Page 13 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

A fter two days devoted to the books and ledgers and official business which had forced him back to this hellhole of London, Simon, seated in his formal office, snapped his folio shut.

The magnificently radiant afternoon sun sent beams of light streaming through the crystal floor-to-ceiling windowpanes. Not a single cloud marred the azure blue sky.

Angling his head slowly, first left and then right, Simon stretched sore muscles, cramped from uninterrupted hours of use. They popped and released some of the tension he’d been carrying.

Simon tossed the leather folder aside to be worked on at a different time. Soon, but not today, and not tomorrow. For now, he’d finished.

During his last meeting with Persephone, it’d been doubtful he’d ever write anything other than numbers and notes in his ledgers. And if he did find himself with any time of his own , it’d seemed a certainty Persephone would be there to lecture and chastise him.

With a satisfied smile, Simon reached for the one and only book he’d truly wished to be working with—his notebook.

There’d been no lectures, no chastisements, no defiant shows.

There’d been no…Persephone.

Simon had wanted peace, quiet, and solitude, and that was just what he’d got; more accurately, it was what Persephone had given him.

It could only mean Persephone—who took her role and responsibilities so very seriously that she’d brought him to task more times than days she’d shared a roof with him—had been hard at work and focused on her reason for being here.

Splendid.

Simon was glad . Greater than glad, relieved.

His current discomfort with this quiet only existed because, after an endless slew of visits, demands, orders, and ribbing from Persephone, he’d been thoroughly confuddled.

The metal Atlas desk globe he’d returned with from France—that had been placed here by a servant—reflected back Simon’s frowning visage.

I…I…miss h—

His thoughts came to a blessed, screeching halt.

Simon recoiled and his mind balked.

What in hell? Had he truly been thinking he missed Persephone Forsyth’s visits?

Simon absolutely did not miss the back-and-forth repartee he’d had with Persephone since her arrival. Only a senseless fellow would , and Simon was—always had been and always would be—a logical fellow.

Allayed by that reminder, Simon opened his book, collected his pencil once more, and peered at his empty page.

Over.

And.

Over.

What to write? What to write?

Simon drummed the end of his pencil upon the gleaming surface of his desk in a staccato that quickly became grating.

Are you certain it is that and not the absolute absence of any meaningful thoughts in your damned head?

Not this again.

A frantic and bitter frustration built inside.

There’d been a time the absence of anything in a notebook had enlivened him; before now, the emptiness on a sheet hadn’t stirred panic. Rather, to Simon, a blank page had been a temptation far greater than any fruit the Devil could have dangled before him.

He’d never been without words—that was, the written kind. The verbal ones, on the other hand, he’d never possessed.

His fingers? They’d fairly twitched to pick up a pencil or quill pen or whatever had been close at hand.

Only since his return had he been tormented by this grating lack of ideas, which only sent his anxiety into a heightened spiral.

Exhaling a long, black curse more creative than anything he’d spouted since he’d received word about his new title of Duke of Greystoke, he fanned the pages.

His gaze caught the lone sheet with several verses scratched upon it.

He hastily flipped back until he’d landed on that particular one.

Do not bother reading it. You are absolutely not adding anything more to this poem.

Simon glared long and hard at the page.

And then, God help him, the yearning proved too great. He glanced down and scanned the verses he’d written the day Persephone caught him woolgathering.

An old friend, resurrected,

From the ashes of oldmemories,

Old laughter, an echo in themind,

It kindles remembrances of—

Suddenly, the words, in his mind flowed. They set his hand into motion.

It kindles remembrances…

Once lonely, always sad, untilher.

Her smile heals…

A balm upon an achingsoul.

And just like that, having surrendered to the subject that had compelled him to write, Simon crouched low and found himself lost in the vision. And it was such a wonderous place to be.

She is the light—

Salvation is thy name.

A light knock sounded at the door.

His heart racing, Simon jerked his head up.

Persephone.

He remained bent low over his notebook, his shoulders bunched up as they invariably climbed when Simon immersed himself in his work.

She’d returned, and the absolute only reason accounting for this eager anticipation stemmed from the fact that, whether Simon liked it or not, Persephone was proving to be a muse and one who supplied him with material to draw from.

There came another quiet, but this time more tentative, rapping. He must have unnerved her at their last meeting.

Except , a voice in his head mocked. Did you forget she’d promised to hand deliver his bride.

Surely, she’d been jesting. Surely, she hadn’t disappeared only to return with a young woman for him to consider as his future duchess.

The pencil slipped from his fingers, and swallowing wildly, Simon stood on suddenly uneven legs. His muscles went taut, and his shoulders ached from the steel he infused into his spine.

“E-Enter,” he managed to call.

With an agonizing and infinite slowness, the panel was drawn open revealing—

Simon cocked his head.

“Lord Pruitt,” his butler, Bouchard, announced.

Simon sharpened his eyes, not on the loyal servant, but the grinning gentleman alongside him— Pruitt .

It’d been this gadfly who, with his brilliant plan, brought all this trouble and disruption to Simon’s now wretched existence.

Granted, Simon knew Persephone often better than he knew himself. As a girl, she’d been endlessly fascinating and hilarious, and well, that’d all only redoubled since she’d grown into a woman.

As such, he really had no one else but himself to blame. In this particular moment, however, he welcomed an alternate target whom Simon could put his frustration on.

“ You ,” Simon seethed.

“It is lovely to see you too , old chum.”

Without so much as a bow, Simon dropped into his seat. “ Lovely indeed.”

In a display of patently false contemplation, Pruitt caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “Bouchard, is it me, or does His Grace’s response seem to be dripping with sarcasm?”

“More like oozing it, my lord.”

Pruitt laughed.

Simon glared.

And if Bouchard hadn’t been a devoted servant in his family’s employ for years, Simon would have sacked him for that insolence.

Alas, it’d always been impossible to be angry with the always-cheerful servant.

Bouchard seemed to catch Simon’s expression, for he schooled his features. “I indicated you were not accepting visitors but…” Without any discreetness, the servant tipped his head Pruitt’s way.

Simon appreciated the older man’s attempt.

“Worry not, Bouchard.” He leveled another glower on an absolutely shameless Pruitt. “Pruitt is the problem here.”

Best friend and butler exchanged less than discreet winks, and then, with an ease befitting the master of the household, Pruitt dismissed Bouchard.

The moment he’d gone, Simon snapped.

“Don’t go ordering my servants about, Pruitt.”

“My, my. Someone is in a foul temper.”

“Me,” Simon said between tightly clenched teeth. “ I’m the one.”

Pruitt sauntered over. “It was a rhetorical observation.”

The other man moved with a natural grace and elegance Simon had never been in possession of.

It never irked—before now. Today, in this given moment, it was another mark against the affable chap. He’d always hated fellows who’d been comfortable in their own skin; on account, petty though it was, Simon had been so miserable in his.

Pruitt gave no outward display of unease with the rage channeled his way.

Rather, when he reached Simon’s desk, he dropped into the leather winged chair directly opposite Simon, rested his folded hands upon his flat stomach, and raised another eyebrow.

“I’m offended, Greystoke,” Pruitt drawled. “Given all my good advice, I’d expect you’d be at least somewhat appreciative.”

“Good advice?” he muttered. “ Good advice? ” Simon repeated, his voice climbing an octave.

“ Great advice, then?” Pruitt volunteered.

“Is that what we are calling it?”

His friend gave a lazy shrug. “It certainly is what I am referring to it as.”

There came another quiet knock.

“Do we want to talk about whatever ,” Pruitt waved between them, “it is that has you in such a foul temper?”

“No,” Simon said curtly. He frowned. “Furthermore, I’m not in a foul temper.”

“Of course not,” Pruitt demurred. “You’re perfectly affable.”

Simon wasn’t fooled for a bloody instant.

His suddenly vexing friend eyed Simon a moment. Then Pruitt folded his right leg atop his opposite knee. “If I may hazard a guess?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Pruitt didn’t even pretend to listen to Simon’s answer. “You are having problems with the ape-leader.”

Ape-leader. The only saving grace of this whole damned day was that Pruitt hadn’t ever met Persephone. For if he did and saw those dark, satiny-soft tresses and luscious figure—

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Yes indeed.

Rap-rap-rap.

Unlike the ones which preceded it, this knock came firmer and bolder, and more fitting Bouchard’s usual announcement at the door.

When Simon made no move to call out, Pruitt angled a look over his shoulder to the entryway. “I don’t suppose you intend to tell m—”

Knock-knock-knock.

What the hell was it now ?

“Someone had better be dying, Bouchard,” he bellowed.

Then everything happened at lightning speed: Simon hurled his pencil, sending it in a perfect spiral arc. The door opened. The charcoal nub went flying across Simon’s office and struck Bouchard square in the chest.

Only, it wasn’t Bouchard.

Struck dumb, Simon’s fury faded. Confusion took its place.

“ Persephone. ”

With a frown on her lush lips, lips Simon had been so very close to kissing days prior, Persephone looked at her breast with shocked eyes and then pressed her right palm against the bodice of her gown.

He may as well have struck her with an arrow for all her dismay.

Her accusatory eyes flashed with fire. “Simon, are you attempting to stab me?”

Simon briefly closed his eyes. She’d failed to note Pruitt’s presence. It was too much to hope the roguish fellow hadn’t heard Persephone’s use of Simon’s Christian name.

When he opened them, Simon caught the parade of emotions that crossed Pruitt’s face: shock, confusion, and then, curse the dolt, a slow, knowing smile.

His friend turned all the way back, so he faced Simon.

“Well, well, well,” Pruitt murmured in hushed tones reflective of the years he’d spent working for the Home Office. “I believe I’ve found the source of your… frustration .”

Hell.

Persephone found herself greeted by two very different stares: the red-faced, annoyed expression worn by Simon Broadbent, Duke of Greystoke…and the other .

In her career working throughout various noble households, she’d encountered that look before: the lascivious leer.

It indicated a respectable gentleman had identified amongst him one of the great incongruities of his high-powered world—a lady by birth, but who didn’t have the benefit of relatives, had fallen on hard times, and thus had been required to do that which true ladies did not do.

Work.

To a nobleman, a lady employed as a governess or matchmaker may as well be the same as a prostitute available for the right price.

When she’d suffered her fall from grace, Persephone had been too na?ve. She’d realized too late there was but one difference between a finishing school instructor and a courtesan: the latter got paid.

The former? Women like Persephone, who’d wanted to preserve their reputations and virtue while also doing respectable work, were deceived and seduced. In the end, the only gifts she and others like her received were those of empty promises, broken hearts, and shattered dreams.

As the silence continued to march on, Persephone looked from one handsome gentleman to the next.

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

Simon and his friend had gone mute, like two schoolboys caught with their hands in the biscuit jar as opposed to two grown men in a ducal office. One of them—one of them who was not Simon—wore a winning grin. The other stared mutinously back.

Funny that. She preferred short-tempered, cynical Simon to an affable- looking but certainly dangerous charmer.

She’d hand it to both of them. Simon and Lord Rogue each employed different, but effective in their own right, tactics that would have effectively sent another woman into a cower or a blush.

Persephone, however, was decidedly not that woman.

The pervasive quiet continued marching on, and Persephone looked back and forth between them.

The trio they made remained frozen, saying absolutely nothing.

She sighed. Someone needed to be the bigger man in the room. It appeared Persephone would be that person.

She offered a deep, respectful curtsy that would have seen her with a wage increase at Mrs. Belden’s. “Your Grace, my apologies for interrupting.”

That seemed to jolt both men out of the awkward trance they’d found themselves in. Both jumped up at the same time and fell into respectful bows.

“Miss Forsyth,” Simon returned in an equally taciturn way.

In a clear display of power, he remained rooted to the throne-like chair behind his late father’s desk. With his formidable bearing, Simon, the duke, wore his power and command with the same natural ease and fit that a king did his cloak and crown.

When it became clear no proper introductions were coming, Persephone clasped her hands into tight fists at her side.

The dashing stranger looked pointedly at Simon.

“What, Pruitt?” he snapped.

“Introductions, old chap,” Lord Pruitt spoke in barely there tones.

“That won’t be necessary,” Simon said.

Persephone’s entire body tensed, and the previous grin on Lord Pruitt’s face faded to a glare to match any of Simon’s darkest ones. “Hey now, chap,” he chided.

Simon remained mutinously silent.

Of course, because why would a duke introduce a mere servant to a nobleman? Persephone knew her place in the world. She’d just…not expected Simon would so pointedly remind her of that.

Seemingly unbothered by that ducal display of pique, Lord Pruitt returned his focus to Persephone. Gone was all hint of his earlier annoyance; in its place was the same charming smile he’d donned the moment she entered the room.

“Given your lack of manners and irascibility, Greystoke, you are beyond fortunate to have Miss Forsyth in your employ.”

Simon’s scowl deepened.

The tall, dark gentleman proved notably impervious. So much so, he cupped a hand about his mouth and spoke in a wily whisper. “It is a certainty there’d be no ladies clamoring at the bit for this surly thingumabob.”

Persephone attempted to suppress an unexpected wave of mirth and converted what would have surely been a laugh into a snorting giggle that she buried in the form of a cough.

Lord Pruitt flashed another one of those winks that had surely led to any number of broken hearts. Hers, however, had already been broken by a similarly charming fellow, and, as such, she remained immune to not only this man, but all men.

She looked to Simon once more and found him wearing his usual scowl.

He believes I’m laughing at him.

And knowing him so very well—or having known him so very well—Persephone was cognizant of just how much her perceived response would chafe. Nor would she have Simon believe she was sharing quips with his scoundrel of a friend.

“Forgive me,” she demurred. “I—”

“Given Greystoke has gone quiet, and you and I are otherwise the only ones present, I believe we are free to take some liberties and get those pleasantries over and done with, my dear?”

He flashed another quick wink.

Despite herself, Persephone’s lips twitched. “I do not think that is how it works in terms of propriety, my lord.”

“Do not think ?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or do not believe ? Because those are very different things, my dear.”

“Believe,” she said, her earlier disquiet gone under the playful banter. “It is, however, unladylike for a lady to school a gentleman on any matter.”

“Ah, but if I’m not mistaken, with your clarification, isn’t that what you did just now?”

She nodded.

He stared at her with a question in his eyes.

Persephone clarified. “I’m unable to stay silent when I, in fact, know I’m correct.” She sighed. “It is my weakness, my lord.” Among many others.

Lord Pruitt went absolutely motionless, then, tossing back his head, he howled with laughter.

“You, my dear, are a treasure,” he said after his hilarity had abated.

She’d also heard that before too.

“Miss Forsyth,” Simon barked.

Persephone and Lord Pruitt whipped their gazes back to Simon.

Pruitt gave him a queer look.

“Her name is Miss Forsyth. Not ‘ my dear .’” Simon seethed. “Miss Forsyth. Lord Kit Pruitt.” Simon flew through the introductions. “Lord Kit Pruitt. Miss Forsyth. Now the introductions are completed, and we can be done with…” He slashed a hand about the air. “All this.”

Lord Pruitt inclined his head. “Ah, it appears I maneuvered ole Greystoke into a proper introduction after all.” He directed that flat deliverance not at Persephone, but Simon.

If looks could burn, then Lord Pruitt would be a pile of ash that Persephone, the ducal servant, was left to sweep up on her way out. And then it hit her, the austere, yet reluctant way Simon spoke her name, his annoyance at her being in the same room as his friend.

Lord Pruitt slid closer, took Persephone’s fingers, and raised them close to his mouth. “It was a pleasure—”

From the corner of her eye, Persephone caught the narrow-eyed glance Simon slid Lord Pruitt’s way.

“Miss Forsyth,” Lord Pruitt neatly substituted. He gently turned her hand over and placed his lips on the sensitive seam of her wrist. “A pleasure, my dear.” His deep, sonorous voice contained more than a trace of reverence that put the gentleman at odds with the dismissive duke.

“Lord Pruitt,” she murmured.

All the while, she felt Simon’s seething gaze upon them, his loathing and disgust palpable.

“Pruitt, if you would excuse us,” he said frostily, directing his angry gaze toward the other gentleman present. “I have business to attend with Miss Forsyth,” he added crisply.

The other gentleman inclined his head but made no immediate move to release her hand. Instead, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the sensitive skin his lips had touched.

She remained wholly unmoved.

“Pruitt,” Simon snapped.

Persephone and Lord Pruitt looked at Simon. His hate-filled gaze remained locked, trapped, and fixed square on them.

Pruitt held her hand a moment longer, and then, at last, released Persephone from his overly bold touch.

“My lord,” she murmured.

“Until we meet again, Miss Forsyth.” Lord Pruitt gave her a meaningful look. “Which I hope will be sooner rather than later.”

“It won’t,” Simon barked. “Miss Forsyth has responsibilities which do not include entertaining rogues and scoundrels such as you, Pruitt.”

Then, square in her chest with the force of a fast-moving carriage, it hit Persephone.

He is embarrassed of me.

With a bow for Persephone and a long look at Simon, the gentleman let himself out, leaving Persephone and Simon…alone.

Throughout Persephone’s ignominious existence, she’d been viewed as or treated as an oddity more times than she could count. Somehow, however, knowing Simon felt this way about her, that he too found her as unworthy as her former lover had, left her with a sudden urge to cry.

“I don’t want you near Pruitt,” he said the moment they were alone.

There it was.

“I understand,” she said stiffly.

Refusing to meet his gaze, lest she set free all the words whirring in her head, she balled and unballed her hands at her sides.

Simon crooked four fingers and motioned her closer. Force of habit from years of doing the bidding of others caused Persephone to automatically move, but then she managed to catch herself several feet away.

At that show of defiance, his thick golden lashes swept low.

“What is it you think you understand, Persephone?” he asked huskily, moving out from behind his desk.

It was one thing being treated as a lesser for no other reason than her circumstances. It was quite another having Simon treat her thusly.

Suddenly, it was too much.

“Because you’d press my nose in it, Your Grace?” she hissed and flew the rest of the way over to him. “You are embarrassed having me, a spinster charity case, about around your fancy friends?”

Surprise lit his eyes.

At being called out? Good, let him have a taste of what that felt like.

“Well, let me tell you, Simon ,” she stretched those two syllables into four, “I knew you since you were a scared boy without a friend to your name, except me. So, I will not have you, now that you are a powerful duke, go about treating me as though I’m lesser than you or anyone.”

He eyed her like she’d gone mad. “Is that what you believe?”

Persephone drew back. It wasn’t?

Simon dusted a long finger over the curve of her cheek in a satiny, soft caress. “You think I am embarrassed of you?”

“You a-aren’t?” Her voice lightly trembled.

“I wasn’t. I’m embarrassed that Pruitt was here and that he knew immediately.” Simon spoke in a soft murmur like the first warm spring sun had emerged and melted the frost previously coating every word he’d uttered this day.

“Knew wh-what?” she managed.

Simon reached her. “He knew without a doubt I wanted to kiss you.”

Her breath hitched until she realized—“You’re making light of me.”

“I wish I were,” he murmured huskily. “Because then, Persephone, I wouldn’t have this overwhelming desire to kiss you and to do it right this time.” He grinned a wolfish smile that even Red Riding Hood wouldn’t have failed to miss. “Which is why you should run.”

Persephone’s heart hammered.

Only the other voice in her head spoke louder, reminding her that he’d delight in her cowardice.

“You are trying to scare m-me,” she said.

Simon curved a possessive hand about her waist. “I’m telling you to leave, love. This is your last chance. Unless you want me to lay you over my desk and kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.”

Run, Persephone. Run. Every instinct urged her to take heed and follow that warning he gave.

A battle of the wills isn’t what keeps you rooted to this spot, and you know it. It’d been the very promise he’d made in that demanding, possessive way.

“Very well, Persephone, you’ve been warned.” And with a fierce growl, he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her into his arms. He covered her mouth with his in a fiery, explosive meeting that bordered on violence.

She’d never, however, been afraid of Simon, nor did she intend to start now. That was the only reason, the absolute only reason, why she surrendered herself to his embrace and kissed him wildly in return.

Liar. You’ve been hot for him since the moment he stood from his bath, resplendent in all his naked glory, like the all-powerful god Poseidon emerging from the seas.

He grunted his approval and then sank his fingers hard into her hips, punishingly.

Persephone whimpered. And she wanted to be punished by him in this vulgar way.

As if hearing that silent, wicked yearning, and never breaking contact with her lips, Simon caught both of her wrists in his strong hands, and just as he’d promised—warned—he stretched her out across his desk and plundered her mouth; he swept his tongue in and devoured Persephone.

She should draw back. Instead, she found herself melting against Simon.

She’d been kissed, and often, by her first and only love.

And mayhap she was a wanton for yearning for this embrace. For, instead of shoving Simon away and slapping his face and storming out of this household, she whimpered and struggled to meet each lash of that hot, burning flesh against the tip of hers.

But he was a pirate, plundering what he deemed his, and God forgive her, she was all too happy to surrender it all.

Never breaking contact with her mouth, Simon stretched her arms up over her head so she lay powerless in his embrace.

A warm rush of desire flooded that aching place between her legs, and she reflexively lifted her hips to get nearer to him. It’d been so long since she’d known passion. But never, ever, ever had it been like—

Simon released her and stood so abruptly, Persephone’s entire body collapsed into the unforgiving hardness of the mahogany makeshift mattress under her. Her chest heaved, and her hips still moved, and it was a moment before she realized how coolly collected he stood over her.

She scrambled to get herself upright. Her chest thumped wildly, now for altogether different reasons. What did I do?

“This cannot happen a-again, Your G-Grace,” she said, attempting a sharp, shrewish tone and managing nothing more than a stammer.

“Fine,” he said, so apathetic her pride smarted worse than when she’d been shown the door by her former sweetheart’s powerful father.

With a dispassionateness she envied him, Persephone smoothed her trembling palms along the front of her skirts.

And forgetting the whole reason she’d sought him out in the first place, a dazed Persephone turned on her heel and left.