Page 178 of The Good Duke
Not that it was in any way arrogance on Persephone’s part that she recognized the fine work she’d done. She’d spent ages learning how to plan—and then helping previous employersthrow—formal dinner parties. As such, she unequivocally knew the affair would only be written about most favorably.
Or…the gossip columns likelywouldsay that—if it weren’t for an impending failure on the Duke of Greystoke’s part to declare himself to Lady Isabelle.
As she neared the back terrace, Persephone, desperate to be outside, quickened her strides. When she reached the French crystal doors, she didn’t pause; she opened the crystal panel and let herself out.
A soft, soothing breeze, combined with the fragrant floral scents of Simon’s manicured gardens, rushed up to greet Persephone.
The moment she drew the door shut behind her, she hastily pulled from her front pocket the note she’d received just as dinner adjourned.
Unfolding the small ivory scrap of parchment, Persephone again skimmed the words there.
Miss Forsyth,
It is with some urgency that I request a private meeting following dinner.
There is a matter of import you and I must speak on.
I would respectfully request a handful of moments of your time.
~I
Persephone read and re-read those handful of sentences, the same brief ones of so few words that she’d already committed them to memory.
Lady Isabelle wanted to speak with her.
Worse, this wasn’t a friendly reunion her former charge sought where they might catch up on one another’s lives. The young lady unequivocally stated the meeting pertained to a matter that was sensitive in nature.
Persephone’s stomach rebelled, and she suddenly wished she’d drank less wine and consumed less food. For there could be no doubt, this exchange had to do with Simon Broadbent, the Duke of Greystoke.
In a bid to rein in her panic, Persephone took in a deep, slow breath and leaned back against the double doors. Her butterfly hair combclankedagainst the glass pane.
No, there was only one thing Lady Isabelle could possibly be wanting to speak to her about—Simon.
Or, more specifically,Persephone and Simon.
Silas’s sister had been the cleverest girl. Clever girls became intelligent women, and it wouldn’t take much for her to have deduced Persephone’s budding—now budded—romance with Simon.
The queasy sensation in her belly grew.
Lady Isabelle witnessed how close they were with one another and that, coupled with the fact Simon hadn’t proposed long before this, would have alerted the girl.
Not that Simon and I were exactly discreet.
Persephone’s already racing thoughts continued to spiral.
Before this impending face-to-face, she’d convinced herself that she and Simon could have a future together. This very night and almost in this very spot they, like giddy young lovers, spoke of love conquering all.
Lost in the moment, it’d been all too easy.
Rap-rap-rap.
With a little yelp, Persephone jumped away from the window and, with a steadily expanding dread, slowly turned.
“La—”
Her greeting for Lady Isabelle faded and she found herself brought up short by the tall, formidable, darkly clad figure who stood on the other side.
Silas, the Marquess of Bute.
