Page 33 of If the Duke Dares
Persephone went about collecting the few items she had. Nearly all of them, she realized, were things he’d given her, including the bedclothes, which the duke was pulling from the bed. It was a strange sight to see a man of his station performing such a mundane task. She wouldn’t have thought a duke or a rogue would do such a thing. But then Wellesbourne continued to surprise her.
He also met her expectations by exhibiting a strong interest in a woman he’d just met.
The man was a conundrum, and not one she needed to solve. She only had to get through tonight and make a decision about her future tomorrow, preferably after receiving a letter from his mother about her parents.
This was all their fault. If Persephone hadn’t felt as though she had to flee their household, she never would have found herself in these circumstances. And that was her answer—she could no longer trust or rely on them. She would need to forge her own path, which likely meant a future as a paid companion or a governess.
She could not return to Radstock Hall. The realization was both terrifying and oddly liberating. But mostly terrifying.
“Miss Barclay?”
Blinking, Persephone realized she’d been standing clutching her things as she stared off into nothing while her mind churned. “Yes, sorry, I’m ready.”
Wellesbourne moved to the door and held it for her. She stepped out into the corridor, then stopped short before she put her foot in a puddle of sick. “Looks like he did indeed retch,” she said.
“Charming.” Wellesbourne’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “This way.” He walked around the mess and led her to the opposite end of the corridor. His room had a key, which he fished from his pocket and inserted into the lock.
“A locking door. How lavish.”
He looked back at her and waggled his dark brows. “Wait until you see inside.” He held the door.
“I can hardly wait to see your wobbling dresser with the sticking drawers.” She moved past him into the chamber. The space was more than twice the size of hers, as was the bed. And there were four windows since the room was set into the corner. Still, it was as shabby and dull as her chamber, only with a working lock.
Persephone was shocked that he would stay here, even to look after her. “You can’t have stayed anywhere like this before.” She set her things on the dresser beside a chipped basin and a jug.
“No, I haven’t.” He’d closed the door and now locked it before depositing the bedding he carried on the table. “Have you?”
“No,” she admitted, hoping she would never have to again.
“It’s not so bad. I would lodge in the gutter if that’s what I needed to do to keep you safe.”
Persephone whipped her attention to him. Had he just stated he would follow her into a gutter? “I’m sure that’s not a line you’ve used in your past flirtations,” she said with a half smile.
He grinned. “I can say with confidence that it has never entered a conversation.”
She looked about, wondering which chair would be his bed. There were two situated near the hearth. Faded red fabric covered the cushions, and one featured an oval-shaped discoloration. If he used them both, stretching his legs from one to the other, it might work. They could add the two wooden chairs from the round dining table near the window. That would give him a bed-like support. But it would be woefully uncomfortable. Though, he said it couldn’t be as bad as the bed. What was worse, lumps or a hard surface beneath one’s backside?
Now she was thinking of his backside, which she’d glimpsed through the tails of his superfine coat on occasion and tried fervently to ignore. His clothing was impeccably fitted, covering the contour of his well-formed body to perfection. She reasoned it was acceptable, if not necessary, for her to ogle him the way he ogled women.
“I must apologize again,” he said, cutting through the silence with an impassioned tone.
Persephone pivoted to face him. He was staring at her intently, his brow still creased.
“I never should have allowed myself to be distracted downstairs. You needed my protection.”
“Since I didn’t particularly want it and was, admittedly, trying to keep you from seeing me, you mustn’t blame yourself.” It was difficult enough to deal with his insistence on keeping her safe; she did not want to deal with him feeling guilty too. She quickly changed the subject. “If we push the four chairs together, we may be able to form a passable bed. It won’t be lumpy at least.”
He glanced toward the chairs near the hearth before refocusing on her. “Was that humor?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps.” Moving her attention to the bed, she asked, “Should we replace your bedding with mine?” She’d no doubt hers would fit the larger bed as it had been voluminous on the narrower one back in her chamber.
A shudder tripped through her as the memory of the man pushing her onto the bed flashed in her mind. She’d been eating her dinner when she’d heard him outside her door. Fear had gripped her, the food she’d just managed to swallow roiling in her stomach. Praying the lock would hold, she’d risen on unsteady feet and looked about for a weapon before recalling the knife on her tray. However, before she could grab it, the ruffian had burst through the door, slamming it closed before seizing her with his meaty hand and throwing her to the bed.
Ice had formed in Persephone’s veins as she’d realized what was about to happen. She’d tried to make a noise, and perhaps she had, but she’d felt as if she were frozen.
Then Wellesbourne had stormed in and saved her. He’d done precisely what he said he would do—keep her safe.
She couldn’t very well continue to dislike him now, could she? Which didn’t mean she had to welcome his advances, not that he was offering them anymore. They could, mayhap, be friends, as he’d suggested.
