Page 10 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

F or the twenty-somethingth time since she’d awoken, Persephone walked a path to the window overlooking the quiet Mayfair Street and peered at the world below.

Persephone had arisen well before the sun.

Nor had her current state anything to do with the decades-long routine she and the other instructors had been forced to develop at Mrs. Belden’s of rising while the sky was still dark.

Sleep had proven elusive, and the unfamiliarity of her temporary household had made it impossible to fall into a deep slumber.

Liar.

It hasn’t a thing to do with an unfamiliar house, but rather the unfamiliar friend occupying the residence.

Unfamiliar friends who did familiar things like riding at dawn, only to return disheveled.

Standing at the edge of the window from where she’d seen Simon ride off several hours ago, she peered out at the cobbled streets, which showed the beginning bustle of a busy London day, when she caught a glimpse of him guiding his midnight-black stallion to a stop at the front of his townhouse.

With his attention fully occupied by the footman, Persephone peeled the curtain back the tiniest fraction to avail herself to a better view of her childhood friend.

Simon effortlessly swung a leg over the side of his horse and dismounted with a familiar grace.

Persephone furrowed her brow.

What accounted for this uncertainty and unsureness around him? Persephone was not, and never had been, and never would be, a woman who found herself tongue-tied around a man. From her earliest days in Cheshire to the years upon years she’d been employed by Mrs. Belden as an instructor and matchmaker, Persephone had countless experiences dealing with all manner of men: titled ones and gentry. Those in the clergy. Working-class ones who’d found their circumstances elevated.

Nearly all of those men had been fathers. Some of them brothers. One of them had been Lord Woodhaven. And not even her former sweetheart had kept her in this unsettled state.

As if he felt her eyes upon him, Simon froze and looked up.

Their gazes locked.

Her heart racing, Persephone jumped back a fraction.

The gossamer thin curtains fluttered damningly, and she remained motionless.

Oh, God. He’d caught her spying on him.

Mortification brought her toes curling up tight.

Stop being a ninny. You weren’t staring at him. Not really. Why, you were looking out the window at the very moment he’d happened to return, and your focus happened to snag on him for just a moment.

Yes, that was it.

With those assurances building her back up, Persephone crept back to the edge of the window and peeked out.

Some of the tension went out of her.

A dutiful servant had since joined Simon, and the two men spoke with an effortless ease Persephone had once felt around Simon.

In fact, the pair were so engrossed, she may as well have merely imagined that earlier collision of her and Simon’s gazes.

Why, he’d likely not even seen her—

Of a sudden, his gaze shot up.

She’d have to be a spectacle-wearing lady without her glasses to have failed to see the amused glimmer in Simon’s eyes—an amused glint that confirmed he’d indeed caught her watching him, not once, but now twice .

The lout.

And just like that, Persephone found herself steadied by this bumptious version of her former friend.

Tipping her chin up a notch, she boldly held his stare.

Persephone found herself saved by the servant. The liveried footman said something, commanding Simon’s full attention.

Releasing the curtain, Persephone quit her spot at the window and wandered over to the mahogany side table, where her frayed and aged valises had been deposited the night prior.

The thing of it was, despite her annoyance and regret at the changes time had wrought upon Simon, she did still need him. And she hated that she needed him. She hated that she needed anyone. She hated that since her father’s death, she’d come to realize just how precarious a woman’s lot was, and how very much she—and all women—were reliant upon the charity and goodwill of those who had more power than her—which she’d swiftly learned was, in fact, anyone and everyone.

Absently, she withdrew an ancient, well-loved one of her sketch pads. She caressed her palm over the faded leather cover, and then over the spine with its binding which had begun to unravel.

Persephone hesitated a moment and then headed for the borrowed bed she’d neatly tidied herself upon waking.

She perched herself on the edge of the soft feather mattress—a mattress far more comfortable than any she’d known in her life, including the one she’d slept on during her childhood—and rested the old sketch pad on her lap.

Persephone stared down at it a moment, and then, mindful of the age and specialness of the book, she opened the cover.

Her gaze immediately found the also-faded signature at the front center page. A wistful smile pulled at her lips as she recalled so very seriously penning her official name to signify the importance of the book and the works it contained.

She turned the page, revealing her first sketch. Even with the crude rendering, she could make out the unmistakable form of a honeybee. She continued on to the next, and the next. As the pages went, the skillset of the child-artist improved.

And then she stopped.

Persephone stared at her first attempt at drawings of those in human form.

Simon lay sprawled on the green grass of Frankton Hill’s highest peak. He stared up at the one doing his rendering—her; he’d been staring up at Persephone with the shyest of smiles.

A memory slipped in.

“ I don’t want to have my likeness rendered. ”

“ And why not, Simon? ”

“ No one wants a drawing of me. ”

“ I do… ”

I do…I do…I do…

Her quiet, somber assurance echoed around in the chambers of her mind, those words as fresh as if she’d just spoken them into existence now, and not some twenty-three or so years ago.

Persephone continued to stare unblinkingly at Simon’s likeness.

He’d been so very timid and uncertain, and so very different than the man he’d grown into. Nay, he’d become a man who know his worth and wealth and rank and was confident in his own skin.

Funny that she’d always urged him to have more confidence. She’d reminded him over and over again of his worth.

She’d wanted those changes for him because no person should go through life feeling inadequate and unworthy in any way.

She just hadn’t expected that transformation would also see him as cynical and…shuttered.

Rap-rap-rap.

That quiet, efficient knocking brought her head up.

“Just a moment,” she called.

Persephone snapped her old sketch pad closed and hastily returned it to inside her valise.

She hastened across the room and drew the pretty painted oak panel open.

Surprise brought her eyebrows arching up. “Mrs. Trowbridge!” she said excitedly.

Her hair, having been white as long as Persephone had known her, gave the housekeeper a timeless look.

The older woman smiled. “Well, saints on Sunday! I had to see it with my own eyes. It is you, Miss Forsyth.”

“And it is you,” she returned, and it felt so very good to find something and someone constant in her life that Persephone couldn’t help it. She threw herself into the other woman’s arms.

The old servant instantly embraced her, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a grown woman whom she’d not seen in more than twenty years to launch herself at her.

Persephone’s survival had been dependent upon her taking work at Mrs. Belden’s, the stern headmistress who’d forbade either her students or instructors from showing any emotion.

And in this instant, being in this household with Simon and familiar servants, Persephone was hit by the realization of how lonely she’d been and how very much she’d missed the Broadbents, who’d been more family than friends to her.

Alas, the decorum Mrs. Belden had all but beaten into her reared its head.

Embarrassed by her show of emotion, Persephone made herself release Mrs. Trowbridge.

“Forgive me,” Persephone said. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Had I known you were here, I’d have forgone breaking and entering for knocking at the front door.”

Mrs. Trowbridge gave her a gentle smile. “Well, I am just so very glad we were in residence.” The older servant’s smile slipped. “Though there have been any number of…changes since you were last here.”

Persephone followed the housekeeper’s gaze to the door, her meaning clear—Simon.

She opened her mouth to ask the questions that had kept her awake last night. The first being when had Simon changed to a person she no longer recognized?

But then she stopped.

Friendly though Mrs. Trowbridge had been and proved to still be, there could be no disputing her loyalty to the master of the house. Why, the very nature of the housekeeper’s presence in this household all these years later, when staff turnover for nearly all households was two to three years, served as further testament.

Mrs. Trowbridge cleared her throat.

“His lordship.” She paused, her lips formed a grimace. “ His Grace ,” she corrected. “He is waiting for you.” The housekeeper gave her head a wry shake. “That is going to take some getting used to,” she added more to herself.

“His title or him waiting for me?”

Mrs. Trowbridge chuckled and then led Persephone from the room.

As she followed the older woman through the once-familiar halls, Persephone assessed her surroundings as they went. Shades of pinks and greens had been the late Countess of Primly’s favorite colors, which had led the earl to gift her trinkets and paintings all done in those hues. Those gilded frames overflowing in an explosion of pastel flowers and porcelain vases remained in the exact spots they’d occupied.

Only, where they’d once contained flowers lovingly arranged by the countess, now they sat bare and, not unlike their new owner, transformed into coolly impersonal ornamentations that may as well have sat in any lord and lady’s household.

And it was beyond silly to mourn all the changes that had befallen Simon. After all, time left its mark upon everything. People were no different.

Persephone certainly bore no resemblance to the carefree, high-spirited girl who, after summer rainstorms, had raced over the hills of Cheshire to reach the end of the rainbow that filled the sky.

It was simply that being with Simon again made her mourn for the way life used to be. Not just how he used to be, but Persephone herself too.

Her circumstances didn’t allow her the freedoms and luxuries she’d previously known—and taken for granted. Being around her friend from long ago just reminded her of the way life had once been and how it would never be again.

As Persephone and Mrs. Trowbridge reached the corridor leading to Simon’s office, Persephone gave her head a slight shake.

Either way, she needn’t worry about all the ways Simon had changed. She wasn’t long for this household. He’d offered to help her secure work, and when he did, she’d be free of this residence and Simon. Why, given the fact their stations had them orbiting in completely different universes, it was doubtful she’d see him for at least another twenty years.

No, it’d likely be only when he had a daughter of his own and need of a matchmaker, which Persephone would still be because there were no other opportunities, at least not respectable ones, awaiting her.

Unlike Simon, who’d have a wife and a family and travels abroad awaiting him, Persephone had only the hope for more work, and more work, so that she could scrape together enough funds and eke out an existence until she died, and some other spinster matchmaker stepped forward to take her role on the Marriage Mart.

A panicky giggle bubbled in her throat.

You should be so lucky if Simon hired you in twenty years. To do so, she’d have to escape handsy employers and their rakish sons looking to dally with the help.

Dread at the uncertain future awaiting her clawed at her mind.

Her breath grew quicker as the prettily papered walls began to close in on her.

“Here we are,” Mrs. Trowbridge sung happily.

Persephone came exploding back to the present, the same way she’d burst out from under the water when she and Simon had competed to see who could hold their breath the longest.

She’d always won.

Some good that skill had done her.

The housekeeper knocked once.

“Enter.” Simon’s deep, even voice penetrated the heavy oak panel.

In an attempt to steady herself, Persephone dusted suddenly damp palms over the front of her dress.

Mrs. Trowbridge hesitated and cast a glance back at Persephone.

Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, Persephone nodded. The moment the other woman looked away, she let her grin fade.

As Mrs. Trowbridge reached for the handle, it was as if everything—with the exception of Persephone’s thoughts—passed in infinitely slow motion.

Stop this instant. He is just a man.

And the good Lord knew she wasn’t a virginal miss any longer.

She knew how to handle men.

Not like that .

Like the geysers of Haukadalur valley she’d read of, a hysterical giggle best suited for a young girl built inside Persephone and threatened to erupt.

Then, at last, Mrs. Trowbridge opened the panel.

Silence.

Heavy and thick and uncomfortable, it greeted them and effectively doused her fitful mirth.

The housekeeper dropped a curtsy and, into the quiet, she introduced Persephone. “Miss Forsyth.”

Persephone stepped forward.

Still, Simon said nothing. Instead, he remained seated in that throne-like chair behind his late father’s desk.

Persephone resisted the urge to squirm.

To give her twitchy legs a task, she dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said.

And tired of being the one to stand unnerved before him, Persephone boldly invited herself over to his imposingly heavy, ornate desk.

She stopped before Simon.

Nay, the duke. A self-possessed, austere man could only ever be thought of as “the duke.”

He still didn’t say anything. Not a single word.

And in that instant, he reminded her so very much of the boy who’d not been uncomfortable with silences because he’d used them to help steady his words.

How ironic he now used that same stillness to disconcert the person opposite him. Said person being Persephone.

She dropped her gaze a smidge, and her eyes collided with the implicative trace of red upon his rumpled cravat. Why…why…was she the one feeling unsettled? Her, Persephone? When he had been the one doing…doing…wicked things with whichever woman it was who’d left that stain upon his garments.

Done being the unsettled person in their pair, Persephone sniffed at the air.

When he didn’t take the bait, she leaned more pronouncedly over the surface of his desk and took another whiff.

“Is there a problem, Miss Forsyth?” he asked impatiently.

“I merely wondered, given you’ve become a connoisseur of brandy and cognac. Can one smell a difference on a person? Or does one’s stench remain the same?”

There emerged a strangled sound of mirth from behind them.

They ignored Mrs. Trowbridge.

“Stench?” he said. “I don’t have a stench.”

Given the terseness of his tone, she’d do well to let the matter be.

Alas, some things did not change between them—her inability to not provoke a reaction in him being one.

“No, that is fair,” Persephone allowed. “You don’t have a stench.”

Some of the tension left his frame.

“You have a smell ,” she added. “And given that scent on your person is offensive to some , the word stench still applies.”

A flush mottled his cheeks.

“I trust we’ve more important business to attend than whether or not I’ve been drinking,” he snapped.

She couldn’t help herself. “You have.”

He stared blankly back.

Persephone elucidated. “Well, it is just whether you’ve been drinking is not in question.” She paused again for effect. “We were discussing the fact you stink.”

His nostrils flared.

From behind Simon, she caught Mrs. Trowbridge’s smothered laugh.

Simon looked past Persephone. “That will be all, Mrs. Trowbridge.”

Persephone cast an envious glance back as the housekeeper took her leave.

The older woman dropped another curtsy—this one quick. She sent a supportive wink Persephone’s way, and Persephone smiled gratefully in return.

And then she was gone.

Lucky lady.

The moment Persephone redirected her attention forward, Simon motioned to the pair of Hepplewhite chairs in front of his desk.

“I’ve been making inquiries,” he said as if their previous interchange had never happened.

Persephone slid into the red walnut seat. “On my behalf?”

“Would I be speaking with you about any other inquiries?”

“Well, it is just, given the nature of your stench—”

“A stench I do not have.”

“And your sloppy cravat.”

Frowning, Simon angled his chin down and evaluated the article in question.

“I’d take it you were out someplace less than reputable. If it was a wicked club, then there are no inquiries you could have made for employment that would be respectable, and if it was a meeting in the household of some gentleman, well, then he appears as dissolute as one of those wicked clubs, and also a place I’d rather not be employed.”

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out respectable clubs—White’s, Brooks’s, Boodles, Watier’s—all serve spirits.”

“Do they also employ female servants who rouge their lips?”

He attempted to glance down at the spot where she pointedly stared.

She angled her head up and pointed to the place where her own chin met her neck. “There,” she said, helping him out.

Color filled Simon’s angular cheeks.

He yanked a white embroidered square from his pocket and wiped at the damning spot.

Given the direness of her situation, she should only be focused on the matter of finding work. Certainly, she shouldn’t be bantering with him. She couldn’t help it. This new rakish Simon deserved a good needling.

“You were saying?” she said, keeping her features perfectly even.

Simon tossed aside the wrinkled, now rouge-stained cloth. “I’m not sure I even recall anymore,” he muttered.

“I believe you were indicating you found me employment at your wicked club.”

“I did not find you employment at my wicked club.”

“Ah-ha!” Persephone jabbed a finger at him. “So you were at a wicked club.”

He made no attempt to deny it, and something about thoughts of Simon inside one of those scandalous hells left an odd taste in her mouth.

Simon sat back in his chair, brought his fingertips to rest against each other, and stared at Persephone over the top of them.

Her heart fell.

No matter how much she wished him to be the friend to her that he’d been years ago, time had left a great gap between them. He’d changed. They both had. They weren’t friends.

They were…just two people who used to know one another.

Persephone’s heart knocked painfully against her ribcage.

Simon had been absolutely silent for far too long.

She’d gone too far.

Why had she not held her tongue?

Why hadn’t she ever been able to hold her tongue?

She silently willed him to say something.

Nay! Don’t say anything.

A smile. She’d prefer his grin—even that roguish one he’d adopted over the years.

Simon dusted his palms together with a meticulous slowness that only redoubled her dread.

He spoke slowly. “Upon careful consideration this morning—”

No! “I’m sorry,” she said on a rush, not allowing him to continue in what would be the death knell of her future and all hopes of security. “I’ve been combative and rude and inappropriate, Your Grace.”

Simon quirked a dark blond eyebrow. “Your Grace now, am I?”

Her stomach dropped. “You are right. I’ve been grossly disrespectful and inappropriate in my use of your Christian name.”

He frowned darkly.

“You have my promise it shall not happen again, S— Your Grace ,” she immediately corrected.

His scowl only deepened.

Mrs. Belden, along with any other employer, would have shown her the door well before this latest offense. Why should Simon the duke be any different? He wouldn’t. Members of the peerage both expected and demanded respect.

Simon made to speak, but Persephone scrambled onto the edge of her armchair, clasped her hands in supplication, and then clasped them at her chest. “Given the nature of my arrival—”

“You mean given the fact you broke into my household?”

Did she hear amusement in that question? Or did she merely shore it up out of desperation?

“I should be more deferential and appreciative. You could have very well called the constable on me and had me tossed away in Newgate.”

“I gave it a thought.” A glimmer flickered in the endless blue of his eyes.

Was he jesting? She hated that she could not tell. “D-Did you?” Persephone dampened her mouth.

He just stared at her in return.

“O-Of course you did. Why would you not have?” And then she did that which she always did when nervous—she rambled. “We are not friends. Not any longer. Our fathers had a nasty falling out…of which I was the one to blame.”

Why did you bring that up? a voice silently castigated. Change the subject. Now.

“Why, we may as well be strangers. We are strangers,” she amended.

And then belatedly thought better of that clarification.

Persephone grimaced. “Not that we’re complete strangers because if we were , me entering your home would certainly constitute a break-in…and…and…”

The fight went out of her.

“And again, I can only offer my sincerest apologies for the forwardness in which I’ve spoken to you,” she finished.

Simon just stared at her. Persephone let herself collapse against the camel backing of her chair.

She tried to make out something, anything, in his previously revealing eyes.

There was an absence of rage or annoyance; that was good.

But neither could she make out… anything .

Finally, he spoke. “You’ve conducted yourself no differently than you always did, Seph.”

Not: Miss Forsyth.

Not even: Persephone.

Rather: Seph.

Tenderness and warmth filled her at hearing him speak her nickname. He’d done it once last night, and she remembered all over again just how much she’d loved when he’d done so.

He’d been the first—and only one—to call her by any shortened, affectionate name.

She flashed a weak, bashful smile. “Given the last time you saw me, I was still swimming in lakes and frequently sporting scraped knees, you’d just as well say I’ve been behaving like a child.”

This time, she didn’t imagine the smile that curled his lips. “No. I’d say you’re behaving like the spirited, fearless lady you always were.”

Her mouth slipped apart a fraction, and her heart shifted in a weird way in her chest.

“Oh,” she said breathlessly.

Breathless? When had she ever been muddleheaded?

“You aren’t rescinding your offer to help, then?” Hope lent an uptilt to her question.

“On the contrary. I’m doing the opposite—I’m employing you.”

Through the enormous swell of relief at his magnanimity came a delayed cognizance of those last words he’d spoken.

“ You are employing me?”

Him. As in Simon.

He nodded as if it were obvious that he had need of services Persephone could provide.

“But…”

Then it hit her. Rakish Simon. Simon with an unkempt cravat and rouge-stained skin.

“Do…you have a daughter in need of instruction?” She glanced about, more than half-expecting a tiny girl to pop from the shadows.

“A daughter?” He frowned. “No. I do not have any children.” When he made that admission, both his features and voice were strangely flat.

Relief filled her. She’d despised the brief thought that had slipped forward of him being one of those profligate lords who carelessly littered his bastards about England.

And yet if he didn’t have children for her to instruct, it begged the question: what role could she serve in his household? As if she’d asked that question in her head aloud, Simon went on to explain.

“You see, Persephone, following our meeting last evening, I gave the situation—and your circumstances—a good deal of thought.” Simon leaned forward, steepling his fingers together and speaking over the top of them. “It appears I have use for you after all.”

I have use for you after all.

Simon’s words echoed in her mind, twining and tangling with similar words spoken to her by the all-powerful Marquess Bute of Mount Stuart House.

I no longer have any use for you, Miss Forsyth. Pack your things…

She briefly closed her eyes.

Because, of course, lords and ladies ultimately saw the people around them as vassals to serve them—until those vessels no longer served a purpose and they were deemed disposable. Nay, they didn’t see women like Persephone as equal in social standing—a fact evidenced some ten years ago by Lord Woodhaven’s offer , her subsequent declination, and then her inevitable sacking.

Yes, lords used people—especially women—for whatever need they had in a given moment.

She’d just not expected to hear such words spoken…by Simon.

Why should you be surprised? He is a lord; at that, a duke now.

The reminder of the man she’d entrusted her heart to surprisingly didn’t hurt half as much as the further discovery of just how much Simon had changed.

“Miss Forsyth?”

Startled, Persephone’s eyes flew open as she came whirring right back to the moment.

A question in his gaze, Simon stared back.

She gave her head a slight shake, clearing the cobwebs of her past.

“You’ve indicated you found a use for me,” she said, steady once more. “I trust the next natural order would be for you to explain what that use is.”

“I intend to marry.”

Persephone widened her eyes. “You’re asking me to marry you?” Her heart jumped in a funny way.

“ No! ”

That declination flew so swiftly, so adamantly from his lips, she bristled.

“I was teasing, Simon.” She hadn’t been. But she’d sooner lop her limbs off than admit as much. “Do you really think I would think , after all these years apart, you’d be proposing marriage ?”

Some of the tension went out of him. “Of course. It’s been…many years. I forgot how you were.”

How she was. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about his recollections of her, because working for Mrs. Belden and in various respectable households, her spirit had been stifled, so that she oft-wondered if she’d merely imagined the carefree girl she’d been.

But that girl was well and truly gone.

The woman who’d replaced her had a mind for one thing—security.

“Perhaps you may tell me exactly what role you envision for me in your quest for a bride, Your Grace?” Given they discussed official services she might provide him, the exchange merited that formality.

“I’ve been abroad these past years and only just returned,” he said. “I’m approaching my fortieth year. Not a young man.”

“Not an old one either.” Not many years older than herself, she bit her tongue to keep from pointing out.

“It’s time I married,” he continued. “I’m not looking to have a drawn-out search or courtship. I’d tie up the matter so that I can resume my business.”

Tie up the matter?

A drawn-out courtship?

She peered for any hint of the young boy who’d once shared with her that he hoped to have a loving marriage like that of his parents.

“You want me to play matchmaker for you, Your Grace?” she asked, needing that fact clarified.

“I do.”

She contemplated his offer.

Her working in that capacity for a man was nothing short of unconventional. It was unheard of. Failure to take the post he offered, however, would also mean she found herself unemployed, without references, without prospects.

Destitute.

“Miss Forsyth?” he prodded. “Do you feel this is something you can assist with?”

“It is absolutely something I have done before.”

“Given your current lack of employment, I trust it is also something you can do now.”

“It is, Your Grace.” She paused. “Were the circumstances different.”

Simon frowned. “Different.”

“I’ve provided such services for ladies…not…gentlemen. Not any man, Simon.”

“Ah, but do women and men not both bleed, Persephone ?” he murmured, tugging back into the present those long-ago words she’d spoken as a girl to Simon in abject frustration.

“You recall that?” she whispered.

His answer was only a further echo, verbatim, of what she’d once said. “Do they not each possess hearts that beat and minds for thought? Do women and men both not carry dreams and hopes? No, women and men are really just the same. That is but for—” The fact men have penises and women furry thatches.

She gasped as she recalled the scandalous remainder of that sentence.

“The ways in which they’re different,” he substituted.

Simon followed that with a playful wink; a flutter of his long, golden lashes that said he knew exactly what she’d been thinking and that he merely teased her with that veiled reminder of long-ago uttered words.

Her cheeks burned in ways they never had around him.

Persephone resisted the urge to pat her burning face. I’m a grown woman and certainly not a weak nelly to go blushing about an old friend.

“Those words?” she finally said. “They were the views of a child.”

“And you don’t still believe them?”

It didn’t matter what she believed. Her believing that men had no greater right to power and freedoms didn’t change the fact that men did .

And because Simon didn’t have the misfortune of having been born a female in a world that didn’t allow women to step outside the very straight line they were forced to walk, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

“You expect I should take the post because I have no other prospects, Your Grace. Were I to do so, however, it would mean I, an unmarried woman, live here with you—a bachelor. I understand you’re proposing an entirely respectable arrangement. I trust you and I can work together in that capacity.” She paused. “But it would never be seen that way by the rest of society. By the very nature of the strict rules the ton has for suitable interactions between ladies and gentlemen, my being here with you would be nothing less than scandalous.”

Frustration at her lot, and the lot of all women, brought her forward in her seat, and the words kept tumbling from Persephone’s lips.

“And while you, being a powerful duke with a fortune at your fingertips, would still marry because lords and ladies—and their daughters—are willing to overlook any transgressions on your part for the right to marry you. I, on the other hand, will be— would be —ruined. Your post would be my first and last here in London.”

At some point, she’d wrapped her fingers in a claw-like hold over the arms of her chair; her fingers left crescents upon the wood. She forced herself to relax her death grip. “I thank you for the offer, Simon, however—”

“I’ve already anticipated—and sorted out—those concerns you’ve raised.”

She eyed him warily. “Go on.”

“As my late mother and father’s goddaughter and my ward—”

She laughed before she registered his absolute seriousness. “I’m too old to be anyone’s ward .”

“My unmarried ward who happens to be of more advanced years, then.”

Advanced years?

Her previous amusement faded, and she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at his lack of protestations regarding her advanced years .

“I’ll not pretend to be your w—”

Simon waved his hand, cutting her off. “Very well. You can be my late parents’ beloved goddaughter.”

“But I’m not,” she felt inclined to point out.

“They don’t, and won’t, know that,” he said, exasperated. “We are practically family.”

Are? More like were? Better yet… “ Estranged family ,” she muttered to herself.

His lips formed a smile. “You will serve in the role of my social secretary. You will coordinate my schedule and also see to the role of helping me secure the next Duchess of Greystoke.”

“Like Lady Hester Stanhope?”

“ Exactly like Lady Hester Stanhope,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Furthermore,” he went on, “my reputation as a prim, respectable gentleman proceeds me.”

Persephone eyed him dubiously. “Have they seen you these past years?”

“No.” He flashed another grin. “But they’ll be operating under their former remembrances of Simon, the Earl of Primly.”

“And what are those?”

“That I was a bumbling, stammering, pathetic chawbacon.”

A pang struck her heart. How low his self-esteem had always been. But even when he’d been bullied, he’d known his self-worth. Or…she’d thought he did. Perhaps she hadn’t been such a very good friend to him after all, since she’d not helped him to see all the ways in which he was wonderful.

“You weren’t those things, Simon,” she said softly. He’d been loyal and tender and kind and sensitive, and those had only been some of the reasons she’d loved him.

He snorted. “I was all those things.”

Another ache settled in her breast. Is that how they’d seen him? Or was it how he’d seen himself?

Simon gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Either way, those opinions of me only work in our favor. They’d never expect Simon Broadbent, Earl of Primly, would have designs upon an unwed lady living in my household and, at that, the goddaughter of my late, beloved parents. Such a fellow wouldn’t be capable of seduction.”

He certainly thought so…and he might be right.

Persephone contemplated Simon—and made herself focus not on regretful musings but instead on his offer.

He posed to her the role of matchmaker .

She didn’t doubt her abilities. Over the length of her career, she’d served in that role any number of times. She’d helped forge good, respectable, and even happy unions between well-suited individuals. Why should she not do it for her former best friend?

“I’ll…do it,” she finally said.

He didn’t reveal any outward reaction to her consent. His features remained as impassive.

“We will speak more tomorrow on my requirements.” He spoke as an aloof lord might any subservient servant—with a finality that marked their exchange was at an end.

Persephone stood, dropped a curtsy, and made to take her leave.

The click-clack of a pen striking parchment followed her steps. When she reached the door, Persephone paused and cast one more glance back his way.

Simon had already returned to his ledgers and books; his dark golden locks, longer than fashion dictated, formed a curtain on either side of his face.

She studied him a moment longer, yearning for him to lift his head and smile his old, safe, familiar smile and say he was merely pretending at being an emotionless, powerful duke.

Alas, he didn’t so much as lift his head from that important task before him.

Taking that as both a confirmation and cue, Persephone hastened from the room. The moment she stepped outside, she drew the door closed behind her and welcomed the space that panel put between her and Simon.

Simon had been correct. A woman needn’t fear anything from Simon Broadbent, former Earl of Primly.

A horrible pit settled in her belly.

Persephone feared the Duke of Greystoke, however, was an altogether different matter.