Page 60 of The Good Duke
Persephone feared the Duke of Greystoke, however, was an altogetherdifferentmatter.
Chapter 10
The following morning, seated at the mahogany desk he’d had shipped from Italy and with the morning sun streaming through the east windows overlooking the gardens below, Simon found—and relished—the first glorious silence he’d found in which he could write since he’d become duke.
Since that fateful—and hated—day, there’d been a sea of new responsibilities for Simon to attend. It’d required him to set aside his one passion and only great love—his literary work. There’d been the matter of closing out his affairs in France and extensive briefs on the state of the title and properties he’d newly inherited.
Simon might not give a shite about inheriting a new title, but that did not mean he wasn’t aware the late duke had left behind lands and, more importantly, people upon them, villagers now reliant upon Simon. It’d required he return from his travels. He’d been determined to set up a capable man-of-affairs—or woman-of-affairs—in Lord Pruitt’s sister and find a woman who’d be his duchess; a lady who’d oversee Simon’s affairs here in London.
That tedious courtship process, however, would take time. That had been the true noose hanging above his head.
But what Pruitt had proposed? Simon grinned. It represented the ultimate solution. He marveled once more at the brilliance of Lord Pruitt’s plan for Persephone Forsyth.
To think Simon had been horrified at the prospect of a grown Persephone remaining here in London, under the same roof.
Now, he acknowledged how unfair it had been to see only the troublesome child she’d been, one whom he’d followed along whatever mischievous path she’d led him down.
Simon flicked his coattails back behind him. Then he opened a brand-new, leather notebook with crisp, empty pages he fairly itched to fill. Simon flexed his fingers, picked up one of the neatly lined up graphite pencils, and settled into write.
Leaning over his book, he brought his pencil to the page and waited for inspiration to strike.
And waited.
And…he continued waiting.
Because this was his creative process. He’d sit with only the company of his own thoughts and an empty sheet. From there, the ideas for his stories and poems and plays would flow forth. There was never just…nothing.
Not like there was now.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a fluttering from the westerly side of the bay windows and looked to the Common Blue butterfly flitting in an uneven pattern from crystal pane to crystal pane.
Simon followed its zig-zag flight—up and then down, down and then up, higher, before hovering there. Its vibrant wings moved in an infinitesimal undulation that kept the creature afloat. The Common Blue remained that way, so motionless Simon found himself transfixed, his gaze frozen, locked on the exquisite, winged insect.
That butterfly shifted in and out of focus in his mind and merged with one from a time long ago, as a memory of Simon and Persephone when she rushed up to meet him. Of him and her stretched out, side by side, on a blanket that overlooked the valley below.
“See that fellow there, Simon?” Persephone pointed, and Simon followed her finger to the Common Blue flitting past.
“Lovely, isn’t he? I attended a lecture on them, Simon. The female butterflies are more regal and do not have to rely on flashy color as the all-blue males do…and do you know why? Hmm? Because the males, like males of all species, have tiny minds and need to have something to snag some lady butterfly’s notice…”
Simon eyed a solemn Persephone. “The lecturer did not say that, Seph.”
“No,” she conceded. An impish grin curled slowly on her lips. “But only because he didn’t need to, as it’s a truth universally known that men have small minds. Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course,” he drawled. Shooting a hand out, he lightly prodded the right side of her waist, that most ticklish of her many ticklish spots.
Persephone exploded with laughter, and she squirmed and wiggled in an attempt to escape out from under Simon’s torturings.
Simon blinked. Funny, how he’d not thought of Persephone but on and off over the years, and yet with her now back in his life, all those old remembrances came back as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday.
Simon gave his head a hard shake and tried once more to get back to his writing.
With a frown, he tapped the tip of his pencil upon his desk in a quiet little staccato.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
