Page 21 of Duke of the Underworld (Regency Gods #2)

CHAPTER 21

“ O h, good Lord, Hugh, don’t carry me into the house,” Persephone complained. She didn’t really think it would work. Some kind of highly specific madness had apparently overtaken Hugh, one where he did not believe that she could walk herself places.

There was nothing wrong with her legs .

Her palms were unpleasantly scraped, as were her elbows from when she’d slid down the rough brick wall. Her arm was a little sore where that villain had grabbed her. She would admit to those complaints, as minor as they were.

But there was absolutely nothing wrong with her legs.

“Please don’t carry me into the house,” she pleaded. “What if the girls see?”

This was a thin excuse at best, as it was the dead of night, and the girls would be peacefully asleep in their beds.

Hugh was apparently still in control of his faculties enough to know this. Whatever this affliction was, it was highly localized.

“Stop arguing, Persephone,” he ordered.

Persephone did not intend to stop arguing, but she did not yet have another argument that she hadn’t already tried. She settled for resisting with silence.

Several members of the staff blinked at them in surprise as Hugh barged through rooms, barking orders. Persephone’s cheeks burned.

“I don’t need boiling water,” she told him as he carried her up the stairs. He really should have been struggling under her weight by this point, but he seemed entirely unbothered. “I also don’t need a poultice. Also, you cannot just ask the poor staff for a poultice . There are lots of kinds.”

“Then they should bring them all, then.” He said this as if this was obvious, then kicked open the bedchamber door.

Oh, right. Because she was the one who was ignoring the obvious. Obvious things like, say, a complete lack of injury .

Hugh carried her across his room and laid her down on the coverlet with such care that one might have thought she was made of glass.

Persephone glared up at him in a way she hoped conveyed that she was made of iron.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

“No.” He started trying to unlace her dress.

Well, that was quite enough of that.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” she said, slapping at his hands. “Stop that this instant. I will not consent to any more of this—this lunacy until you sit down and talk to me.”

He paused, which was rather the best reaction she’d gotten from him so far. When Hugh reached for her gown again, she shot him a look.

“I will allow you to clean the scrapes on my hands if you sit down and talk while you do it,” she negotiated.

Hugh glanced over his shoulder, where a maid was coming in with a bowl of steaming (but not actually boiling, Persephone hoped, no matter what Hugh had requested) water and a stack of soft, clean cloths.

“Fine,” he agreed tersely.

She held out a hand with an air of magnanimity.

He took her palm and cradled it in his own far bloodier hands. He dipped the towel into the water and brought it to dab at her scratches. The water left tracks in the blood on his own hands; Persephone was relieved to see that, aside from a few splits in his knuckles, he seemed to be not too terribly hurt. He was moving well enough, after all, and while there were a few bruises already blooming on his cheekbone and nearer to his eye, but the swelling was only mild.

“Hugh,” she said in a gentler tone as he dabbed and dabbed and dabbed even though the barely-there scrapes on her palms were already pristine. “Let me.”

He looked down at the bowl of water between them as she took the cloth from his fingers, then lay it aside so she could pick up a clean one. She nodded quickly to the hovering maid, too, to get clean water.

“Would you take the dirty bowl and pour it out?” she asked the girl, who nodded and left swiftly.

When they were alone, Persephone kept cleaning. It seemed easier to talk with her eyes on her task, so she kept working as she spoke to him.

“Do you feel better?” she asked. “Do you see now that I’m just fine?”

Instead of answering, Hugh lifted his newly cleaned hands to her cheeks and drew her in until their foreheads were pressed together. For a long, slow moment, they stayed like that, just breathing in the same air, bent toward one another with only those three points of contact: his hands on her face, their heads together.

“I was so afraid,” he admitted. “I saw those men, saw them surrounding you, and… God, Persephone. I was so afraid I would lose you.”

So much of her relationship with Hugh had been bursts of high passion, rushes of irritation and desire and want and need. Now, however, Persephone felt something slow come over her, something that was strong for that slowness, like the first shoot out of the ground that was destined to eventually become the sturdiest oak.

“Why did that scare you?” she asked, making sure to keep her tone so, so gentle.

He pulled her a little tighter against him, as if pressing their heads together firmly enough could share their thoughts directly, could save him from the burden of speaking. The tendril in Persephone unfurled, reached for the sun.

“I—” He sucked in a shaky breath as if this conversation hurt him more than the fight or carrying her to and fro across London. “I was afraid because I—I care about you.”

The tiniest hint of a smile crossed her face.

“You care about me?” she asked, the tiniest bit of teasing in her voice. That tone had always gotten an appealing reaction out of him before, and this time was no exception.

His hand slid back to her hair; his fingers wove through the strands. He used the grip to hold her in place against him, as if he feared she might pull away.

“Yes,” he said, tone gravelly. “I care about you. Quite a lot.”

Persephone slid her own hand up to his cheek.

“Why are you pushing me away, then, Hugh?” she asked quietly. “If you care about me, why would you tell me to find someone else? Why would you stay away from home?”

She felt the hard bob of his throat as he swallowed. She could practically feel his tension crackling in the air. She waited as patiently as she knew how. The tendril—it was hope, she now knew—was reaching for the sun.

“I told you,” he said at last. “I want to protect you.”

“But why?”

“Because—because I love you, Persephone!”

He shoved back as the words burst out of him. He looked at her with wild, searching eyes, and even as she bloomed with happiness, something fractured inside her.

Oh, her dear man. Her wonderful, wonderful husband.

She reached out clasped his hands. His gaze flicked down to their joined hands, then back up to her, dark eyes wide.

“If you love me,” she said, “then stay by my side, Hugh. Because I love you, too .”

It felt so good to say it that it made her practically dizzy. She might have thought that nothing could feel better, but then Hugh surged forward and claimed her mouth with his.

It was magic. Somehow the kiss tasted of love. She felt his lips curve into a smile, so she kissed him harder. By the time they pulled back, they were both laughing.

“Hugh,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you think staying away is protecting us, but you’re wrong.” He opened his mouth to argue, so she laid a finger over his lips.

“We need you,” she told him. “Not because you are a duke or because you have dragged this estate back into solvency by the force of your will alone. We need you . We need you because we love you and having you away from us hurts. Me, Daphne, the girls—we all love you.” She tilted her head. “Probably me the most, though. I would like credit for that.”

He smiled against her finger, then nipped at it playfully.

“I don’t know how I will live with myself if I hurt any of you,” he said.

“Then stay,” she said. “Stay and be with us. And when you’re afraid, let us help you. Because that’s what family does Hugh—we help each other . It’s not just one way.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I realize that I am not precisely an expert at letting other people help me. But I’m trying to do better. And you should, too.”

Doubt flashed across his face.

“What if I don’t deserve that help? The things I’ve seen, Persephone, the things I haven’t stopped…”

“You stopped them tonight,” she said. “And when I think about the things you’ve done , I think of this. I think that you took in your sister when your father died and your mother was unable, no matter that you were newly and unexpectedly the duke—no matter that you were still barely grown yourself.

“I think that you took in three little girls and cared for them in such a way that made them positively adore you. Those children, Hugh! Those children—they are happy and healthy and safe. I think you are the kind of man who could build this kind of family and still worry that it wasn’t enough. I think you are the kind of man who could make me fall in love with you—the only man who could make me love you. You are good and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they shall have to answer to me.”

At some point during this little speech of hers, Hugh’s eyes had fluttered closed, as if he couldn’t bear to listen to all this and look at her at the same time.

“But what if…” he began.

“Do I need to repeat myself, Hugh Blackwood?” she demanded.

She got another soft smile at this.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

“Good.” And then, simply because it felt right, she grabbed his face again and pressed a long kiss on his cheek. His muscles twitched beneath his scratching beard.

After the long night, not to mention the many long days before them, Persephone felt suddenly wracked with exhaustion.

“Come now,” she said. “Let’s sleep. The girls will be impossible to keep away once they know you’ve come back home, and we haven’t much time until they’re up.”

He was wrapping his arms around her and lying her against the pillows, ignoring their disheveled clothes and the unused stack of cloths still at their side.

“I can’t wait to see them,” he said, already sounding drowsy as he nestled into the back of her neck. “We’ll have the whole family together.”

As she drifted off, Persephone felt certain that she couldn’t think of anything that sounded nicer.