Page 38 of Til Death Duke Us Part
“And, ah, who are you?” her father asked.
“The Duke of Morington.”
Her parents dropped into positions of obeisance: a low bow, a knee-creaking curtsy.
Persephone rolled her eyes. She should have considered they might run into her parents. That was the sort of luck she had. “These are my parents, your grace, as you’ve already surmised, I’m sure. Mr. Herodotus Smith and Mrs. Mary Smith.”
“You were a Miss Smith?” he said, humor lacing his voice.
“Unfortunately I was.”
Her parents rose to their usual heights with greedy eyes.
“How did you come to know such an illustrious personage, Persephone?” her mother asked.
“I was digging.”
Victor laughed. “Your daughter has quite the sense of humor. She was digging through some wares in a shop on Bond Street, as was my sister. They have been close friends ever since.”
Her father’s head bobbed, and his hat fell, revealing his receding, dark hair. He caught the hat and chuckled. “And what brings you to Manchester, your grace?”
“Your daughter.” He grinned at her like she was a priceless jewel he was about to steal.
“What he means,” Persephone said, somehow managing not to roll her eyes, “is that I spoke so well of Manchester to…” Janet? Jessica? “Jane! I spoke so well of Manchester to Jane, his sister, that she determined to visit, with me to show her around.”
Her parents looked left then right then craned their necks to peer behind Persephone and Victor. They shared a look.
“I should like to meet her,” Persephone’s mother said.
“She’s resting at the hotel.” Victor’s tone someone conveyed much more than that lie. It also said: I wouldn’t bother to interrupt her rest for lowly bugs like you.
Persephone shouldn’t enjoy that quite as much as she did.
She took a step backward. “We’ve someplace we must be.”
“Oh no!” Her mother reached out, bejeweled bracelets dangling from her wrist. The gold and rubies hanging there would have dragged a weaker woman down, but her mother was long used to the weight of precious metals. The rest of her matched the rubies. She wore a red velvet gown threaded with gold, and her bonnet sported gold feathers. They caught in the late afternoon light and sparkled, almost like a glamour, but very real indeed. And very costly. “You must come home with us.” She reached her other hand toward Victor. “The both of you. And have dinner.”
“No.” Victor sneered the word, and he stepped back to stand by Persephone’s side. “We must meet my sister at the hotel.”
Her father laughed. “She can come too, of course. We won’t take no for answer, your grace.” His voice boomed down the street in both directions.
Victor raised a brow oh-so slowly. “No.” He slipped his arm through Persephone’s and pulled her down the street. When they were far enough away from her parents, he said, “They’re lovely.”
“You were rude.”
“And I’d be rude again.”
“They’ve done nothing to you.”
They turned a corner, and Victor swung on her, grasping her upper arms and pressing her against a brick wall of the nearest building. “I don’t fucking care what they do to me.” His hands were strong but gentle, and his eyes were full of fire. “You’ve been living in a death trap for years and look at them! They have more money than I’d know what to do with. They abandoned you.”
She looked away from him, down the street. “They told me not to marry him, told me what would happen if I did.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do they know he has died?”
She nodded. “I sent a letter.”
“And?” His fingertips dug into her flesh for half a breath before he loosened them.
