Page 31 of The Good Duke
He edged back a fraction so he could make out the stark white scar where her elbow met her lower arm—the legacy of a night they’d been poring over a book together, and Seph, in a bid for more light, had gotten too close to a dwindling taper.
“Or this?” She pointed to the slight scar at the right top corner of her forehead from when she’d asked Simon to use hot tongs to curl her hair.
“And these two.” She’d already hiked her skirts up.
Simon glanced down at the matching pair of faded marks and promptly wished he hadn’t.
He’d been present for the “birth” of those as well—injuries she’d sustained after she had fallen in the gravel while running to meet Simon on his first break from Eton.
At some point, Persephone’s gangly limbs had become shapely ones and, Lord forgive Simon, the sight of Persephone’s bared legs brought him back toanothertime. Back when she’d asked to kiss him so they might see for themselves what it was like.
And as she continued displaying her impressive array of previous injuries sustained, he found himself as discombobulated as when she’d ended that kiss, matter-of-factly declared it over, all while Simon had struggled to slog his way from the dazed state left by his first taste of desire.
“…and this one here, you surely remember,” she was saying.
There were all manner of things that made him an awful friend…
“Then there was the time I scratched a hole in my forehead…and stuck a flower…”
But ogling one’s best chum?
“…the best scar of all came from when you stepped on my tail and pulled it straight…”
This was the most unforgivable of crimes against friendship.
His brows drew together. “Pulled your—”
Persephone’s big, fulsome laugh interrupted the rest of that question. “Were you even listening?”
No, because I’d been busy noticing you’re all grown up, and—
In a very sisterly way, she punched him lightly in the arm. “Stop.”
Oh, Lord save me. She’d seen him gawking like a green lad at her. “S-Stop?” His voice cracked much like it had that long time ago when they’d kissed.
Only, this time, she glared at him. Onbothinstances, however, he’d been deserving of that dark look.
“I know what you’re thinking…”
Of course, she did. She’d always been the cleverest person he knew.
“I’m so sorry, Seph,” he said hoarsely.
“You should be. I should be allowed to beat up whomever I like, for whatever I like.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Well, not for ‘whatever’ I like. That’d make me a bully.”
Then, as she continued chattering on with her lecture, it hit Simon with a force greater than the punch Bruce Brewster had landed on Simon’s face earlier that day.
“You’re talking about beating up Brewster’s gang,” he blurted.
Persephone stopped mid-sentence and cocked her head. “What did youthinkI was lecturing you about?”
“N-No! Th-that.” His stammer chose to make a liar of him; a telling weakness Persephone would know all too well.
Though rare, that blasted fumbling for words reared its head, even on occasion with Seph—only during those instances when he felt the sting of embarrassment.
“Simon—”
He spoke on a rush, and this time he steadied his speech. “I don’t want you to fight my battles, Seph.”
