Page 30 of The Good Duke
Simon went instantly cold. Something in knowing his bullies had jeered about him to his best friend left a sharp ache inside. Not that it would have been the first, or second, or even third or fourth time. It never, however, grew easy.
“You shouldn’t have spoken with them,” he said, his words emerging sharper than he intended and she deserved.
Persephone gave him a look. “Why are you behaving this way? They stopped me when I was on my way to visit you. They called me all kinds of names and mocked me.”
“Why would they mock you?” Incredulity brought that question creeping up an octave.
“For the same reason they would be unkind to you,” she said, giving her small shoulders a little shrug. “People hate anyone different than themselves.”
His features spasmed.
“Simon,” she said gently and took a step nearer. “Wearedifferent.”
“You are not,” he rejoined, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Me, on the other hand.”
Persephone snorted. “Simon, I love you and would go into battle against Boney himself if you so asked it, but you are either lying to yourself or being deliberately obtuse.”
“You’re perfect!” he exclaimed.
“Just as you are perfect tome,” she said simply. “But the fact remains, you overlook all the odd things about me.”
He opened his mouth to launch an immediate protestation, but Persephone cut him off.
“How many women do you know with an interest in husbandry—that doesn’t involve two-legged ones?”
His lips twitched.
“Or who concoct remedies for rickets?”
He knew what she was doing. She did it often, and even as he’d forever love her for wanting to lift him up, he’d never be fine with her cutting herself down—especially on his behalf.
“Or,” she mumbled, “who love to sketch topics unsuitable to a lady.”
With that, she gave the leather journal he’d failed to note—but one she usually didn’t go without—a small kick.
Her sketch pad went sliding and kicked up gravel and rocks until it settled near against a moss-covered boulder.
At the same time, their gazes locked on the book.
Simon and Persephone reached for it at the same time.
“Hey, now,” he said reproachfully. “You’re never one to—” His words cut off quickly as he caught sight of Persephone’s swelling and red knuckles, and he knew in an instant.
For this hadn’t been the first time she’d come to him so. And just like all those other times before, she’d not raised attention to the tell-tale marks.
“Seph,” he said gruffly, reaching for her hand, just as she would have tucked it behind her back.
Simon cradled her palm in his and stared for a long time at her bruised flesh. His earlier joy at seeing her faded.
This is what she got for being friends with a dolt like him.
“Oh, do stop looking like someone snuck ink into your chocolate, Simon,” Persephone chided.
She tugged free of his delicate hold. “I’ve never been a fragile miss, and I’ve got scores of old injuries far graver than a couple of bruised knuckles.”
Before he could speak, she stuck her forearm so close to his face, he went cross-eyed.
“Remember this one? Hmm?”
