Page 166 of The Good Duke
The infuriatingly good-looking marquess alternated a flinty stare from Persephone to Simon. An intense, fevered light glinted in the marquess’s dark eyes. Rage sent Lord Bute’s nostrils into a full flare.
Bute growled. “You bastard! You’d escort Miss Forsyth here likethis?”
The gentleman’s mistress pursed her lips. “Mylord! Do remember yourself.”
They ignored her.
“Indeed, I would.” Simon looked down the length of his nose at the too-handsome-for-his-own-bloody-good fellow. “And as you can see, I have.”
Persephone gasped.
“You, cur,” Bute seethed. “I’ll kill you.”
A feral grin flickered on Simon’s lips. As bloodlust pumped through his veins, Simon flexed his fingers…and relished the prospect of taking the other man apart with his bare hands. “Oh, I’d love to see you try.”
As one, Bute and Simon charged at each other.
A pair of high-pitched cries went up around the shop.
Just before Simon had the gratifying pleasure of burying his fist in Bute’s face, Persephone rushed to put herself between he and Bute.
“Donot, Simon!” she exclaimed, placing a hand on the duke’s arm. “Do not.”
Since her father’s death, Persephone’s life could have been aptly categorized as a complete and total nightmare.
She’d lost her dear father. Then the home and only village she’d ever known. Every day since, she’d worked more than she lived. She’d given her heart and virtue to a treacherous rogue.
Persephone could count on one hand the wonderful moments—and all of them would come back to Simon.
She’d been so very confident there couldn’t be a misery greater than any of the previous others she’d suffered.
Only to find herself living an actual nightmare that, in all her wildest imaginations, she couldn’t have conceived. One where her former lover was about to come to blows with Simon, her best friend and current lover. And also the gentleman who sought to marry Silas’s exquisitely beautiful, clever, and kind sister.
Nauseous, Persephone caught Simon by the arm. His already tightly coiled muscles bunched under her fingers.
In a bid to reach through Simon’s sharp, hostile focus, she spoke his name with a greater sense of urgency. “Simon!”
Persephone’s voice seemed to reach him.
Simon blinked slowly, and his lucid gaze shifted to her.
“Seph,” Simon began quietly.
Seething, Persephone steered them away from Lord Bute. “Not a word,Your Grace.” She didn’t want to hear it.
Simon’s brashness of before gave way to a suitable circumspection.
A little too late. Nor did she believe his fake penitence for a minute. Not a single one. He’d grown thoroughly comfortable in the ducal skin he’d inherited.
Sure enough, he inclined his head. “Persephone, I’ll have you know—”
“Simon,” she whispered, “I do not want to hear you speak a blasted word until I’m done. Am I clear?
“Ye—” Simon caught himself and gave her the answering silence she’d demanded.
Apparently, dukes could be tamed after all, because he remained prudently silent and stayed that way.
When she’d put some five or so paces between them and Silas, Persephone gripped Simon’s arm more tightly and urged him to stop.
