Page 109 of The Good Duke
She didn’t have to say a word for him to have known as much. “You’re miffed with me,” he hazarded.
At last, she turned a nebulous stare on Simon. “Why would I bemiffed?”
God, he hated that look she gave him. He’d only just met it but would be all too content for this to be the last he saw of that opaque nothingness.
“You are ‘Your Gracing’ me, Seph.”
She held his gaze, and for a terrifying moment, he’d a taste of what her charges who’d earned the lady’s displeasure had felt like.
“You ordered me to refer to you thusly, Your Grace.”
He scowled. “Yes, but that was before.”
Persephone stared at him for a long moment. When he gave no further clarification, she prodded him. “Beforewhat, Your Grace?”
“I…” He couldn’t recall. Why had he been such a bastard as to suggest that formality between them?
You know why. You couldn’t stop lusting after her. You couldn’t keep your hands off her. Even now, you still want to drag her in your arms and across your lap and do the most depraved things to her.
Yes, in sharing a roof and wanting Persephone as he did, Simon had attempted to erect whatever walls he could between them.
When he didn’t respond, Persephone gave that window all the attention Simon wanted.
The tension remained heavy between them, thick enough that only a broadsword could break through.
Discomfited, Simon tugged at his cravat. “I trust you’re disappointed I lost hold of Astrid and nearly created a scandal.” He flashed her a grin meant to disarm. “But given the help she provided this day, I expect you might be willing to overlook the preceding chaos of the Covent Garden flower shops.”
Of course, in order to be disarmed, she’d have to be looking at Simon.
Persephone turned her attention back to Simon. “She isn’t on your list.” Her full lips remained compressed in a grim line.
Simon shook his head confusedly.
“Your Lady Issy-Isabelle.” Persephone tripped over the young lady’s name.
That brought him up short. So…thiswas the reason for her frosty demeanor? Because he’d deviated from his list?
“She can be?”
Persephone sharpened her gaze on him, and for the first time since they’d entered the carriage, there flashed a glint of actual emotion in her eyes. “Are you asking me, Your Grace?”
“No.” Simon was trying to sort out how to account for this icy reception that’d met him since they left the flower shop.
He gave Persephone another playful grin. “I thought you would be happy I’ve not held steadfast to that list you hated in the first place, Seph,” he said gently, using that childhood moniker in the hope of shaking her from whatever it was he’d done to displease her.
Persephone stared at Simon, her gaze wounded.
And then, suddenly, as if formerly under a trance, she blinked furiously. “I am very happy aboutthat.”
Which implied she wasdispleased with something else.
Simon held her eyes. “What is it, Seph?” Simon spoke in the same soft tones he’d used when tending a wounded deer he and Persephone had discovered on one of their jaunts across the country.
And this time, as they’d always been, Persephone’s big brown irises formed a window into her soul. Within their depths bled so much pain, fear, and frustration it hit Simon like a poison dart to the heart.
The usually excitable dog, quiet until now, yapped loudly and scrambled from the bench and onto Simon’s lap.
The moment was shattered.
