Page 10 of Til Death Duke Us Part
“You are, and let me tell you why.”
“Because I don’t want to lose my hand?”
“I’m not entirely sure a dead hand would work, so you’re safe there.”
“Get a different alchemist.”
“Why would I do that. You already have all my secrets. If I release you into the streets and find someone else, that will be two people who know the Duke of Morington is robbing graves.” He recoiled. From himself. “It’s humiliating.”
“I have to work. I cannot galivant across the country with you.”
“I’ll pay you.”
In the growing morning light, as they stepped carefully past fading tombstones, he looked… resplendent. His clothes (those gloves) were as pristine as if he’d just stepped out of a coach and into a ballroom. Only his face and hair were mussed, dirtied, scruffy. She’d felt the truth of his gloveless hands beneath the glamour earlier. She wondered…
She whipped in front of him and pressed her hands against his chest. His very muscular chest. His very muscular clothed chest.
He stopped as soon as she touched him, an eyebrow raised. “Yes?”
“Just making sure you’re wearing clothes beneath that glamour.”
“I’ve known a man or two to go about naked beneath theirs. I find it rather gauche. And waltzing with your cock out sounds uncomfortable.”
“And think of the accidental spills. Soup. Tea.”
He winced. “Precisely. Now”—he folded her arm within his again and tugged her past a husband and wife newly buried—“as I was saying, I’ll pay you well.”
She snorted. “You have no money. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
“True. But I will have money. And once I have it, a portion of it is yours. If you help me.”
It was wrong. Horribly, sinfully, damned to hell wrong to take from the dead. A betrayal of her people, of everything and everyone, but… The duke had it right. She didn’t want to dig graves the rest of her life. She wasn’t pretty enough to be a mistress, though she could probably pull in a few coins from a street corner. But that way lay painful, diseased death. No doubt about that. Not even the infamous Lady Guinevere’s potions could cure the pox. Persephone had tried working for the potion mistress once, but she’d gotten the measurements wrong so many times, she’d shown herself out the front door after her first week.
It had been lovely, though. The smiling faces of the other women, the scents of the potions brewing, the bright yellow gowns and starched aprons they all wore. She’d felt happy for the first time since her husband’s death.
But she didn’t deserve happiness. And she was terrible at cooking. So she’d quit.
She deserved dirt and death. Even Percy would say that. Especially Percy would say that.
“Which way do you live?”
They were standing at the street, the wide iron gates that led into the cemetery at their backs. Horses and carriages lumbered down the street from both directions, looking as sleepy as she felt. A low fog swallowed feet and wheels, and sunlight was breaking through it.
Persephone swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded right. “This way.”
“That way?” The duke’s lip curled. “Farther east?”
“Yes.”
He tugged at his cravat. “Are we likely to be stabbed? Shot? Robbed?”
She rolled her eyes. “You do not have to go. I do not want you to go, you cowardly, insulting old duke. So release me, and I’ll never see you again.”
“No, no. I’m coming. I’m sure it’s safe.”
“It’s not, but I live there, so…” She shrugged.
With each step they took the polish of the city crumbled away with the stones beneath their feet. The streets grew narrower and more crowded, and?—
