Page 36 of The Good Duke
Nor, for that matter, was it as though she’d not seen a naked man before—she had. But that gentleman hadn’t looked anything like…Simon.
Persephone abruptly stopped her frenetic back and forth march and turned to stare into the gentle flames, swaying and dancing in the hearth.
The new, just acquired, image of Simon Broadbent slipped in, and she closed her eyes to keep the wicked thought out.
Her efforts proved futile, as Persephone recalled all over again Simon’s biceps bulging as he’d pushed himself up to a stand. The rigid planes of his stomach rippling as he’d used the sides of his tub to propel himself into a stand.
And then the way the water had sluiced over his thick, oak-sized thighs.
Her pulse increased.
Nay. No man had any business possessingthatlevel of virility.
What was more, he’d been as bold and proud in his nudity as one of those carefully erected statues.
But then with a length as long and thick as his, why shouldn’t he be?
A low groan, born of misery and embarrassment, spilled from her throat, and she slapped her palms over her face.
It was one thing to be caught invading his residence and being made to explain the desperate circumstances that brought her here, it was an altogetherdifferentone to be caught gawking and gaping at his bits and pieces.
Stop it. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen his parts.As such, she shouldn’t still be consumed by thoughts of him stepping out of that bath, water dripping from his beautifully chiseled bo—
“Given all the circumstances under which we’ve met this evening, I’d wager covering your eyes was far more appropriate, say, some thirty minutes ago.”
Shrieking, Persephone spun toward the door.
Simon stood framed in the doorway.
Neither of them spoke. Persephone used that silence to study a fully clothed Simon.
He’d always been tall. But now Simon stood some five inches past six feet. He’d added layers of muscles to his previously gangly limbs. In fact, but for the loose golden-blond curls she’d once envied him mightily over, the man before her was a stranger in every way.
Odd, this properly clad Simon didn’t seem any safer. For he wasn’therSimon. This wasn’t even the Simon the society pages had written about before he left England.
Persephone’sSimon had been forthright and open with her—always. Her thoughts and his had moved in such a like harmony, she’d been able to complete his sentences—as he had hers. While in dealings with everyone else in their village whohadn’tbeen her, he’d been more than a little bashful.
Years later, when he’d existed as nothing more than an old friend whose name she’d searched for in the papers, she’d learned that he’d retained his shyness. The papers had also mentioned the then Earl of Primly’s penchant for carrying a copy of Shakespeare’s works in hand. Only she’d known he’d carried those small volumes close as a source of comfort, which the Great Bard had always been for him.
This stranger? She couldn’t see him openly discussing his love for Shakespeare with a young lady, and yet Persephone had read that bit of information about him some years back too.
Desperate for some glimpse of the friend she’d used to know better than she even knew herself, Persephone peered at Simon.
She’d been wrong.
Even those luxuriant, flaxen strands had changed. Once carefully cropped, they were now unfashionably long; his damp locks brushed a pair of broad shoulders.
“You still have a penchant for staring, I see,” Simon drawled.
A healthy level of cynicism denied that response the lightheartedness she’d come to expect from Simon.
Expect from Simon?
Could one really have expectations for a man she’d not seen in more than twenty years? In her desperation, she’d deluded herself.
“I’m observing.” She finally managed to fashion that response.
He quirked an eyebrow, and with that gesture, he all but dared her to say more.
