Page 9 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

P ersephone Forsyth had always hated rising early. As a young girl, the only reason the lady had forced herself up before daybreak was so she and Simon could watch the sunrise.

It was why the following morning, before Persephone found him, Simon rose at an ungodly hour, got the hell out of his townhouse, and headed for one of London’s more disreputable clubs.

Simon gave his horse, Dobbin, a nudge, urging more speed from him as they made their way through the still dark, empty London streets. No doubt Persephone had planned accordingly; he likely was a hairsbreadth away from her corning him.

And corner him, she would.

After even just a brief meeting some almost twenty years later, he’d ascertained beyond a doubt that Persephone Forsyth remained unchanged. She still delighted in teasing him, taking him by surprise.

As a young boy who’d been ridiculed by all, Persephone had been like a ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak life.

The grown woman she’d become was both nothing like and everything like the girl he used to know, all at the same time. Fearless, bold, and waggish one instant, in the next she looked at him censoriously and with a displeasure and annoyance she’d never reserved for him, but rather the bullying boys she and he had a shared loathing for.

Simon scowled. She now looked at him as if he were somehow a disappointment to her.

Me.

How did she expect he should receive finding her in his household, while he’d been bathing in his bedchamber, at that?

Under him, Dobbin shortened his stride and lifted his head.

Simon forced those frustrating thoughts of Persephone Forsyth aside and stroked the jittery horse’s neck.

“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured.

The always-loyal Dobbin whinnied his forgiveness.

Lightening his hold on the reins, Simon urged his mount to a more moderate, measured pace.

A short while later, just as the sun began to crest, Simon arrived at the formidable gaming hell, Forbidden Pleasures. Two stoic, armed guards—a new addition since Simon had last been here—stood sentry outside, blocking the double doors.

After he’d turned his reins over to the small boy who’d been waiting in the shadows, Simon climbed the limestone steps. One of the darkly clad servants drew a door open, while the other fellow kept his hand on the gun at his waist.

The moment Simon stepped inside, however, he found his path blocked by an unfamiliar scarred and stoney-faced butler.

With the dark-haired fellow’s broad-set shoulders and even bigger arms that challenged the finely cut black jacket he’d crammed them into, the man was better suited to throwing punches in boxing rings than opening doors in clubs.

But then these were not the venerable walls of White’s or Brooks’ or Boodle’s.

As soon as that elaborate panel closed behind Simon, the darkness of the dimly lit club and heavy cheroot smoke hanging over the establishment swallowed the faint vestige of the rising morning sun outside.

The flinty-eyed butler looked Simon over.

“Ye aren’t familiar, Yer Lordship,” he noted in coarse and more than faintly caustic tones.

There’d been a time such a menacing man would have left Simon unsettled—no longer.

Coolly, Simon handed his card over to the impassive servant. “Formerly the Earl of Primly,” he said.

The other man ran a flinty gaze over the name and title emblazoned upon the newly minted cards, and then, giving a nearly imperceptible nod, he stepped aside and granted Simon entrance.

In an instant, another servant, this one as broad but of a stockier build, rushed forward with a greater urgency to take Simon’s things.

Wordlessly, Simon doffed his black top hat and handed it over. Then, shrugging out of his cloak and giving it to the younger man, Simon surveyed the club that was Forbidden Pleasures.

The carpets were still crimson, but brighter and more pristine, indicating at some point the coverings had been changed.

The gaming tables—even at the early hour—were still as crowded, filled with drunken members with bloodshot eyes and thick growth on cheeks in desperate need of a blade. Though a new addition were the female patrons, who mingled with the gentlemen at the gaming tables.

Barely clad beauties, with rouged lips and even more heavily rouged cheeks, wound their way about the club. As they went, they distributed drinks from the silver tray hefted atop their delicate shoulders to each patron they passed. The thick scent of floral fragrances clashed and wafted in the wake of those women.

Simon dismissed those sights and searched instead the faces of those patrons seated at their privately held tables.

His gaze clashed with a darkly clad figure seated in the farthest left-side corner of the club.

Unlike the other patrons, this man was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and sober.

The gentleman lifted a hand up in a silent, across-the-room acknowledgement, and Simon, notching his chin up in a return greeting, headed over to meet Lord Kit Pruitt, the lone friend he’d made in his life.

Though, that isn’t really true… There’d been Persephone.

At that reminder, that forlorn whisper of Persephone Forsyth echoed in his mind.

“ It has been many years… Though I didn’t think you’d forget me altogether… ”

Forcibly thrusting aside that sad thought of her, the moment he reached Pruitt, Simon grabbed the curved top of the vacant red-leather upholstered button-back chair and seated himself.

“Greyst—”

“I have a problem.” Simon cut off the other man’s greeting.

More specifically, he had a conundrum wrapped in the delicately curved, womanly form of a former friend, Miss Persephone Forsyth.

Pruitt pushed his untouched snifter Simon’s way. “I told you,” his friend said, “I have the ideal person to help you with your books. My sis—”

“It is not my books.” While he drank the offered brandy down in one slow, burning swallow, Pruitt watched him with a bemused look.

Setting his glass aside, Simon dropped his elbows on the smooth mahogany table and leaned over. “There’s been a development… A new one.”

Taking care to avoid the audacious specifics of his recent meeting with Persephone, Simon went on to explain their past—also avoiding those more ignominious details.

When he’d finished, Pruitt didn’t say anything for a long while.

“Let me get this right,” the other man finally drawled. “You had your household broken into…by a woman, no less. One whom you knew some twenty or so years ago?” With a quiet laugh, Pruitt kicked back on the legs of his chair. “And here I thought you were talking about your stuffy, condescending solicitor.”

A serving girl came over with a second glass. The moment she set it down, Simon reached into the front of his jacket, but Pruitt proved quicker.

The other man handed over a small purse and then waved the girl off.

After he’d poured two brandies—with a healthier amount more for Simon—Pruitt spoke.

“What do you intend to do with her?”

Simon scowled. He was glad one of them found this amusing.

“I’m not keeping her if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he muttered and took another swallow. “She is here in search of employment.”

Pruitt dropped an elbow on the table and leaned in. “ Ohh? ” he replied, managing to sneak an extra syllable into that suggestive question.

The other man would be right to the likely assumption he’d arrived at. After all, he’d witnessed Simon’s pursuits in Italy and France. There’d never been a night he’d sought sleep without having a woman in his bed.

“She’s not that kind of woman,” he said brusquely.

Pruitt brought his chair back onto all four legs. “Aren’t they all that kind of women?”

“This one is not.”

Understanding dawned in Pruitt’s eyes, and then, tossing his head back, Simon’s friend howled with amusement.

“I swear, Greystoke. O-Only y-you.” Pruitt only laughed all the harder, until tears streamed down his cheeks. “Y-you are the o-only man who should find his bedchambers invaded by a straightlaced, bracket-faced governess.”

Except Persephone wasn’t the prim, proper finishing school instructor that came to mind when a person thought of finishing school instructors. Nor was she the long-in-the-tooth-faced woman Pruitt took her for.

Knowing, however, to correct the man of his wrongly drawn conclusion, he’d only deal with more questions and amusement, Simon opted to let him to that assumption.

“All women have their uses.” Pruitt waggled his brow. “Some greater uses than others. Which begs the question, what service could she provide for you ?”

Unbidden, thoughts of Persephone slid in. As defiant as the lady herself, raven-black tresses had snuck free from Persephone’s serviceable plait. It was as if time had loosened her once-tight curls and leant them a softer, more carefree bounce.

Persephone, with pillowy-soft-looking, sultry lips with the slightest of a cupid’s bow. Persephone, whose eyes were shades of the richest cognac, was even bolder and more confident than when she’d been a mere girl of sixteen.

Lust bolted through him.

“As I said, she is… was a finishing school instructor,” he said as much for his friend’s benefit as to ease his sudden erection. “I hardly think I’ve need for a proper governess.”

“There must be something—”

“She…prepared ladies for their Come Outs and accompanied a number of students to house parties to coordinate matches.”

“A matchmaker,” Pruitt said.

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he muttered, recalling the umbrage she’d taken with the during.

His friend leaned forward. “What was that?”

There was an entirely too curious glint in the other man’s eyes.

Simon grunted. “The lady indicated matchmaker is among the roles she’s served in.”

The hell Simon intended to say much more than he already had.

“Well, there you have it.” Pruitt knocked the table. “We’ve found a purpose for the lady after all.”

His friend sounded so very certain and pleased with himself, Simon puzzled his brow. “And what purpose is that ?”

“Well, the entire reason you returned to London is so that you could tidy up your business here. You can find a bride and leave your duchess in charge of the day-to-day dealings. Then you’ll be free to invest your attentions and energies when and where you would.”

Marry Persephone Forsyth? He choked on a sip of his brandy. “Are you suggesting I marry the lady?”

“Marry some long in the tooth spinster?” Pruitt gave him an odd look. “Come now, I’m a friend, chum.”

Yes, he was and had been Simon’s only real one.

“Would I really suggest you saddle yourself with some crabbed school mistress, Greystoke?” Lowering his voice, Simon’s friend leaned across the table. “Let the matchmaker save you the time and energy of finding a bride. That way, you’re free to pursue your works. Marry whichever most suitable lady she brings before you, get an heir on your wife, and continue spending your days writing your stories and sponsoring others.”

Looking entirely pleased with himself, Pruitt sat back in his chair and looped his thumbs over the waistband of his trousers.

All the while, Simon just stared at him…and processed that surprisingly cognizant plan for Persephone.

Playing the courtship game was hardly one he’d relished over the years. However, he’d returned with an unholy eagerness to have those once defectors tripping over themselves for his attentions. Being gone as long as he had, Simon knew nothing about Society’s latest Diamonds. Nor, for that matter, did he care to waste his own time discovering those details. Nay, he’d be happy to cede those responsibilities to anyone else.

Only…

He waved a hand dismissively. “There is, of course, the matter of allowing an unmarried lady to live with me and pick my bride. I’m sure all the respectable mamas and papas would be thrilled by such a prospect.”

“She’s your late father’s cherished goddaughter, whose been gracious enough to serve as your social hostess and private secretary. Why, she could be your very own Lady Hester Stanhope.”

That gave Simon pause.

Lady Hester Stanhope. As in the late former Prime Minister Pitt’s niece, who’d handled the distinguished gentleman’s political social life.

With the ease with which the other man had concocted that story and plan, he may as well have been the writer of their pair.

Pruitt dropped his left elbow on the table and, in his right hand, held his snifter aloft, toasting Simon. “Granted, having a homely miss, whose been teaching at various finishing schools throughout London, also goes a long way towards misses and their mamas turning the other cheek to your sharing a household with said ward.”

Clinking his glass against Simon’s snifter on the table, Pruitt availed himself to a drink.

A homely miss?

Once again, thoughts of the grown version of Persephone Forsyth slipped in.

Tall and willowy, and possessed of those same midnight tresses that she now drew back sharply at her nape, it left her features almost gaunt and also stirred a longing to free those strands from their severe plait.

And more desirous thoughts came whispering forward: of him being the one to tug those pins loose and send her hair tumbling so he could ascertain once and for all whether her curls were still tight coils or whether they floated freely about her back.

And thoughts he’d absolutely no right having about his former—and only—early childhood friend took root in a too-fertile mind.

Of him taking her mouth under his again. Only this time, he’d know bloody well what he was doing.

What in blazes was wrong with him? Simon actually sat here entertaining lustful thoughts about Persephone Forsyth ?

It’d been too long since he’d had a woman in his bed That was all that accounted for his ruminating about her even now.

“Or madness,” he grumbled.

An annoyingly wry Pruitt quirked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing. It is nothing.” To deter his friend from putting another question to him—questions he didn’t want to answer and details he didn’t want to give about his friend of long ago—Simon took a deliberately deep swig of brandy.

A shadow fell over the table, effectively saving Simon from any further questions on his friend’s part.

Both men glanced up.

One of Forbidden Pleasures’ ravishing Cyprians stood with a flirtatious smile on her full, rouged lips. Then she placed her hand, with long, painted fingernails, at the crevice of her low-cut bodice in a deliberate invitation for their stares…and company.

She was a brunette beauty, several inches shorter than Persephone. The courtesan’s hair lacked the luster of that other woman who currently occupied Simon’s conversation—and thoughts.

“Hullo, gentlemen,” the woman purred. The faintest hint of Cockney lingered in her otherwise impressively cultured speech.

Even as she directed her greeting to both of them, the beauty’s penetrating gaze belonged to Simon.

“I am Aphrodite.”

Aphrodite? As in that Greek goddess and rival to Persephone.

“How fitting ,” he muttered under his breath.

The gods had a sense of humor after all.

The piquant courtesan cast a confused look from Simon to Pruitt and then back again to Simon.

“Thank…you?” The slight uptilt at the end of the young woman’s two words transformed her husky response into a question.

“What my friend means,” Pruitt put in easily, “is there couldn’t be a more apt name for an exquisite beauty such as yourself.”

Despite that lavish extolment, Aphrodite’s keen focus remained fixed on Simon.

His mouth formed a wry grin.

Ah, even the serving girls and servants at his former club had gotten wind of his change in circumstances.

“You look like you are in need of company, Your Grace,” she said, her husky voice a silken invitation.

Slipping the glass from his hands, the Cyprian set it down on the table and availed herself to a place on Simon’s lap. In an instant, she pressed her lips against his neck and proceeded to nuzzle him.

His gaze went to the glass she’d relieved him of.

Another time, likely any other time, Simon would have taken what the sensual prostitute offered—and happily. More than happily , that was.

Madness must have plagued him. For instead of focusing on Aphrodite’s skillful mouth as she alternately nipped and teased at his flesh, her reproachful words whispered forward.

“ …A wise man once said ‘a spirit is a spirit is a spirit…’” They’re all a type of vile, just a varying degree of it… ”

If she took umbrage with his indulging in the gentlemanly habit of spirits, what would she say about—?

Aphrodite reached between his legs and stroked him.

Simon set the woman hastily from his lap. “As much as I regret turning you away, I’ve business matters to discuss.” It was a lie. He just couldn’t go about bedding a prostitute while thinking of Seph.

Her lips formed a perfect pout. “Ye certain, Your Grace? I can show you a good time while yer talking about business matters,” she suggested, her voice sliding in and out of roughened street tones.

The determined beauty reached again for his shaft.

Simon intercepted her efforts. “As much as I regret doing so, I must decline.”

He had changed, but he wasn’t so much a reprobate that he could speak about Persephone one instant while bedding a prostitute the next.

Simon reached into his jacket and withdrew several coins. To soften her disappointment, he pressed them into Aphrodite’s hands.

Brightening, the woman slipped away and wandered between the other filled mahogany tables in search of her next client.

With the beautiful Cyprian now gone, Pruitt instantly returned to their previous talks.

“The thing of it is?” his friend began excitedly. “As a duke now, you’ll have your pick of any lady who wants nothing more than to be a duchess. A lady who will gladly allow you to your travels and writing…and anything else, as long as she is afforded the rank and wealth that comes with being your wife.”

His friend scoffed. “In fact, do you truly believe the woman you decide to wed will care either way if you’re bedding your secretary as long as you’re marrying her?”

No. His friend was not wrong in that regard. The manner of women he’d attract with his new rank would only care about his title.

“Nay,” Pruitt said excitedly. “They—along with their grasping mamas and papas—will gladly forgive you any slights or outrageous behaviors, all for the privilege of securing a duke.”

Another time, Simon would have been horrified at that mercenary take on marriage. No longer. Now, he well knew the way the world worked. In short, for kind gentlemen with stammers and good intentions, it didn’t. For dukes who didn’t give a damn about anyone, the world was their proverbial oyster.

“Undoubtedly,” his friend went on, bringing Simon back to the discussion, “the ton will even sing your praises for being so very devoted to your late father’s homely niece.”

Simon grimaced. There seemed something unnatural in thinking of Persephone in the familial light. “Goddaughter,” he corrected. “And she’s not—” Simon bit his tongue to keep from sharing a more accurate description of the lady now holding his thoughts hostage.

“Goddaughter. Niece.” Pruitt gave a wave of his hand. “Whichever.”

Having long since learned romance was best reserved for the pages of a book and not for himself, Simon contemplated his friend’s particularly inventive proposal.

Simon needed to get on with the tedious business of finding a wife, that excruciating courtship process he’d taken part in before—and without any success.

As Pruitt had pointed out, however, with Simon having returned a newly minted duke, this time he’d succeed where before he failed— this time , the women he pursued would only be those grasping ladies who aspired to be a duchess.

Which was more than fine with him. He’d come to understand some people found love, but most did not.

The sole reason he’d returned to London had been to shore up his affairs before taking himself off to the Continent.

He’d known that in doing so, there’d be a long period where he’d be forced to set aside his writing.

What his friend proposed, however, painted an altogether different option.

If he hired Persephone to play the role of matchmaker, she could focus on all things surrounding his inevitable union. She’d cull lists of ladies and arrange gatherings. Simon would decide on a bride and then hie himself off.

The more the thought percolated, the more energized he became.

Simon could continue seeing to his writing and his own pleasures, while Persephone saw to those tedious but necessary details around his very reason for being back. He would give her names of all the gents who’d once bullied him and have her handpick the ones whose sisters were the most coveted on the Marriage Mart.

Pruitt dusted off invisible specks of lint from each sleeve. “Go on,” he said. “I’m waiting. You may thank me.”

A slow grin built on Simon’s lips. “It appears I have work for the lady after all .”