Page 30 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

W ith their visit to the Royal Academy at an end, Simon and Persephone sat on opposite velvet benches of his black barouche.

As the open, capacious carriage lightly rocked and swayed, a comfortable, companionable silence filled the quiet.

Simon pretended interest at the passing streets. All the while, however, his shuttered gaze remained locked on Persephone.

Her beautiful features were arranged as soft as they’d been since she’d discovered where Simon had brought her. Her eyes continued glimmering with happiness and light Simon recognized all too well—and missed so very much.

From his earliest recollection of a chubby-cheeked, wide-smiling Persephone declaring they’d be best friends forever, to the young girl who’d granted Simon his first kiss, to the woman who’d snuck her way inside his residence, she was the siren who’d ensnared him.

Suddenly, even the filter of a window was too much of a barrier between them.

Unable to resist her pull, Simon turned and looked upon Persephone.

Throughout the course of his life, he’d had any number of lovers. He’d always possessed a lusty nature. Even when he’d been a stumbling, shy, stammering gentleman, whom society likely thought was proper in every way, Simon certainly hadn’t been between the bed sheets.

Of course, with all the women he’d bedded, there’d never been love involved. Not because he was one of those jaded rakes who swore the emotion wasn’t real—he believed it was, and at various points had wished to experience it for himself.

No, that wasn’t entirely correct.

He had loved and deeply—and still did.

What he’d yearned was to be loved in return, and not just by any woman, but by the very woman he found himself closed away with.

He’d given up on the dream of Persephone, and maybe that was why he’d set her from his mind; because to think of her and what he’d yearned to have with her left him with an aching, gaping hole in his heart.

And in that selfish need of self-preservation, he’d failed his friend in every way.

Subconsciously, he’d punished Persephone for her inability to love him, and it was a transgression that’d haunt him the rest of his days and follow him all the way to his grave. There was no atoning for his wrongs, but Simon could, however, dedicate himself to, this time, fighting for her love and ensuring her every happiness.

If, at the end of the war he intended to wage, she still could not give Simon her heart, then he’d not cut Persephone from his life. In a world cruel to unmarried women, Simon would ensure she was never without his support—emotional, financial, and in every other way she required. He’d look after her. Slay her demons. Take on anyone who so much as made her frown.

And when she eventually did lose her heart to some other man, even as it would kill Simon to see another possess her in every way Simon wished to, he’d somehow find a way to be happy for her.

Because she was more than a lover, she was—always had been and always would be—his friend.

“You’re a million miles away.”

That soft murmuring pulled him from his melancholic musings.

Persephone stared at him; the earlier sparkle of joy had since been replaced with concern. God, why did he continue to fail her time and time again?

Simon made himself turn his lips up into a half-grin.

“I was just thinking,” he murmured.

Persephone stared expectantly at him.

“And?” she gently prodded, with the same tender consternation.

Alas, she’d never be content and only be intrigued by that.

“I was thinking of how happy you were at the museum,” he said quietly, roving his gaze over the elegant lines of her cheekbones, her well-defined jawline, her refined chin. “And how I want to freeze that moment in time, have it painted as a picture so I can carry it with me always and remember you as you were.”

Her lips quivered and then formed a perfect, surprised little move. “Oh,” she whispered.

Heat stung Simon’s neck and climbed to his cheeks. Suddenly, feeling exposed, he tugged at his cravat.

God, say something. Say anything. Make a flippant remark and say you were jesting.

And yet he couldn’t protect himself at Persephone’s expense. In the course of their lives, he’d already done that too many times. She deserved better—in every way.

Invariably, Simon found himself saved from formulating a response to her stunned little reaction. The carriage rocked to a slow, graceful stop.

Simon sent up a quick thanks to the Lord above.

He made a clearing sound with his throat. “Uh, y-yes,” he said unsteadily. “So glad.”

So glad?

Egad.

Persephone gave him a peculiar look.

Simon took a slow, steadying breath and tried again.

“That is to say,” he spoke quietly, “I was so glad to see how happy you were on your visit to the museum. I would have hated it, Seph, were you to have longed for that experience, only to find yourself disappointed.”

“Never,” she said in a fierce avowal that emerged thick. A sheen glazed her eyes. “It was even more wondrous than I could have ever imagined, Simon.”

Their gazes locked. The ensuing silence, still within the conveyance, grew charged.

Of its own volition, Simon’s focus slipped to her lush mouth.

Oh, God, I am lost.

I want her in every way.

And like the selfish, rotted bastard he was deep inside, he wanted her now. He wanted to throw her skirts up, and bury himself between her legs, and make her scream her surrender for all the world to hear.

As if she’d sensed his wicked thoughts, and they aligned with her very own, Persephone’s endlessly long eyelashes grew heavy looking.

Simon balled his hands into tight fists and fought the battle raging inside of him—the primitive, savage beast within him that wanted nothing more than to fuck her and the part of his soul that loved her so much he didn’t want to make any part about this day about his baser yearnings.

The raw desire in Persephone’s beautiful brown eyes, and the way she parted her lips and leaned closer, proved she hungered for the former.

In the end, the beast won.

With a low growl rumbling in his chest, even as Simon reached for her, Persephone strained toward him.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Arrived we have, Your Grace!”

That damned untimely and jovial greeting from Simon’s driver brought him and Persephone jolting apart. Tamping down a curse, Simon drew the curtain wider to assess their location.

Indeed, they’d arrived.

“We are here,” he said, unable to stymie his regret.

Persephone looked out his window.

The glass panel reflected her frown. “Where exactly is here , Simon?”

Oh, hell. He proceeded carefully. “Uh…Madam Colette’s.”

Her lips dipped even further in the corners.

“She is London’s most premier modiste,” he said, anticipating her question.

Persephone gasped and whipped the curtains closed.

“We are at the back entrance, which affords discretion to her patrons who desire to remain unseen.”

Persephone folded her arms at her chest. “You mean lords and their mistresses?” she drawled.

It was his turn to scowl. He’d never debase her so. “You are not my mistress.”

“Clearly,” she said with more of that sardonicism.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Give me a damned moment,” Simon shouted, and that incessant rapping came to an abrupt stop. Guilt swarmed him. “If you please, Albert,” he tacked on.

The dutiful driver gave them the requested privacy.

Simon turned his focus back on Persephone. “I’ve not brought you to Madam Colette’s for reasons that are anything but proper.”

Reflexively, Simon’s gaze slid to her faded and out-of-fashion cloak.

When he met her eyes, he found Persephone watching him intently.

“Why are we here, then?” she asked quietly.

More of that damnable heat splotched his cheeks. His proud Persephone would only see their being here as charitable on his part.

“You’re embarrassed having me seen about as I am,” she ventured.

“God, no, Seph!” Simon exclaimed; truth sent that denial exploding from him. “How could you believe that?” He was unable to keep the hurt from his voice.

Persephone looked from Simon’s black wool tailcoat to his amethyst embroidered vest and twill trousers and then peered down at her own garments.

He raked an unsteady hand through his hair. Yes, he could certainly see how she’d arrived at that conclusion.

“What other reason would there be, Simon?” she asked quietly.

Simon searched his mind for the right answer, only there wasn’t one. There was only the truth.

“I know you don’t like modiste shops, Seph,” he exploded.

Startled, Persephone drew back.

“I know you’d rather set a dress afire than wear one. That you used to long to live in a world where women wear trousers, and I wager you still feel the same damned way.” A hoarse chuckle shook his chest. “And maybe even more now, given how bloody cruel the world has been to you.”

Hovering between a place of mirth and tears, he dragged a hand over his face. “You might not like gowns, but damn it, at the very least you deserve to wear garments that don’t make you think of the hardest times in your life.”

Her breath caught.

In the end, a half-mad, panicked laugh spilled from his lips.

“Ah, God, Seph. It’s funny,” he said, his body shaking. “All I’ve thought about was how I wanted to show you and give you everything you desired. Even with a lifetime being away from you, somewhere inside, I knew the place you’d most love to explore was that museum, when what I should have really focused on was what the hell I’d say to you about a visit to a modiste shop—the very last place on earth you’d ever want to be. I just…thought you might like to have new gowns,” he finished weakly.

All the energy left him.

Tugging the curtain back a fraction, Simon glanced out at the back entryway of Madam Colette’s.

“Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School,” Persephone murmured.

He let the velvet fabric go, so it danced slowly and gracefully until it settled back into place. Confused, he looked quizzically at Persephone.

She gave him a sheepish smile. “You said Madam Colette’s is probably the last place I’d care to be, but Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School is definitely the one.”

Persephone’s admission hit him square in the solar plexus, and the agony of learning there’d come to be a place she detested even more brought his eyes briefly closed.

The squabs dipped. “Simon,” she said gently, as she slid into the seat next to him, “I was jesting.”

“No, you weren’t,” he said hoarsely. “Mrs. Belden’s was clearly the worst hell you’ve had to endure.” Except… “Or maybe it is not. Maybe it’s where you had your heart broken, and goddamn it, Seph, I hate that you’ve known any p—”

She took Simon’s fingers in her own and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I am so happy now, and so much of that is because of you , Simon.”

That was all he wanted. That is what he wished to dedicate the rest of his life to. A welcome warmth filled his chest.

Persephone sucked in a shuddery breath. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered, releasing his hands, “I am sorry I reacted so to your gi—”

“Mm-mm.” He pressed a finger against Persephone’s lips to stop the remainder of an undeserved apology. “As I’ve said, Seph, since you arrived in London, I’ve given you few—” He grimaced. “That is, if any reasons, to trust me or my intentions. Nor do I believe I can simply take you to a museum and a modiste and think that will erase all the wrongs I’ve done you because, Seph?”

Simon’s gaze locked with her wide-eyed one.

“There is no undoing past transgressions. There is only going forward with a commitment on my part to be better, to do better, to be the man you deserved for me to be then…and now.”

“Simon,” she said entreatingly, “I will not have you trying to atone for wrongs you never committed. You were not responsible for me.”

She’d try to absolve him of his sins and guilt. God, he didn’t deserve her selflessness. Maybe that’s why she’d never loved him. Maybe somewhere deep inside, she’d known he was unworthy of her.

“No, Seph, I committed the greatest wrong against you,” he said with a matter-of-factness born of their reality. “I wasn’t responsible for you. You were never an obligation. You were my friend . The only true one I’ve ever known.”

There’d been Lord Kit, but that friendship had been forged of shared vices and a similar degree of cynicism, and never had it been what he and Persephone shared.

A charged silence descended over the carriage.

He and Persephone each angled their heads in opposite directions—a man and woman finally seeing each other. That thought may be nothing more than wishful thinking on Simon’s part, but frozen in this moment with Persephone, he was all too eager to embrace even the illusion.

As one, in a synchronic harmony, their bodies swayed toward one another.

“Simon,” she whispered, her lashes fluttering. “I l—”

Knock-knock-knock.

That tentative rapping jerked Persephone and Simon apart the same way a cannonball explosion might.

Bloody hell. She…what? Liked dresses somewhat? Longed for different times? Loved him? What?

His pulse racing, Simon looked blankly at the carriage door.

“Your Grace,” Albert ventured, “one of Madam Colette’s girls came out and politely informed me that she has another appointment scheduled not long after yours.”

Persephone smiled. “I believe the modiste is calling, Your Grace,” she said with a teasing edge that took away any hint of formality at his form of address.

“ Indeed. ”

As Persephone took it upon herself to open the door and allow a footman to hand her down, he scowled.

He would have—and bloody should have—paid a fortune to shut the damned place down for the rest of the week, just to have had this moment in the carriage with Persephone go uninterrupted.

Next time.

With that, he joined Persephone. Linking his arm with hers, Simon guided her on to Madam Colette’s capable hands.

With Simon at the front of Madame Colette’s, conversing with the most sought after modiste in England, and Persephone strolling the shop, she reflected on their exchange in the carriage.

Simon hadn’t been wrong.

Since as far back as she could remember, Persephone despised gowns.

And yet, as she wandered the aisles of Madam Colette’s, with tables filled with bolts of the finest satins and silks forming a kaleidoscope of colors, Persephone secretly admitted she’d lied to her best friend.

She had hated dresses. They hampered a woman. When a lady wore a gown, she couldn’t run about comfortably, ride a horse, jump, fish, fence, or really anything, for that matter.

But those had been the thoughts of a young girl, and her views on those restrictive garments, well, that’d evolved as much as Persephone herself.

When her father died, overnight, she’d gone from girl to woman—at that, a working woman, one who saw in a new light the luxuriant satin dresses worn by her employers and their cherished daughters.

Only when she’d at last discovered the draw of those articles, when she’d viewed them in a new light, it’d been too late. Impoverished ladies, without a male relative to provide for them, didn’t have the luxury of wearing anything other than the serviceable ones Persephone had been forced to don.

She looked to where Simon remained conversing with the beautiful, and just as beautifully clad, blonde-haired French woman.

Just then, whatever he’d said to Madam Colette brought a blush to the proprietress’s flawless, creamy white cheeks.

A fierce and unbearable jealousy twisted every part of Persephone’s insides into knots.

The blonde-haired beauty’s sultry laugh echoed throughout the shop, and a moment later Simon joined in, his own lower, deeper one in an insupportably perfect blending.

Because Persephone was a glutton for self-pain, she stared fixedly at the two.

And why shouldn’t the other woman be as entranced as Lady Isabelle by the charming, devastatingly handsome duke?

Simon had a way of making every woman feel special. Persephone was no exception.

Nor was he merely a rogue who did so in an attempt to flirt, woo, or seduce. No, that quality was something that’d always been an innate part of him.

Persephone’s throat worked.

Simon glanced up; the grin he wore for another woman faded.

A question brought his blond eyebrows together. But fortunately, the eminent Madam Colette said something, pulling his gaze from Persephone.

Here she’d thought she couldn’t feel more wretched, only to have tears threaten as he gave all his attention, which made a woman feel like she was the only woman in the world, over to another.

No, she’d been just as miserable before this. She’d thought that very same thing the moment she’d caught sight of Simon and Lady Isabelle speaking at the flower shop.

Whichever woman he bestowed even a smile upon left Persephone hurting and angry and aching inside.

Persephone made herself pick up a bolt of yellow fabric and pretended to consider it.

Would life have been different had she seen him as the only man for her, and the one she’d spend all her days with?

What if, back when he’d given Persephone her first kiss, she’d allowed herself to think of who they would both be when they were grown?

And the day she’d sketched him, and their families had a falling out, why hadn’t she fought for their friendship? Why had she allowed their proud, obstinate fathers to separate them forever?

The fabric in her hands trembled, and she tightened her hold upon it. For of course, Simon would have always been the only man she wanted in her life. But the same way girls didn’t see gowns as anything but a hindrance, they also couldn’t imagine boys who were friends as anything other than a friend.

With a sigh, Persephone gave her head a clearing shake.

So many bloody whys and even more wonderings about what life would and could have been were she his wife and not some matchmaker finding him the woman he truly deserved.

From the corner of her eye, a flash of blue snagged Persephone’s attention and diverted her from her tortured musings.

She wandered over to examine the particular bolt and stopped before the material.

Transfixed, she stared awe-struck.

The bolt of a cerulean-blue that faded to a white melded with a lighter shade of that exquisite blue made it more captivating than any of the art she’d viewed today.

Persephone hesitated and stole a glance about.

After she verified Simon remained locked in his conversation with the modiste, Persephone looked back to the material which had beckoned and held it close to her person.

As a girl, she’d never wished for a gown; as a woman, she’d yearned to know what it was like to be attired as all the powerful families whom she served.

Simon may not have believed this second outing plan to be a gift, but it was, in its own right, as wonderful as their visit to the museum. For, despite whatever reason he’d given for bringing Persephone here, somewhere inside, he’d known in his soul of souls she’d want this.

And she did.

“That zeel look lovely on you, ma chérie.”

Persephone gasped. The glorious fabric hit the table with a thump .

With that, the modiste swept over and Simon stepped aside, as Persephone, for the first time in her adult life, found herself experiencing a true fitting.

A long while later, with an increasingly frustrated modiste, Persephone began to think her younger self had the better idea of it.

“A moment alone, if you would, Madam Colette.”

With the alacrity with which the woman complied to Simon’s request for privacy, Simon’s order was one she was all too familiar with from gentleman clients.

The moment the door closed, and Persephone and Simon were alone, he folded his arms at his chest and stared at her.

At his pointed and lengthy silence, she wrinkled her nose. “What?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Simon drawled. “Maybe it’s just that when you were alone, I saw you examining pale yellow silk, amethyst muslin, and that gorgeous cerulean-blue, but for the past hour”—he consulted his timepiece—“you’ve sent every luxuriant, vibrant article brought forth by Madam Colette’s seamstresses away.”

Persephone clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so much time. I—”

“Do you truly believe I’m concerned about how long you’re taking?” he asked wryly.

“No,” she mumbled.

Simon narrowed his eyes. “Out with it, Seph.”

And because it’d always been so easy to talk to him, Persephone threw her hands up. “Simon, these materials, they are exquisite.”

He stared. “ And? ” he asked when she didn’t say anything more. “That is a bad thing?”

“No.”

“All right, so let us allow Madam Colette to do the work she’s been generously paid to do.” Simon made to leave.

“I can’t wear them,” she blurted, calling him back.

He frowned. “What do you mean you can’t wear them? That is the whole purpose of a dress, Seph.”

“It’s not though, not really.”

When she didn’t immediately clarify, Simon gave her a pointed look.

With a sigh, Persephone explained, “There are different purposes for dresses: there are the ones for debutantes just out for their first Season. Ones for women in mourning. Serviceable ones for servants and hired help.”

She pointed to the ones the modiste had been attempting to get Persephone to consider. “The fabric Madam Colette is presenting, and the bolts I was admiring earlier, they are for balls and soirees and visits to a theatre, and, Simon”—she lifted her palms up—“I am not going to those places, not as anything more than a companion, and that’s if I’m even invited along to accompany you and Lady Isabelle.”

Which only conjured thoughts of him bringing Persephone along for intimate parts of his and Lady Isabelle’s courtship, and had she cut herself open, it wouldn’t have hurt more than this.

She made herself speak through the agonizing lump in her throat. “I’m destined to leave and certain for employment, if I can find it,” she said as a reminder to herself.

Fury flashed in his eyes.

“With your skills, talents, and knowledge, you’ll find work,” he gritted out.

As though Simon was equally angered by her self-disparagement and his mention of Persephone’s future employment, florid color splotched his cheeks.

But he’d said the words, and in that, he’d helped Persephone prove her point.

“Exactly, Simon.” She spoke in hushed tones. “I’m selecting material to be made into dresses I can use again over the years.”

His mouth tightened. “That isn’t why I brought you here.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

“Because some part of me thought, even though you hated dresses as a child, that you might actually enjoy having gowns designed just for you,” he exclaimed. “And if you did, I wanted to be the one to give them to you.”

Oh, my God.

Simon dragged a hand through his hair and took a moment to compose himself.

Persephone’s heart skipped a beat.

He knows me. He knows me better than he did when we were children.

And he knew Persephone more than she even knew herself.

Simon glanced about the shop. After he’d confirmed they were still alone, he looked squarely at Persephone.

He spoke again in hushed tones. “Now, I know I was wrong. You still detest the modistes and dresses.”

She didn’t. She tried to tell him but couldn’t get the words out past the tears stuck in her throat.

Simon dropped his voice a shade lower. “But, Seph? I’ll be goddamned if you walk out of this establishment with only dresses made of fabric suitable for future employment, and not some material you’ve longingly eyed from the moment you stepped in—”

Catching Simon by his lapels, Persephone dragged herself up and kissed Simon.

He went motionless—only for a moment, and then with a growl, he consumed Persephone’s lips with a like violence.

They mated with their mouths like two primal beings, attempting to devour and consume the other.

“God, you infuriate me,” he rasped between each angry slant of his mouth.

“And y-yet you are k-kissing me,” she pointed out, breathless from the force of their embrace.

“And yet I’m kissing you.” Gripping Persephone under her buttocks, Simon perched her on the edge of the table and shoved her skirts up so he could step between them.

She didn’t even think about all the reasons she should stop; the hungering to continue proved as necessary as the air in her lungs. Persephone wrapped her legs about his waist to hug him closer.

Simon sank to the floor and knelt between her legs.

“S-Simon,” she whispered. “We c-can’t.”

“Can’t we?” he murmured, pressing a kiss along the inside of her inner thigh.

She trembled. She lost hold of the firmer protestations she intended to make.

The warm sough of his breath upon Persephone’s already sodden center brought her eyes sliding shut. Her body moved of its own volition as she tilted her hips up, arching to feel his mouth where she needed him.

He paused.

Persephone bit her lip to keep from crying out.

She forced her eyes, heavy with desire, open and found Simon staring up at her. A question lived in his gaze, one that indicated he’d have her tell him to either continue worshiping her so or stop.

And even with a team of seamstresses a room away, Persephone couldn’t bring herself to stop Simon.

Not breaking contact with his eyes, she gripped Simon by his glorious, golden hair and guided him to that place she needed him most.

As generous in lovemaking as he was in life, Simon gave Persephone what she craved.

He slipped his tongue inside her channel and licked her. Consumed her like she was the only sustenance he needed to live, until Persephone was incoherent with want.

The throbbing between her legs grew to a point of bliss bordering on pain, and Persephone rocked against his skilled mouth.

Her movements took on a greater frenzy.

Simon teased her clitoris with his tongue; he flicked that hot flesh over the pleasure point over and over until Persephone gritted her teeth to keep from screaming for him to give her what she needed.

And because he always knew what she wanted and needed, Simon sucked her and then slid a finger inside. Biting back a scream, Persephone closed her eyes and surrendered herself to all the love and longing she’d felt for Simon from the moment he’d come crashing back into her life.