He missed the sound of her laughter.
He missed the smell of her perfume.
He missed the shape of her smile.
With Persephone gone, the world around him was dark and gray and barren. There was no joy to be found, even when he buried himself in his work. Because every job he took only served to remind him of her. And how empty his life was without her sunshine to light the way.
His arms ached to hold her. His mouth ached to taste her. And his heart…
His heart was in bloody shreds at his feet.
The only thing that kept him going, the only thing that kept him from drowning in bottles of gin instead of the two glasses he allotted himself each night, was the knowledge that she was happy. She was safe. She was where she belonged.
Lucas frowned when he heard a knock at the door. Bessie was long gone, the maids with her, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Especially not here, at his private residence.
Picking up the pistol that was never far out of reach, he held the weapon in one hand and his drink in the other as he padded silently into the foyer. There was another knock, louder and more impatient than the first. Eyes narrowing, he drew back the hammer on the pistol with a deliberate click.
“Who is it?” he growled.
“Open the damn door and find out,” a familiar voice replied.
He slowly lowered his gun. “What the hell are you doing here, Artemis?”
“I’ve brought you a present.”
“Couldn’t it wait until morning?”
“You’re up, aren’t you?”
“Sod off.” He started to walk away. Artemis Bishop was just another reminder of Persephone. A reminder he didn’t want, or need. But before he had made it to the foot of the stairs, Artemis picked the lock and flung the door open, allowing a gust of wind and a sheet of rain into the foyer. Enraged at her audacity, he spun around, prepared to shoot her out of pure spite…but the sight that awaited him stopped him cold.
No.
It couldn’t be.
“Persephone?” he said, his voice little more than a croak.
Artemis glanced between them, her smile smug. “My work here is done. Enjoy yourselves. And Percy, don’t forget my fifty pounds.” The thief-taker slipped away into the night, leaving Lucas staring at Persephone as if she were an apparition.
Part of him believed she was.
He was dreaming, he decided as he gazed at her standing there in the doorway, her hair a wet tangle around her pale, beautiful face. Except no dream had ever been as sweet as this. Then she shivered, and that small, unconscious tremble drove him into action.
Whipping off his jacket, he wrapped it around her shoulders before he scooped her into his arms and carried her straight into the parlor. Firelight cloaked them in a cozy orange glow as he sat directly on the floor, wanting to bring her as close to the warmth as possible.
“I…” Lucas’s words locked in his throat. Gone was the devilish rogue who always had a wry quip, no matter the situation. He had been replaced by a man who held the woman he loved, and he’d never felt more vulnerable. Or more terrified. Having let go of Persephone once, he didn’t know if he could do it again. Except he also knew he couldn’t keep her, which was the real reason he’d been avoiding her. Not for her happiness and safety.
But for his own.
Saying goodbye to her had almost killed him.
If he had to do it again…if he had to do it again, he might as well be dead.
“What are you doing here, Persephone?” He stroked her hair. Her back. Her thigh. Everywhere and anywhere he could reach. She sat cradled on his lap, her head resting on his heart and her knees drawn to her chest.
“I kept trying to find my way back.” Clinging to his shirt, she burrowed into him. “I searched all of London. You just…disappeared.”
“We both agreed–”
“No,” she said fiercely. “You decided for us. I never wanted to leave. So, I went to Seven Dials to find Art and–”
“YOU DID WHAT?” he roared. As fear the likes of which he’d never experienced flooded through him, Lucas leapt to his feet and pulled Persephone to hers. His hands clasped her shoulders, and he resisted–barely–giving her a shake. “Are you out of your bloody mind? There’s no worse or more dangerous place in this entire damned city!”
She angled her chin. “I survived. I’m not helpless.”
“No one said you were helpless. Stupid, perhaps. But not helpless.” As he imagined all the things that could have happened to her, Lucas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll never go there again.”
“I’ll promise, on one condition.”
“Which is?” he asked warily, opening his eyes to discover her jabbing a finger at him.
How different she was now from the meek, frightened rabbit she’d been all those weeks ago on the night they first met. Or maybe…maybe she wasn’t so different after all.
Her spirit had always been there. He’d seen it even then. Bruised and battered, but not broken. Even under the harshest of conditions, Persephone had never allowed herself to break. Was it any wonder he was in love with her?
He’d fallen for her frailty, and her strength. Her timidity, and her stubbornness. She was all he could have ever asked for…and nothing he deserved.
Raising her hands, Persephone carefully placed them on either side of his face, her thumbs resting in the corners of his mouth. Her violet eyes were luminous. Her ivory skin, bathed in firelight. Her lips a solemn line he longed to kiss. “I will give you my promise, if you give me a promise in return. Do not let me go, Lucas. Ever again.”
“Don’t ask that of me,” he said raggedly. “Anything else, and it’s yours. The moon, I’ll find a way to get it. The stars, they’re yours. But not that. Please, Persephone. Not that.”
“Why?” Her dark brows drew together. “Ever since I was a young girl, all I wanted was to love someone. And to be loved in return. I’ve found that with you. I think…I think it was always meant to be you.”
His jaw clenched beneath her palm. “It’s not that simple.”
“Because you’re a thief and I’m a lady?” She smiled when he scowled. “A person’s title does define their character. I should understand that better than anyone. I realize I am still married to Glastonbury. Maybe one day I’ll find a way to change that, but–”
“I don’t care if you’re married to the bloody king of England. You’re mine.”
Damn it.
He hadn’t meant to say that.
He shouldn’t have said that.
But the idea of some part of her still being connected to that monster…
“I’ll kill him, if you ask it of me,” he growled. “You needn’t even say the words. A nod, and I’ll do it. A blink, even. Exhale, and it will be done.”
“The only things I’m asking is that you love me, and allow me to love you. Would it be so hard?” she asked, and Lucas’s heart ached when he detected the sliver of hurt in her tone. “Am I so ruined that you cannot bring yourself to care for me? Is that it?”
“Persephone.” On a tortured groan, he raked his fingers through his hair. “You’re not the one who is ruined. My soul…it may be beyond salvation. And you shouldn’t be damned along with me. You need someone who is good, and righteous, and moral. Not an orphan who was born in the wrong section of London.”
“Are you done?” she asked, peering pointedly at him from beneath her lashes.
Teeth clenched, Lucas gave a curt nod.
“Excellent because I don’t care where you were born. Or how righteous you are.” She put her hands on her hips. “I fell in love with the Devil of Duncraven. That’s who I want. That is who I will always want.”
He gazed down at her. His fierce little love. His beautiful fairy queen. His sweet Persephone.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if I ever will.”
“Then earn me.” She stepped up to him. Looped her arms around hi
s neck. “One kiss at a time.”
They didn’t speak for a long while after that.
Lucas devoured her lips with the hunger of a man starved, and her passion equaled his own. Somehow they found themselves sprawled in front of the fire, their bodies twined together, impossible to tell where she ended, and he began.
As it should have been. As it forever would be.
“I love you.” He stroked the side of her face, the edge of his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone where a shiny ebony curl rested. Brushing it behind her ear, he kissed her again before letting his head fall back onto the cushion he’d wrested off a chair in the midst of their desire. “My single regret is that I cannot ask you to be my wife.”
“I’ve been a lady, and a duchess, and a wife. None of them suited me.” On a contended sigh, Persephone nestled into the crook of his shoulder. “I should quite like to think I’d make a wonderful mistress.”
“And a naughty one.” His roguish grin having returned full force, Lucas grazed his hand teasingly along her ribcage. Then his smile abruptly faded. “You are everything I never knew to ask for and more than I could have ever dared dream for. Our life is never going to be conventional. I’m not a lord of the manor, or even a gentleman. Are you certain this is what you want?”
“You’re right.” Dark curls spilled across the pillow as she sat up on her elbow. “You’re not a lord, and you most certainly are not a gentleman. But…” Her eyes taking on a mischievous gleam, she pressed the tip of her finger to the middle of his chest and began to trail it downwards in a lazy, wandering path that had nearly had him jumping out of his trousers. “You are a devil. You’re my devil. And I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
He kissed her again. Slowly. Gently. Savoring each moment as if it were their last.
Except it wasn’t.
It was just their beginning.
Because this time, he was never letting her go.
Epilogue
Lucas and Percy’s budding courtship was not without its setbacks.
After Helena had learned where her friend had snuck off to in the middle of the night, she’d been furious. Almost as furious as Stephen had been when he learned that Helena had gone to Seven Dials.
Collectively, the Secret Wallflower Society had vowed to their men and to themselves that they would never venture to that part of London again.
All three of them had crossed their fingers behind their backs.
The second obstacle Lucas and Percy encountered was where to live. Percy wanted to remain with Helena, at least until the countess was married, whereas Lucas wanted her to move in with him as quickly as possible.
“We’ve already lived together,” he’d argued. “What’s the difference?”
“The difference,” she’d countered, “is that you kidnapped me. Now you’re courting me.”
He couldn’t exactly argue with her logic, and they’d agreed to wait three months (“Not a bloody day longer,” Lucas had growled) before Percy packed up her belongings and started her new life with her new lover in their newly furnished home.
Her lover.
How deliciously wicked it sounded.
Lucas was determined to find a way for them to marry, but Percy was content to be a mistress. It allowed her the freedom she’d never had as a duchess, and while Society was positively beside itself, her friends were thrilled for her.
And their opinion was the only one that truly mattered.
On a cool summer morning, she found herself at Lucas’s door. They were going for a ride through the park before it became too crowded, and then joining Helena and Stephen, and Calliope and Leo, for an afternoon showing at the theater.
If there was a single thing Percy had been nervous about, it was how Stephen and Leo, both lords, would welcome a thief into their midst. She needn’t have worried. Sometimes she thought they liked Lucas more than she did, and the couples had been immensely enjoying each other’s company.
It also helped that Lucas had scaled back his criminal activity. Not wanting to endanger Percy in any way, he’d officially made all of his business dealings legitimate. He still helped clients find things they’d lost, but now he wasn’t the one stealing them in the first place.
Percy was inordinately proud of him, although she liked that he had retained all of the devilish qualities that had made her fall in love with him.
He was, and forever would be, her Devil of Duncraven.
Even if he wasn’t answering the door.
Frowning, she knocked again, and when there was still no response, she let herself in.
“Hello?” she called, turning in a circle in the foyer. “Lucas? Bessie? Anyone home?”
“There ye are, sweetheart!” Emerging from the kitchen with a rag slung over her shoulder and a brilliant smile wreathing her face, Bessie wrapped Percy in a long hug before she gave her an enthusiastic push towards the stairs. “Lucas ‘as been waitin’ for ye, he has. Up with ye, then. He’s in the attic.”
“The attic?” Percy’s brow creased. “What’s he doing in the attic?”
Bessie rolled her eyes. “Go an’ find out, silly!”
Percy climbed to the third floor. She’d only been on this level once before when she’d been searching for linens, and had quickly left after choking on all the dust. It really was a lovely space, with old beams, hardwood floors, and a large captain’s window that overlooked the Thames, but it desperately needed a good cleaning.
“Lucas?” she said cautiously as she pushed open the door. “Are you in here?”
“Wait a moment,” he called back. “I’m almost done.”
“Done with what? What are you–oh, Lucas,” she gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as the door swung the rest of the way open. Tears spray to her eyes. “What have you done?”
“I thought I told you to wait,” he scolded gently as he turned to face her. “Do you like it?”
Did she like it?
“I love it.” Unable to believe her eyes, Percy slowly walked up the easel Lucas had built her. There was a blank canvas resting on the lip of it, and a bookshelf filled with every brush and chalk and paint imaginable sitting beside it.
The dust was gone. The floors gleamed. The air smelled of beeswax.
And dreams come true.
Gathering her in his arms, Lucas kissed the top of her head as she continued to stare, awestruck, at what he’d made for her.
“I hoped you would,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but I wanted it to be perfect.”
“It is perfect. You’re perfect. All right, maybe not,” she said with a watery laugh when she glanced at him over her shoulder and saw the face he made. “I suppose devils aren’t supposed to be perfect. But you’re close. You’re very, very close.” She paused. “What gave you such an idea? I’ve never mentioned my painting before.”
“It’s what you were doing, the night I first saw you. You were so happy.” His grip tightened. “I want you to be that happy, Persephone. For the rest of your life.”
“I am.” She turned in his arms. Gazed into his eyes. “I will be.”
And she was.
Artemis couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
As a woman who relied on her instincts for survival, she knew better than to ignore the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck when they lifted straight up. Or her belly when it tightened with uneasiness. Or the gooseflesh that broke out on her arms when danger was near.
The feeling had persisted for the better part of four days. She’d tried to shake it off, but her paranoia wouldn’t leave her. Nor could she discover what–or who–was causing it.
Some might have gone underground until the perceived threat had passed, but not Artemis. Three years ago, she’d made the decision to live her life on her terms, and she wasn’t about to back down now. Not after all the sacrifices she’d made. The tears she’d cried. The blood she’d spilled.
If there was a person fooli
sh enough to challenge her, then she welcomed the fight. Let them come. She–and her knives–were ready.
Sauntering into the Fox and Bull to begin her shift behind the bar (she’d agreed to fill in for Smithy, who was nursing a broken arm after he’d broken up a brawl between a pair of drunken sailors the night before), she left the door open in the hopes the light breeze would carry out the stench of spilled ale and piss.
Picking up a rag from behind the bar, she dunked it in a bucket of gray water and began to wipe down the tables, humming a ditty under her breath as she worked. She enjoyed these moments when it was only her, the empty tavern, and the music inside her head. Soon enough, the regulars would begin spilling in, demanding their ale and their gin, but for now, all was quiet and calm, a rare thing to be found in the midst of London’s most crowded rookery.
“We’re not open yet,” she called over her shoulder when she heard the creak of a floorboard. “I can give you a tankard to go, but if you want a seat, you’ll have to come back at noon.”
“I did not come here for a tankard.”
Artemis froze.
She knew that voice.
That deep, cultured voice.
Casually slapping the wet rag over her shoulder, she slipped a hand behind her back as she turned towards the door. Before the man standing silhouetted in front of it could blink, or even so much as speak, she whipped out one of her blades and sent it flying through the air.
It landed, with a heavy thunk, in the wood two inches from his chiseled countenance.
“You missed,” the Duke of Warwick said mildly as he stepped into the tavern.
Swallowing hard, Artemis reached for another knife. “I didn’t miss. That was a warning. Now turn on your heel, and get the hell out.”
The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3) Page 29