Page 36 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

W ith her heart still pounding, Persephone closed the terrace doors behind her and made her way inside Simon’s residence.

She’d been set up, deceived, and publicly ruined by her former love. Regardless of Silas’s profession and motivation to, as he’d claimed, have her as his marchioness, with his actions, he’d proven just as deceitful.

The ton would talk.

In the past, when the previous Marquess of Bute sent her away, she’d alternated between the desire to be invisible and the endeavor to be everything proper and decorous, above reproach. Not any longer. It was as though by speaking her fill and calling Silas out for all his many wrongs, she’d been freed of the constraints that’d guided and governed her life.

Now, as Persephone waited in the corridor for Simon to return from his own meeting with the marquess, the greatest and most overwhelming lightness filled her.

She’d put herself and her future with Simon first. And there was absolutely not a doubt or worry in her mind he’d not marry her, even if—no, when —this scandal in the gardens came to light.

She trusted Simon.

She believed in him and his love.

He’d never reject her. Not once in all the years they’d been friends or now, when they’d been reunited, had he spurned her.

As the young, starry-eyed girl she’d once been rose from the ashes of her ruin, Persephone smiled and hugged herself.

In this moment, she ached to be in his crushingly powerful but firmly protective arms. She ached to have him fold her in his embrace and never let go.

Except, he remained outside with Silas.

Persephone’s previously boundless joy ebbed. Her smile slipped as, for the first time, she considered the exchange now taking place between Simon and the marquess.

A shamefully belated dread built steadily inside.

She’d been so caught up in finally being delivered from her past that she’d not let herself focus on what she should have—Simon and all the potential perils of his meeting with Silas.

He and the marquess were both fiendishly proud. They were two men driven by their passions and devoted and committed to those they cared for, and both Simon and the Marquess of Bute loved fiercely.

Though only one of those men proved trustworthy in his love. The other—Silas—the way he handled a woman’s heart was insidious and manipulative. His wasn’t a love that was kind or patient; it didn’t rejoice in truths. Rather, the way he loved was bold and arrogant.

But then, with Silas’s late sire having been so very vengeful and ruthless, what other way would he become? The fact he loved at all—even if it was a perverted version of love—was a miracle.

Persephone cast a worried glance at the path she’d just traveled, which led back to where Simon and Silas in discussion.

She furrowed her brow.

Only, there could be no relaxed discourse. They’d both been spoiling for a fight, and in leaving, she’d condoned it.

She had to go back.

Persephone took one hurried step when someone called out from behind her.

“Miss Forsyth.” Lady Isabelle’s tremulous whisper froze Persephone in her tracks.

During their discussion at dinner, Persephone’s former charge had been so earnest, so innocent, and yet all signs pointed to Lady Isabelle’s duplicity.

“I understand you probably don’t wish to speak with me,” Lady Isabelle said softly. “Why should you? You, no doubt, believe I aided my brother in deceiving you.” The girl paused. “Which I did.”

Persephone’s entire body tensed.

Except something reached through the immediacy of Persephone’s anger and outrage—a new and foreign bitterness in Lady Isabelle’s tone.

Or perhaps it is just more treachery from a family given to lying?

As soon as the thought slipped into Persephone’s mind, she recognized the unfairness in that judgment and prejudice.

She turned. Lady Isabelle stood some three or four yards away. Persephone searched her gaze over the young lady’s face.

Under that scrutiny, Lady Isabelle lifted her chin a notch. That slight, proud movement, however, brought her more fully into the light cast by the sconce and revealed a glimmer of tears within the girl’s eyes. Her exquisite features were drawn in a mask of sorrow and regret.

Persephone took a step towards her and stopped. “You did betray me, then, my lady?”

The girl’s hands formed painfully tight-looking fists at her sides.

“Albeit unknowingly.” Lady Isabelle murmured so faintly, her admission barely reached Persephone. “I was an unwitting partner, but the outcome remains the same—you were ruined because of my actions. As such, I deserve nothing less than your loathing and certainly not your forgiveness.”

Persephone continued to study her.

A tear slipped down the girl’s cheek. “Silas shared with me the story of how you were once sweethearts, and how my father parted you.” An acrimonious smile formed on Lady Isabelle’s lips. “He revealed to me how deeply he loved you and asked that I arrange a meeting between you.”

A cynical laugh bubbled past the young lady’s lips. “How could I not? He claimed you were star-crossed lovers who were destined to be together.” Her gaze turned frosty. “And here you now find yourself,” she spat with a wretchedness that could not be feigned by even the best London stage actress, “ruined and forced into a union with a man you do not want.”

Lady Isabelle’s angry visage crumpled. “He betrayed us both, Miss Forsyth. He used me to get what he wanted—you. He didn’t care about your happiness and turned me into a deceiver, just like him. H-He is a liar and I hate him, and I will n-never forgive him.” Sorrow bled from her eyes. “But what is worse, Miss Forsyth,” she whispered, “I will never forgive myself .” She thumped a fist against her breast for emphasis.

And then, with a ragged sob, Lady Isabelle’s entire body sagged, and she collapsed to her knees weeping.

Persephone was at her side in an instant.

Falling to the ground beside Silas’s sister, Persephone took the younger woman in her arms.

She buried her face in Persephone’s chest. “I-I hate him,” she wailed. “I b-believed he was g-good and d-different than our sire, but he is j-just the same, and I am left w-with no one but a m-monster.”

“Shh,” Persephone whispered, stroking a hand over the back of Lady Isabelle’s loose coiffure.

“And I-I am s-selfish as he is.” The young woman cried all the harder. Her body shook like a frail limb amidst a tempest. “Because you are h-hurting and wronged, and I’m m-mourning for myself and what I don’t h-have and n-never had in family and will n-never know. Love is a lie.”

With that, Lady Isabelle broke down; all words failed her. Through it, Persephone held the young woman until she had no more tears left to shed.

“It is not your fault,” Persephone murmured.

A tired, empty laugh escaped Lady Isabelle.

Persephone drew back and settled her hands firmly on the other woman’s slender and so very fragile shoulders. “It is not your fault. You are not responsible for your brother’s sins. Nor your father’s. Not anyone else’s.” She squeezed slightly. “Do you hear me?”

“I don’t deserve your grace,” Lady Isabelle whispered.

Suddenly, the young woman’s swollen and bloodshot eyes locked on a point beyond Persephone, and her shoulders tensed under Persephone’s hands.

Persephone followed her gaze and stilled.

The Marquess of Bute, immaculate as when he’d arrived for the dinner party, stood there a moment with Simon close behind.

Silas lingered his gaze briefly on Persephone before he moved it almost reluctantly to his sister. Then, giving his head a slight shake, he started over and stopped above them.

Persephone stood first.

This time, the marquess kept his eyes locked on Lady Isabelle. He made to help the young woman stand.

Lady Isabelle’s eyes flashed with hate and fire. She angrily shrugged off his touch. Without a backward glance or word for any of them, she started a slow, dignified march.

Her heart hurting for the pain Lady Isabelle knew, Persephone burst out, “My lady?”

The young woman and her brother instantly stopped—only Silas looked back.

Persephone ignored him. “It is real, Isabelle,” she called to her. “I’d have you know that, and you will have all those…dreams you carry. Trust that.”

The only indication the other woman heard Persephone’s assurance was in the slight inclination of her head.

The moment Lady Isabelle resumed her long walk, the Marquess of Bute followed suit and continued to give his sister the space she both desired and deserved.

Soon, they were gone, and Persephone and Simon were at last alone together.

As Lady Isabelle and Lord Bute’s footfalls faded to a faint and then non-existent echo, Persephone and Simon remained adjacent of one another, their eyes locked.

How…peculiar.

Silas’s long-ago betrayal had left Persephone feeling less than as a woman. She’d castigated herself for the mistakes she’d made and vowed to never be so careless as to make such a faulty misstep ever again.

From then on, she’d spent her entire adult life mired in self-doubt—insecure in herself and even more worried about other people’s perception of her.

Now, she’d been embroiled in a public scandal certain to reach all the gossip columns, and yet the realization that the world would talk didn’t set off fear inside Persephone. She wasn’t torn up with dread that Simon might toss her over. Because, at last, any reservations she would have once carried about being undeserving had since vanished.

Persephone believed in Simon.

Just as importantly and, maybe even more importantly, she believed in herself .

Simon, her best friend and lover, had opened her eyes to the all-important truth she’d not realized until him.

She was worthy of love.

Emotion swelled in her breast and swarmed her throat.

And the only man whose heart she longed for was the one stoically standing across from her.

Persephone broke the silence first. “You didn’t kill him,” she remarked.

Simon inclined his head. “No.”

There was a slight pause.

“I wanted to,” he confessed. “And badly.” His gorgeous blue eyes darkened. “ Very badly,” Simon amended. “I wanted to rip his throat out and bloody him senseless and—”

She gently interjected. “Yes, Simon, I believe you’ve come to the point.”

His cheeks flushed with color, and he stared back with the same sheepish expression he’d worn when Persephone beat up their bullies for both of them.

Simon made a clearing sound with his throat. “Uh…yes, so Bute will live to see another day. The thing of it is, Seph?” he said, dragging his fingers through his hair once more.

She waited as he gathered his thoughts.

A muscle pulsed at the corner of his right eye. “I hate myself for not beating the everlasting life out of him.” He paused. “I almost did,” he confessed with a reluctance that bespoke shame at his admission.

And yet there was no shame in his restraint.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, more curious than anything.

He started over to her with slow, measured steps.

When only a handful of steps separated them, Simon stopped his approach. “I love you with my entire heart and soul and with every fiber of my being, Persephone,” he said somberly. “You deserved to be avenged and I realize—”

“Simon,” Persephone spoke earnestly over him. “Please.” How could he know so very much about her and not realize the self-control he’d displayed during his confrontation with the marquess made her love Simon all the more? “I wouldn’t want—” Nay, that wasn’t the whole truth. “I didn’t want—”

He touched a fingertip to her lips and gently silenced her. “What I was going to say, love,” he said solemnly, “is that I realized anything I could have said or done to Bute in the gardens would have been irrelevant. For you already handled him. I didn’t defeat him, Seph. You did that all on your own. And, yes, I still yearn to bury my fist in the bastard’s smug face,” he admitted. “But that would have been about satisfying my own bloodlust.”

Another wave of emotion swelled in her throat and she pressed a hand to her heart.

Where any other gentleman would have let his rage rule and surrendered to the raw urge to pulverize Lord Bute, Simon had shown restraint. He’d allowed Persephone to own her exchange with the marquess and, at last, avenge her own honor.

Persephone twined her hands about his nape, leaned up, and kissed Simon.

“Thank you, Simon,” she said thickly.

Simon flashed a lazy, crooked smile. “Of course, if you either ask or allow it, I’d be all too happy to pay him a—”

“No,” she breathed after that all too-fleeting meeting of their mouths.

Simon folded his arms loosely about Persephone’s waist and drew her closer. “No?” he repeated.

She tweaked his nose. “ No. ”

His lips formed a grim line. “Because I could—”

This time, Persephone claimed Simon’s lips in a full, open-mouthed kiss that effectively silenced him. “I love you, Simon Broadbent,” she whispered when they parted once more.

His brow furrowed. “Because I didn’t thrash the bastard who hurt you within an inch of his life?”

Simon sounded so endearingly befuddled; a watery laugh spilled past her lips.

“Because you allowed me to avenge myself , Simon,” she said, willing him to understand. “You trusted me to handle Lord Bute, and even though I saw how it pained you to stand to the side, you stood close enough throughout that confrontation.” Tears blurred her vision. “With your presence, you let me know you supported me, but that I should require assistance, you were all too ready and eager to i-intervene.”

Her voice caught. “You weren’t some puffed-up man whose desire to do violence superseded all else. And that , Simon? That is everything to m-me.”

Anguish filled his eyes. Simon dragged a hand through his long, blond locks. “God, Seph, I hate your tears.”

A laugh, this time mingled with a sob, escaped her. “They are happy ones.”

Simon palmed her cheek. “Are you, Seph?” he asked quietly. “Happy?”

Persephone nodded. A lone drop, followed in rapid succession by another and another, slipped down her cheeks. “M-More than you can ever know,” she said thickly.

Groaning, Simon snatched her into his arms and clung tight. “Oh, I’m confident I know even more than you , Persephone, because it is impossible that you can love me as deeply and madly as I love you.”

She felt a hesitation in Simon and edged back enough that she could see him.

“What is it?” she asked, passing her gaze over his beloved features.

“It is…I-I…” Simon cleared his throat and started again. “I find I’ve not been entirely truthful with you, Seph, and in so doing, you’ve heaped praise upon me that I’m far from deserving of, and—”

“Simon?” she urged.

“I didn’t hit him, per se,” he blurted.

Persephone cocked her head.

Simon glanced about a moment like one considering escape and then, with a sigh, he finally met Persephone’s eyes. “Bute,” he explained.

“Yes, I ascertained that might be who you’re alluding to,” she said dryly.

Simon fiddled with his endearingly crumpled cravat. “I didn’t pulverize him.”

Persephone kept her face deadpan. “Given the lack of bruises and blood, I’d thought as much.”

“Nor did I rip his throat out,” Simon added.

“ Simon , what—”

“I kneed him hard between his legs,” he said on a rush. Simon grimaced. “Hard enough that there’s reason to believe the Bute line may end with him.” Fire lit his eyes. “Even as you’re likely disappointed, I cannot regret my actions. He deserved far more than the pain I inflicted.”

Her lips twitched. “Well, I appreciate you didn’t kill him and find yourself off to a penal colony for hard labor.”

He flashed a droll grin.

Suddenly, his gaze grew thoughtful. “I wasn’t deserving of your earlier praise. I would have dealt him a full thrashing,” Simon said more to himself. “But then I looked down at him writhing on the garden floor, moaning and miserable and making no attempt to fight me. I sensed he wanted me to beat him, so I might inflict a physical pain so great that your words ceased to hurt him.”

Persephone framed Simon’s face between her hands and, leaning up, she took his lips in a gentle kiss.

When they parted, a half-grin brought his lips up. “Dare I take it to mean you’re not disappointed in me after all?”

She scrunched her nose up. “How could I ever be disappointed in you, Simon Broadbent, the keeper of my heart?”

He gave her a sheepish look. “Given my circumspect behavior at various points since you returned to me, I venture there are—”

“Simon, are you determined to flagellate yourself for past transgressions?”

“Uh…”

She stopped him before he answered and touched her nose to his. “Why don’t we agree we both poorly handled a number of our exchanges and come to some form of truce and bury our recent blunders?”

He stilled.

As she’d anticipated, he’d detected the seductive query she’d less than subtly put to him.

“And how should we seal our truce, love?” he purred.

The silky suggestiveness in his low baritone caused a familiar stirring in her womb.

Her mouth went dry as memories of the things they’d done these past months marched in a naughty parade through her mind.

“I trust you have several ideas, Your Grace.” Persephone made no attempt to hide the sultry hunger in her voice.

With Simon, she didn’t have to hide anything, and she never had, until they’d been reunited. Now, loving him as she did, and knowing he loved her just as ardently, she never would.

“Perhaps, you’d like to suggest some?” Persephone said in a throaty invitation.