Page 33 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

S imon promised Persephone everything would be all right, and it would—eventually.

Until they began on that longed-for path to their future, however, Simon, along with Persephone, found themselves in the midst of the tensest, most awkward dinner party.

Granted, keeping one’s guests of honor waiting more than thirty minutes was a certain way to ensure an uncomfortable beginning.

Of a certainty, Simon, sandwiched between the Marquess of Bute and Lady Isabelle, counted on the evening only getting worse.

Persephone being seated at the furthest end of the table from Simon and next to Lord Kit wasn’t helping Simon’s temper any.

The clink of porcelain touching porcelain plates filled the dining room; a room so quiet, one could hear the clink of one’s teeth as one chewed. Only Lady Jersey’s constant prattling broke what would have otherwise been a stilted silence.

A deep, booming laugh sounded from across the room and drew Simon’s attention to the source of that revelry.

Well, there was at least silence from Simon’s end of the table. The same could not be said for those guests seated at the opposite end—Lord and Lady Alex Edgerton, Lord Kit, and Persephone .

Persephone and Lord Kit appeared to be having a deuced good time.

In fact, for the ease with which she smiled and laughed at every single bloody word that left the consummate charmer’s mouth, Simon may as well have imagined how overwrought Persephone had been in the gardens.

As if to hammer home Simon’s surly ruminations, Persephone laughed at whatever witty bit Lord Kit was saying now.

Gritting his teeth, Simon stabbed his knife into his dessert.

It wasn’t the evidence of her merriment that grated. What he despised to the core of his being, however, was that it was another man responsible for the cheerful bloom of color in her cheeks.

A low growl sounded to the left of Simon, and he glanced over.

With the daggers Lord Bute glared in Lord Kit’s direction, it was a wonder the man responsible for Persephone’s mirth hadn’t collapsed face-first into his crème br?lée.

It appeared with their like annoyance toward Lord Kit where Persephone was concerned, Simon and Bute were on the same side.

Clink-clink-clink.

A fork lightly tapped the edge of Simon’s plate and pulled his attention away from Lord Bute.

Confused, Simon glanced over. “Lady Isabelle,” he said dumbly.

The young woman flashed a dazzling white smile. “The very same.”

With her flaxen hair drawn about her head, fashioned in a coronet of gold tresses about her high, noble brow, and her defined regal features, there really could be no disputing Lady Isabelle possessed the manner of beauty to launch ships and start wars.

And yet…

Simon’s gaze slipped down the length of the table to where Persephone now conversed with Lady Imogene Edgerton.

Simon could have sat alongside Aphrodite and the immortal queen would have paled in comparison to the woman who kept his heart.

As if feeling Simon’s eyes upon her, Persephone slid a glance Simon’s way. A wistful smile formed on her lips. Then her dark eyebrows flared slightly; her mouth grew tremulous, and she put all her focus back on Lady Imogene, and Simon looked to his table partner.

Lady Isabelle gave a playful wave of her fingers.

Heat slapped his cheeks.

“I’m still here,” she drawled without inflection.

“Forgive me—”

The young lady waved off the rest of his words. “No apologies necessary.”

Any number of apologies were about to be due the lady. He’d seriously courted Lady Isabelle, and he’d done so with the intention of marrying her. He’d given her reason to hope and believe, and he’d provided Polite Society with those same expectations.

As Persephone had rightly predicted, guilt at the damage he’d inflict upon the young woman’s reputation swirled inside. His gut clenched. A discussion of his and Lady Isabelle’s future—more specifically their lack of one—needed to take place. To buy himself time, Simon grabbed his claret and took a long swallow. He owed her an explanation—and soon.

Lady Isabelle dropped her elbow on the side of the table and, resting her chin in her hand, she leaned close. “You are a million miles away, Your Grace,” she murmured.

“I’ve been a horrible conversationalist.” He grimaced. “In fairness, I’ve never been known for my skill as a great communicator.”

She scoffed. “My brother said that was the case years earlier. We all change with time and over time, Your Grace.”

We all change with time and over time…

“That’s certainly been the case with me,” she mused. “I was free-spirited and wild and wildly fun to be around.”

“I trust that remains the same,” Simon said automatically.

The lady snorted. “If I was still free-spirited and wild and wildly fun, I wouldn’t be the Diamond of the Season. I’d be some scandalous figure written about in the worst way in the gossip columns and excluded from respectable events.” She paused. “I also suspect, were that the case, you would not have begun courting me.”

“I—”

“There is no response necessary, Your Grace. Mine was not a question.”

Lady Isabelle discreetly gestured to the chair directly opposite hers. “There’s Silas,” she continued, drawing Simon’s attention the marquess’s way.

Next to Simon, Lord Bute was so enrapt with Persephone, he remained completely oblivious to the fact he was the subject of conversation between his sister and Simon.

“When he was younger man,” Lady Isabelle said in hushed tones, “he was ever so cheerful and playful; he was always ready with a jest. Once, The Times wrote an entire article about his smile. I teased him about both that story and his grin.”

The image the young woman painted matched so perfectly with the one Persephone had of the marquess and Simon’s own recollections of Bute when he’d been a student at Eton and Oxford and bore no resemblance to the angry figure beside Simon.

“And now…” Lady Isabelle murmured, sadness creeping into her voice, “as you can see, the marquess is a shadow of who he once was.”

The young woman stole a regretful glance at her brother. “All these years, I wondered what accounted for the changes. Something has clearly befallen him. After all, a person does not just…change, not without a reason.”

Lady Isabelle picked up her goblet. “Just recently, I came upon my brother whistling, and I searched my memory for the last time I’d heard him hum or sing or whistle. Do you know,” she remarked, “I could not recall. It’d been years, Your Grace.”

She held Simon’s gaze. Years.

For one so young, Lady Isabelle happened to be incredibly perceptive and wise beyond her years.

Another one of Persephone’s fulsome and vibrant laughs filtered around the dining room, and Lady Isabelle and Simon looked to Persephone.

“Do you know who has not changed, Your Grace?”

He shook his head.

Wordlessly, Lady Isabelle pointed her gaze across the table—over in Persephone’s direction.

Together, they sat and watched Persephone embroiled in a lively exchange with Lord and Lady Edgerton and Lord Kit. The quartet spoke with all the ease of ones who’d known one another their entire lives and not ones who’d just met as a matter of chance at a dinner party.

As she spoke, Persephone gestured wildly with her hands. How free she’d always been. How he’d envied her the ease with which she moved through life.

Simon felt the faintest stirring of a breeze, and then a whisper of rose water, as Lady Isabelle inched closer.

“Miss Forsyth,” she murmured. “Miss Forsyth has not changed. She is still as vibrant and confident and fun-loving. And do you know, Your Grace,” Lady Isabelle mused, “I believe you and I have been sitting here this evening thinking the same thoughts…”

He kept his features even.

When he set his flute down, Lady Isabelle, a model of patience and politeness, stared expectantly at him.

“What say you, Your Grace?”

She’d make him say something. As he should. Certainly, something was required of him here.

“I…don’t know what to say,” he began slowly.

“Perhaps I shall be the one to state what we both already know: one”—she lifted a finger—“you do not want to marry me, Your Grace. And two, Your Grace”—Lady Isabelle lifted a second digit—“you are in love with Miss Forsyth.”

Simon froze. The rest of the room’s occupants seemed blissfully ignorant of the seriousness of his and the lady’s exchange.

To both look at the lady and hear her, she couldn’t have sounded more apathetic.

“You believe I’m angry?” This question contained more of her earlier amusement.

Honesty was the only way for this discourse to go. Granted, he’d far prefer it take place in a more private setting where they could freely converse.

“Though I assure you my intentions toward you from the beginning were honorable,” he said quietly, “you’d be well within your rights, Lady Isabelle.”

She snorted. “I’m not one of those ladies who aspires to be a duchess. I’d be far angrier were I to marry a gentleman who is hopelessly in love with another woman.”

His mind raced.

They’d both assumed the only way this went with the Keefe siblings was poorly and ending in an eventual scandal. If Lady Isabelle, however, opted to break it off with Simon, then the lady, Simon, and Persephone would all be spared societal persecution.

Simon felt the first stirring of…hope. Perhaps he and Persephone’s earlier and worst fears needn’t come to fruition.

“I have no qualms setting you free, Your Grace.” Lady Isabelle spoke like she’d looked in Simon’s head and seen his very thoughts.

So as to not offend, he fought to keep his features even.

“Lady Isabelle,” he began quietly. “Your grace and—”

“I’m not finished, Greystoke.”

Detecting an edge to her admonition, Simon bowed his head. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “Please continue.”

“What I’d also intended to say is that I would never stand in the way of true love. If you and Miss Forsyth truly love one another—”

“We do.”

“I’m still speaking,” she said impatiently.

And Simon cursed the speed with which he’d spoken.

“If you both love each other, then I’d only support such a union. But, Your Grace, I’m now very aware my brother is also desperately in love with Miss Forsyth and that, at one point, his feelings were reciprocated. As such, I am insisting Silas be allowed to speak alone with Miss Forsyth so that he can explain himself. If after their meeting, she remains steadfast in her love for you, then you’ll be free.”