Mrs. Blankenship and her daughters immediately waylaid Papa. Imogen stepped to the side, largely forgotten as they started chattering excitedly about their impending house party. Their guests were very important and well-heeled people from London. The entire shire was invited to the country ball they would be hosting on the third night of their house party.

Imogen smiled as though interested in the banter, but she had no interest in balls. At nearly six and twenty, balls were no longer high on her list. Indeed, they had not been for some time.

Lifting her face, she let the rare sunlight skim over her skin with no fear of any resulting freckles. Her nose was already spotted with them. She’d been born that way. Freckled and cheeky, her mother had oft asserted.

Lowering her face, she allowed her gaze to roam over the inhabitants of her beloved Shropshire—or at least those who had shown up to hear her sermon today. It filled her with secret delight when people complimented Papa. No one could know they were her words—that would not go over well at all—but she knew and that was enough to make Imogen feel warm inside.

She squinted against the bright morning glare.

Mr. Butler no longer stood alone. He had moved and was now chatting with the very elegant baroness. She frowned slightly. Strange indeed. Imogen had never seen them in conversation before.

The widow was not in the first blush of youth—or even the second blush of youth. Of course she was no ancient dragon either. She had to be close to a decade older than Mr. Butler, but she was still an exceptionally handsome woman with vividly dark hair and translucent skin.

Her daughter stood near her, shifting awkwardly from slippered foot to slippered foot as her mother conversed with the former duke. The baroness touched the girl’s arm, and brought her in closer, determined, it seemed, that she participate in the conversation. Mr. Butler angled his head and listened with a rapt expression as the blushing girl murmured something.

Oh, dear. Imogen narrowed her gaze on the trio. She dearly hoped Butler had no designs on the baroness’s daughter—and that the baroness would not actually humor his designs if he did.

The young girl would soon be traveling to London for her first season. Once she turned ten and eight, she would officially be on the market. She would doubtlessly find more suitable choices there than an illegitimate scoundrel, who clearly only had interest in her dowry.

A year ago he had been living the life of a spoiled nobleman, paying no mind to the baroness or her daughter or anyone else in the village of Shropshire. He cared naught for anyone or anything save his own pleasures.