Page 153 of The Good Duke
The narrow-eyed gaze he leveled on Persephone indicated how little he believed that assertion.
Taking in a ragged breath, Persephone glanced about. She’d been so overwhelmed by learning where Simon brought her, she’d not thought about other museum visitors who might overhear their exchange.
She dropped her voice to a hush. “I spent months in the marquess’s employment, Simon. Notonce, in all the time I was employed, did he take me here.” This place she’d spent her life longing to visit.
But Simon?
Persephone briefly closed her eyes. A lifetime apart, and he’d not only recalled all the times she’d spoken about this very museum, but he’d also arranged for her to visit.
When she opened her eyes, she found Simon’s beautiful blues wide in a display of abject horror.
“Oh, hell, Seph,” he whispered. “I’m so damned sorry.” Simon apologized for a second time.
Sorry?
“This was never my intention.” Simon dragged a shaky hand through his glorious golden hair. “I resurrected old hurts.”
“No!” she exclaimed.
Thatwas the conclusion he’d drawn. God, she was making a mess of explaining her reaction.
Persephone took a deep breath. “No, that’s not what you’ve done.”
Rather, he’d done just the opposite.
Persephone tried again to communicate what his bringing her to this place meant.
“My response, Simon,” she said quietly, lest someone overhear. “It has absolutely nothing to do with Lord Bute and everything to do with…”How touched I am by the gift you’ve given me.
And how easythistenderhearted Simon made it to love him…
Her words trailed off.
She discreetly touched her fingers to his. “It has everything to do with just how overjoyed I am being here and how grateful I am to you—”
He touched a long, lone digit to her lips, quelling the rest. “I do not want your thanks,” he murmured.
The brush of his finger against her mouth set her aquiver inside. Had Silas ever managed to rouse such a response from such a subtle caress?
Persephone couldn’t remember much anymore.
Simon alternated his focus from Persephone to the dozens of stairs between he and Persephone and the museum and then back again. “You are certain I’ve not made you sa—”
“Quitecertain.”
He contemplated her a moment. “Do you even sketch or paint anymore?”
“No,” she murmured. “I do not.”
Had Simon just discovered this marked his last day on earth, he couldn’t have appeared any sadder. Pain, the likes of which she’d only seen on the day of their fathers’ falling out, etched each chiseled plain of his face.
“Not because I don’twantto,” she explained on a rush, more in harmony with his ponderings than she’d previously credited. “It is just that when a woman is employed, there isn’t really time for frivolities like sketching.”
“It is not a frivolity,” he bit out.
Long ago, shehadn’tviewed her love of arts in that light.
“When one is a gentleman’s young daughter,” she carefully explained, “with no responsibilities and only long, lazy days to explore whatever sparks one’s interest, then, no, such endeavors are not frivolous and are entirely ladylike and approved by society.”
