsterhood and loyally tended to her father and the vicarage and the people of Shropshire, telling herself it was all she ever wanted. This duty was her calling.

It was enough.

Her life was one of purpose. She harbored no regrets even if, on occasion, the whisper of rotten lemon chased through her mind like a slithering snake. Especially every time she came face-to-face with Amos Blankenship in the village. That snake slithered yet.

Her single consolation was the proverb Mama had frequently chirped: As you sow, so shall you reap.

The Duke of Penning would have his turn.

She did not know when or how, but when it came for him, she would not pity him.

Chapter Two

Ten years later, 1848

The once glorious and venerable Duke of Penning sat as bold as he pleased in the first pew of Imogen’s church.

Except he was a grand duke no more.

The young nobleman had gotten his comeuppance.

The mighty had fallen from his perch and landed upon earth to mingle alongside the rest of them—even if he still happened to sit in the pew reserved for the Duke of Penning and his family.

Duke no more.

A tight little smile of satisfaction curved Imogen’s lips—until it occurred to her that she was sitting in church 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.