The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,91

return.”

Son of a bitch.

For that transgression alone, the Duke of Glastonbury was a dead man.

And Lucas was going to enjoy playing the part of the executioner.

Instinctively wanting to comfort Persephone as he’d once comforted his beloved chestnut mare, he started towards her, only to pause mid-step when he saw her stiffen. The duchess might have needed compassion more than any other living soul he’d ever met, but she didn’t want it. At least not from him. And who was he to blame her? Glastonbury was the villain of this tale, but Lucas possessed enough self-awareness to know he certainly wasn’t the hero. He might have kidnapped Persephone to keep her safe, but he’d still bloody well kidnapped her.

She had every right to be frightened of him, which only made him more determined to win her trust. He had told her he would protect her, and he meant it. There weren’t many codes he adhered to. Particularly where morality was involved. But when he gave his word, he kept it.

No matter what.

“I’m sorry you haven’t been treated kindly, love. The last thing I want to do is add to your discomfort. Keeping you here…” He gestured around the bedchamber. “It’s not intended as a punishment.”

Her lips thinned. “Then why does it look like a prison?”

The room was a tad stark, Lucas did have to admit. When he’d won the house in a game of cards nearly four years ago, he had intended to sell it for a tidy profit. Then he had reconsidered the benefit of having a residence no one knew about in a part of London no one would ever think to search for him.

His decision had come in handy whenever he’d found himself in need of a place to go underground for a few days, sometimes as long as a week or two. But he was a bachelor with no taste for fashion or decoration. Thus the house had gone largely unfurnished save a table for drinking, a sofa for sleeping, and this bedchamber which, until yesterday, had been his own.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll bring you a catalogue. You can select whatever furnishings you’d like. Drapes, rugs, paintings, chairs. Anything that catches your eye. It’s high time I liven the place up a bit, and I trust your judgment more than my own when it comes to wall hangings and the like.”

She looked at him strangely. “You want me to buy furniture?”

“I suppose I could steal it,” he frowned. “But an armoire might be a little hard to sneak down a staircase.”

“That’s not what I–never mind.” She shook her head. “I think you’ve stolen quite enough, don’t you? Bring me the catalogue, and I’ll go through it. It will give me something to do.”

“I’ll get one now. Oh, and love?” He paused in the doorway, a wolfish grin toying with the edges of his mouth when her slender brows drew together in irritation. It was obvious she did not care for the romantic endearment, which was why he continued to use it. He’d rather see Persephone flustered than forlorn.

“Yes?” she said through clenched teeth.

“My name is Lucas.” With a wink, he turned and sauntered out of the room, taking care to lock the door behind him.

Lucas.

It suited him, Percy decided.

At least far better than the Devil of Duncraven did.

Although he was very devilish.

His kiss being a prime example of his demonical tendencies.

A line marred her temple as she swept her thumb across the seam of her lips. Lips that were still tingling from their unexpected moment of passion.

She’d never had an unexpected moment of passion before.

Or an expected one either, now that she knew what a kiss was supposed to feel like.

It felt…it felt as if she’d touched the sun. All fire and flame and long licks of heat.

When Andrew had kissed her, it had always been cold and barren.

“Frigid,” he’d called her on their wedding night when she’d been shy and nervous and hopelessly awkward. Because he was her husband, and a duke besides, she had believed him. And when he’d finished rutting on top of her and rolled off to take a piss in the wash basin beside the bed, leaving her to clean up the blood on the sheets, she’d believed that was lovemaking. All hard grunts and painful thrusts and misery. She’d quickly come to hate Andrew’s evening visits and was relieved when they began to occur with less and less frequency.

Within a year, he’d stopped entering her bedchamber all together, and she