Page 159 of The Good Duke
Bloody hell. She…what? Liked dresses somewhat? Longed for different times? Loved him? What?
His pulse racing, Simon looked blankly at the carriage door.
“Your Grace,” Albert ventured, “one of Madam Colette’s girls came out and politely informed me that she has another appointment scheduled not long after yours.”
Persephone smiled. “I believe the modiste is calling, Your Grace,” she said with a teasing edge that took away any hint of formality at his form of address.
“Indeed.”
As Persephone took it upon herself to open the door and allow a footman to hand her down, he scowled.
He would have—and bloody should have—paid a fortune to shut the damned place down for the rest of the week, just to have had this moment in the carriage with Persephone go uninterrupted.
Next time.
With that, he joined Persephone. Linking his arm with hers, Simon guided her on to Madam Colette’s capable hands.
With Simon at the front of Madame Colette’s, conversing with the most sought after modiste in England, and Persephone strolling the shop, she reflected on their exchange in the carriage.
Simon hadn’t been wrong.
Since as far back as she could remember, Persephone despised gowns.
And yet, as she wandered the aisles of Madam Colette’s, with tablesfilledwith bolts of the finest satins and silks forming a kaleidoscope of colors, Persephone secretly admitted she’d lied to her best friend.
Shehadhated dresses. They hampered a woman. When a lady wore a gown, she couldn’t run about comfortably, ride a horse, jump, fish, fence, or really anything, for that matter.
But those had been the thoughts of a young girl, and her views on thoserestrictivegarments, well, that’d evolved as much as Persephone herself.
When her father died, overnight, she’d gone from girl to woman—at that, a working woman, one who saw in a new light the luxuriant satin dresses worn by her employers and their cherished daughters.
Only when she’d at last discovered the draw of those articles, when she’d viewed them in a new light, it’d been too late. Impoverished ladies, without a male relative to provide for them, didn’t have the luxury of wearing anything other than the serviceable ones Persephone had been forced to don.
She looked to where Simon remained conversing with the beautiful, and just as beautifully clad, blonde-haired French woman.
Just then, whatever he’d said to Madam Colette brought a blush to the proprietress’s flawless, creamy white cheeks.
A fierce and unbearable jealousy twisted every part of Persephone’s insides into knots.
The blonde-haired beauty’s sultry laugh echoed throughout the shop, and a moment later Simon joined in, his own lower, deeper one in an insupportably perfect blending.
Because Persephone was a glutton for self-pain, she stared fixedly at the two.
And why shouldn’t the other woman be as entranced as Lady Isabelle by the charming, devastatingly handsome duke?
Simon had a way of making every woman feel special. Persephone was no exception.
Nor was he merely a rogue who did so in an attempt to flirt, woo, or seduce. No, that quality was something that’d always been an innate part of him.
Persephone’s throat worked.
Simon glanced up; the grin he wore for another woman faded.
A question brought his blond eyebrows together. But fortunately, the eminent Madam Colette said something, pulling his gaze from Persephone.
Here she’d thought she couldn’t feel more wretched, only to have tears threaten as he gave all his attention, which made a woman feel like she was the only woman in the world, over to another.
No, she’d been just as miserable before this. She’d thought that very same thing the moment she’d caught sight of Simon and Lady Isabelle speaking at the flower shop.
