Page 34 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

S everal hours later, with the gentlemen having adjourned for brandies and cigars, and the ladies taking themselves to the drawing room to share—or seek—the latest gossip, Persephone made her way back to the gardens.

The dinner party Persephone had organized and helped Simon throw could only be called a resounding success.

Not that it was in any way arrogance on Persephone’s part that she recognized the fine work she’d done. She’d spent ages learning how to plan—and then helping previous employers throw —formal dinner parties. As such, she unequivocally knew the affair would only be written about most favorably.

Or…the gossip columns likely would say that—if it weren’t for an impending failure on the Duke of Greystoke’s part to declare himself to Lady Isabelle.

As she neared the back terrace, Persephone, desperate to be outside, quickened her strides. When she reached the French crystal doors, she didn’t pause; she opened the crystal panel and let herself out.

A soft, soothing breeze, combined with the fragrant floral scents of Simon’s manicured gardens, rushed up to greet Persephone.

The moment she drew the door shut behind her, she hastily pulled from her front pocket the note she’d received just as dinner adjourned.

Unfolding the small ivory scrap of parchment, Persephone again skimmed the words there.

Miss Forsyth,

It is with some urgency that I request a private meeting following dinner.

There is a matter of import you and I must speak on.

I would respectfully request a handful of moments of your time.

~I

Persephone read and re-read those handful of sentences, the same brief ones of so few words that she’d already committed them to memory.

Lady Isabelle wanted to speak with her.

Worse, this wasn’t a friendly reunion her former charge sought where they might catch up on one another’s lives. The young lady unequivocally stated the meeting pertained to a matter that was sensitive in nature.

Persephone’s stomach rebelled, and she suddenly wished she’d drank less wine and consumed less food. For there could be no doubt, this exchange had to do with Simon Broadbent, the Duke of Greystoke.

In a bid to rein in her panic, Persephone took in a deep, slow breath and leaned back against the double doors. Her butterfly hair comb clanked against the glass pane.

No, there was only one thing Lady Isabelle could possibly be wanting to speak to her about—Simon.

Or, more specifically, Persephone and Simon .

Silas’s sister had been the cleverest girl. Clever girls became intelligent women, and it wouldn’t take much for her to have deduced Persephone’s budding—now budded—romance with Simon.

The queasy sensation in her belly grew.

Lady Isabelle witnessed how close they were with one another and that, coupled with the fact Simon hadn’t proposed long before this, would have alerted the girl.

Not that Simon and I were exactly discreet.

Persephone’s already racing thoughts continued to spiral.

Before this impending face-to-face, she’d convinced herself that she and Simon could have a future together. This very night and almost in this very spot they, like giddy young lovers, spoke of love conquering all.

Lost in the moment, it’d been all too easy.

Rap-rap-rap.

With a little yelp, Persephone jumped away from the window and, with a steadily expanding dread, slowly turned.

“La—”

Her greeting for Lady Isabelle faded and she found herself brought up short by the tall, formidable, darkly clad figure who stood on the other side.

Silas, the Marquess of Bute.

Knocked off balance, Persephone angled her head. “ You are not Lady Isabelle. ”

Funny. She knew she spoke. Her lips parted and her mouth moved, and yet she’d swear no sound emerged.

Or perhaps she did speak, and the loud buzzing in her ears merely drowned everything else out and left Persephone turned upside down and her mind muddled.

“No,” the marquess mouthed, in a confirmation that she had in fact responded to his unexpected appearance.

He offered a droll grin and then spoke loud enough for her to hear him clearly through the crystal panes. “In fact, I can say with absolute certainty this is the first time we’ve ever been confused.”

That slight upward tilt of his mouth contained a gentle amusement that proved as contagious as it’d always been.

They exchanged their first smile in years.

Hers faded first.

The marquess’s expression grew solemn and, with all earlier teasing aside, he offered a belated bow and greeting.

“Persephone,” he murmured.

She tensed. Silas used her name so easily when he had absolutely no right to—not any longer. Nor was that thought born of resentment, but instead as a matter of propriety.

The husky quality of his low baritone once had a devastating effect upon her heart. Now, after years apart and this chance meeting in Simon’s gardens, that same organ beat with disquietude at finding herself alone with him.

The marquess, as undeterred as when he’d attempted to get Persephone to postpone her daily lessons for his sister, pressed his nose against the window.

Up close, she noted a new bump along the once-perfect ridge that indicated a break at some point after they’d parted.

No, you did not part ways. He tossed you out.

“This is generally where you’d return a greeting,” he called more loudly than before.

She sank into a reluctant curtsy. “ My lord. ”

“Silas,” he gently amended and lifted his fingers in a hesitant little wave.

Hesitant.

Again, Persephone cocked her head.

Funny, she’d never before seen the great, roguish, clever Silas Keefe, the Marquess of Bute, as anything less than unabashedly confident. The sight of him so reserved and cautious gave Persephone pause.

Lord Silas nudged his chin her way.

Puzzling her brow, she tried to make sense of whatever it was he was saying.

“Door,” he mouthed.

Persephone’s gaze followed Silas’s fingers as he motioned to the brass handle, and she furrowed her brow. “Door?”

She was well aware she sounded like a complete and total lackwit, repeating back his every thought and word.

And then she came crashing to.

The moment he stepped outside, Persephone took a reflexive step backward.

They studied one another—Silas’s expression proved inscrutable.

Unnerved by the intensity of his stare, Persephone was the first to speak. “My lord,” she said evenly, “I must ask that you excuse me. It isn’t proper, us being here—”

“This will not take but a moment,” he said before she could finish her sentence. “I’ve wanted to speak with you, Persephone.” Then Silas added, “For some time now.”

The last time she’d seen him alone, he’d been a grown man. Even so, time had deepened his voice, and experience had leant an almost cynical roughness to his tone.

“We’ve already spoken,” she said in the same tones she’d used with her youngest charges. “At this moment, however, I’m waiting to speak with Lady Isabelle.”

She made that appeal to his brotherly devotion.

“No.”

“No?” Persephone repeated.

Clasping his hands at his broad back, Silas rocked forward. “My sister will not be joining you.”

“She… isn’t…?” She furrowed her brow and looked from Silas to Lady Isabelle’s letter, and then back again to Silas.

A rogue’s smile graced his lips.

Then it hit her.

Persephone held up Lady Isabelle’s brief note. “You had your sister help coordinate a meeting between us.”

Her former sweetheart touched a palm to his broad chest. “Guilty.”

She pursed her mouth. “You sound anything but apologetic, my lord.”

His playful demeanor vanished in an instant. “That’s because I’m not.” With hooded lashes, Silas took a step nearer.

Persephone held her ground.

Outrage filled her. “Lady Isabelle is not coming, then.”

With a grand flourish, he swept his arms wide and dropped a deep bow. “Indeed, Miss Forsyth.”

Which meant it was just she and Silas alone out here.

This new, edgier version of him had her eying the path he blocked and the one behind her. This was the man she didn’t recognize.

Feeling his gaze upon her, she glanced up.

“You are displeased, love?”

His question emerged teasing, but the trace sadness contained within belied any efforts he made at flippancy and erased his rakish veneer. Some great emotion kindled in his eyes.

Silas took a step towards her.

“I am not pleased ,” Persephone said tersely, as she retreated from his slow advance. “And neither am I your love.”

Silas stopped in his tracks. His features twisted in a spasm of unchecked grief. Some great emotion kindled in his eyes.

“Never tell me you are afraid of me, Miss Forsyth?”

He had schooled his features so quickly, she thought she may have imagined his response.

That combined with Silas’s use of her name erected a necessary wall between them and restored a balance to their exchange.

“Of course not, my lord.” At least, the former Silas she didn’t; this newer version was something of a shapeshifter: one instant teasing and flirtatious and the next wistful or cynical.

It was the roguish Marquess of Bute who answered her reassurances with a half-grin.

“Splendid. Given you do not fear my company, love, then you’d be willing to stay and listen to what I have to say.”

And just like that, with his glib tongue and the challenge that’d fallen so effortlessly from it, she’d allowed him to set her up.

Silas was unnerved.

Oh, he had mastered a rogue’s grin, his crooked smile somehow even more charming than it’d been years and years earlier.

He possessed a cocksure arrogance and the unswerving strength and confidence of a powerful peer accustomed to getting what he wanted and when he wanted it. Even so, had Persephone not been studying his urbane veneer so closely, she would have missed a fleeting moment of uncertainty and hesitation in him.

The fact, however, remained there’d be disastrous implications were they discovered here—for her and Simon. For his sister.

She glanced past his shoulder.

“You say you’re not afraid of me and yet you look like you’re plotting your escape, lo—Miss Forsyth,” he said sadly.

He employed his best rogue’s grin but, despite honoring her wishes about that term of endearment, Persephone remained implacable—unmoved.

“I said I’m not scared of you, my lord. That doesn’t, however, mean I wish to remain out here with you or intend to.”

“God knows I can tell by the way you’re looking around me that I’m the last person you wish to be with.” Silas released a shaky laugh and dragged an even more quavering hand through his locks. “Trust me, I understand I’m deserving of your scorn.”

He took her lightly by the shoulders.

She stiffened and attempted to step out of his arms, but he retained a firm but still gentle hold.

“Persephone, please,” he said hoarsely, lifting his palms before him. “Just hear me out.”

She stared at him with a mutinous expression.

Silas gripped his head in his hands. “I’ve had years thinking about what I’d say to you. I’ve even carried this conversation between us out in my mind to the point I’d each sentence memorized like a bloody script.” Emotion blazed in his eyes. “And now I’m here, Persephone, and every single one of them has flown out of my bloody head.”

Funny, she’d spent years hating him for the way he’d hurt her. She’d wanted him to suffer the same pain she’d endured. His suffering, however, did not bring her any solace or consolation. She felt…an unexpected sense of pity for this man who, in his desperation, she no longer recognized.

Despite every bit of logic that urged her to flee from the moment he’d arrived, Persephone remained.

She’d let him say his peace, and then they could both achieve the closure they so desperately needed.

Persephone stared at him.

Silas instantly took the cue, and this time, when he spoke, he did so with a calm and clarity that hadn’t been there until now.

“My father and mother discovered our relationship,” he began quietly, then grimaced. “In retrospect, they were always going to learn about…us.” A wistful smile formed on his hard lips, and he gave his head a sad little shake. “I didn’t realize that then. I was a cocksure lad who was so blinded in love that I couldn’t see anything beyond the joy I knew with you.”

His gaze grew far away.

“I lived for each stolen glance and each private meeting. The happiest I’ve ever been was when I made you smile.”

Those romantic words would have likely made any other woman fall in love with him—again.

“My father vowed to destroy you. That is, if I did not break it off with you.”

“So, you decided to see to the destructive task yourself?” This time, she wasn’t able to quell the rush of bitterness.

“I had no other choice,” he said. “He threatened to cut me off, so I had no way to support you and see you, with no other options but to become some nobleman’s mistress.”

She stilled; her mind slowed under his revelation. Persephone shook her head.

He nodded. “It’s true, Persephone,” he said, his voice thick. “As I said, I never stopped loving you. I always knew our separation was temporary.” His Adam’s apple moved. “I just never suspected it’d last so goddamned long.”

Reeling, Persephone took a step and stopped. She took another.

All these years, she’d believed Silas a blackguard who’d seduced her and betrayed her. She’d spent a lifetime loathing him. Instead, the truth had been she and Silas had both been victims of his father’s machinations.

Persephone turned and found him peering at her from under hooded lashes.

Hugging herself around the middle, she rubbed at her chilled arms. “At no point did you think to share any of the threats looming over us with me?”

He scoffed. “Persephone,” he spoke to her the way he might a child, “what was there to have talked about? You were even more powerless than I.”

She hid a wry grin. “Of course, you are correct.”

Time had leant an arrogance to Silas that hadn’t been there before.

Unlike Simon, who saw Persephone as a partner and equal in discussions, decisions, and life, Silas had decided he knew what was best for both of them and the best way to handle his father’s machinations.

“I knew there’d come a time when we’d meet again. I was always going to come for you, Persephone. You were destined to be my marchioness.”

Ice descended over his eyes so quickly, she shivered at the speed and ease of that transition from hurting lover to flinty lord.

But for the trickling of the watering fountain and the chirp of crickets, silence hung in the aftermath of Silas’s telling.

Persephone stared at Silas, her first and former love.

She heard the words he’d spoken.

That day his father, the former Marquess of Bute, sent Persephone away had all been…a lie.

“Everything I ever said to you, every vow I made, Persephone, was true,” he said huskily. He took a lazy, languid step closer. “I’d have you trust that. I’d have you know that. You were meant to be mine.”

Before she knew what he intended, Silas slipped an arm around her waist.

Persephone gasped, but that exhalation of shock and indignation was lost to his kiss.

He stunk of too much brandy, and maybe too many spirits accounted for this boldness.

She opened her mouth to chastise him, but he slipped his tongue inside, drowning out that sound.

Instead, as she pressed her palms against his chest and made to shove him, other sounds, gasps, and cries filled the gardens.

Silas released her so quickly that she stumbled and struggled to catch herself.

Her stomach churning, Persephone glanced to the exit she’d eyed and should have taken minutes ago. Now, that doorway was filled with a sea of onlookers—a gleeful Lady Jersey, a stunned Lady Isabelle, and Simon—stricken as she’d never seen him.

She whipped her gaze over to find Silas wearing a faint, triumphant smile.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

He’d succeeded where he’d failed years ago—Silas had managed to ruin her.