by Julia Quinn
In retrospect, Daphne Bridgerton was starting to look very good, indeed.
And speaking of Daphne, where the hell was she? He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of her about an hour earlier, surrounded by her rather large and forbidding brothers. (Not that Simon found them individually forbidding, but he’d quickly decided that any man would have to be an imbecile to provoke them as a group.)
But since then she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, he thought she might have been the only unmarried female at the party to whom he hadn’t been introduced.
Simon wasn’t particularly worried about her being bothered by Berbrooke after he’d left them in the hall. He’d delivered a solid punch to the man’s jaw and had no doubt that he’d be out for several minutes. Probably longer, considering the vast quantities of alcohol Berbrooke had consumed earlier in the evening. And even if Daphne had been foolishly tenderhearted when it came to her clumsy suitor, she wasn’t stupid enough to remain in the hallway with him until he woke up.
Simon glanced back over to the corner where the Bridgerton brothers were gathered, looking as if they were having a grand old time. They had been accosted by almost as many young women and old mothers as Simon, but at least there seemed to be some safety in numbers. Simon noticed that the young debutantes didn’t seem to spend half as much time in the Bridgertons’ company as they did in his.
Simon sent an irritated scowl in their direction.
Anthony, who was leaning lazily against a wall, caught the expression and smirked, raising a glass of red wine in his direction. Then he cocked his head slightly, motioning to Simon’s left. Simon turned, just in time to be detained by yet another mother, this one with a trio of daughters, all of whom were dressed in monstrously fussy frocks, replete with tucks and flounces, and of course, heaps and heaps of lace.
He thought of Daphne, with her simple sage green gown. Daphne, with her direct brown eyes and wide smile . . .
“Your grace!” the mother shrilled. “Your grace!”
Simon blinked to clear his vision. The lace-covered family had managed to surround him with such efficiency that he wasn’t even able to shoot a glare in Anthony’s direction.
“Your grace,” the mother repeated, “it is such an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Simon managed a frosty nod. Words were quite beyond him. The family of females had pressed in so close he feared he might suffocate.
“Georgiana Huxley sent us over,” the woman persisted. “She said I simply must introduce my daughters to you.”
Simon didn’t remember who Georgiana Huxley was, but he thought he might like to strangle her.
“Normally I should not be so bold,” the woman went on, “but your dear, dear papa was such a friend of mine.”
Simon stiffened.
“He was truly a marvelous man,” she continued, her voice like nails to Simon’s skull, “so conscious of his duties to the title. He must have been a marvelous father.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Simon bit off.
“Oh!” The woman had to clear her throat several times before managing to say, “I see. Well. My goodness.”
Simon said nothing, hoping an aloof demeanor would prompt her to take her leave. Damn it, where was Anthony? It was bad enough having these women acting as if he were some prize horse to be bred, but to have to stand here and listen to this woman tell him what a good father the old duke had been . . .
Simon couldn’t possibly bear it.
“Your grace! Your grace!”
Simon forced his icy eyes back to the lady in front of him and told himself to be more patient with her. After all, she was probably only complimenting his father because she thought it was what he wanted to hear.
“I merely wanted to remind you,” she said, “that we were introduced several years ago, back when you were still Clyvedon.”
“Yes,” Simon murmured, looking for any break in the barricade of ladies through which he might make his escape.
“These are my daughters,” the woman said, motioning to the three young ladies. Two were pleasant-looking, but the third was still cloaked in baby fat and an orangey gown which did nothing for her complexion. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the evening.
“Aren’t they lovely?” the lady continued. “My pride and joy. And so even-tempered.”
Simon had the queasy feeling that he’d heard the same words once when shopping for a dog.
“Your grace, may I present Prudence, Philipa, and Penelope.”
The girls made their curtsies, not a one of them daring to meet his eye.
“I have another daughter at home,” the lady continued. “Felicity. But she’s a mere ten years of age, so I do not bring her to such events.”
Simon could not imagine why she felt the need to share this information with him, but he just kept his tone carefully bored (this, he’d long since learned, was the best way not to show anger) and prompted, “And you are . . . ? ”
“Oh, beg pardon! I am Mrs. Featherington, of course. My husband passed on three years ago, but he was your papa’s, er, dearest friend.” Her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence, as she remembered Simon’s last reaction to mention of his father.
Simon nodded curtly.
“Prudence is quite accomplished on the pianoforte,” Mrs. Featherington said, with forced brightness.
Simon noted the oldest girl’s pained expression and quickly decided never to attend a musicale chez Featherington.
“And my darling Philipa is an expert watercolorist.”
Philipa beamed.
“And Penelope?” some devil inside Simon forced him to ask.
Mrs. Featherington shot a panicked look at her youngest daughter, who looked quite miserable. Penelope was not terribly attractive, and her somewhat pudgy figure was not improved by her mother’s choice of attire for her. But she seemed to have kind eyes.
“Penelope?” Mrs. Featherington echoed, her voice a touch shrill. “Penelope is . . . ah . . . well, she’s Penelope!” Her mouth wobbled into a patently false grin.
Penelope looked as if she wanted to dive under a rug. Simon decided that if he was forced to dance, he’d ask Penelope.
“Mrs. Featherington,” came a sharp and imperious voice that could only belong to Lady Danbury, “are you pestering the duke?”
Simon wanted to answer in the affirmative, but the memory of Penelope Featherington’s mortified face led him to murmur, “Of course not.”
Lady Danbury raised a brow as she moved her head slowly toward him. “Liar.”
She turned back to Mrs. Featherington, who had gone quite green. Mrs. Featherington said nothing. Lady Danbury said nothing. Mrs. Featherington finally mumbled something about seeing her cousin, grabbed her three daughters, and scurried off.
Simon crossed his arms, but he wasn’t able to keep his face completely free of amusement. “That wasn’t very well done of you,” he said.
“Bah. She’s feathers for brains, and so do her girls, except maybe that unattractive young one.” Lady Danbury shook her head. “If they’d only put her in a different color . . .”
Simon fought a chuckle and lost. “You never did learn to mind your own business, did you?”
“Never. And what fun would that be?” She smiled. Simon could tell she didn’t want to, but she smiled. “And as for you,” she continued. “You are a monstrous guest. One would have thought you’d possess the manners to greet your hostess by now.”
“You were always too well surrounded by your admirers for me to dare even approach.”
“So glib,” she commented.
Simon said nothing, not entirely certain how to interpret her words. He’d always had the suspicion that she knew his secret, but he’d never been quite sure.
“Your friend Bridgerton approaches,” she said.
Simon’s eyes followed the direction of her nod. Anthony ambled over, and was only half a second in their presence before Lady Danbury called him a coward.
Anthony b
linked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You could have come over and saved your friend from the Featherington quartet ages ago.”
“But I was so enjoying his distress.”
“Hmmph.” And without another word (or another grunt) she walked away.
“Strangest old woman,” Anthony said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s that cursed Whistledown woman.”
“You mean the gossip columnist?”
Anthony nodded as he led Simon around a potted plant to the corner where his brothers were waiting. As they walked, Anthony grinned, and said, “I noticed you speaking with a number of very proper young ladies.”
Simon muttered something rather obscene and unflattering under his breath.
But Anthony only laughed. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you, can you?”
“It is galling to admit that you might be right about anything, so please do not ask me to do so.”
Anthony laughed some more. “For that comment I shall start introducing you to the debutantes myself.”
“If you do,” Simon warned, “you shall soon find yourself dying a very slow and painful death.”
Anthony grinned. “Swords or pistols?”
“Oh, poison. Very definitely poison.”
“Ouch.” Anthony stopped his stroll across the ballroom in front of two other Bridgerton men, both clearly marked by their chestnut hair, tall height, and excellent bone structure. Simon noted that one had green eyes and the other brown like Anthony, but other than that, the dim evening light made the three men practically interchangeable.
“You do remember my brothers?” Anthony queried politely. “Benedict and Colin. Benedict I’m sure you recall from Eton. He was the one who dogged our footsteps for three months when he first arrived.”
“Not true!” Benedict said with a laugh.
“I don’t know if you’ve met Colin, actually,” Anthony continued. “He was probably too young to have crossed your path.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Colin said jovially.
Simon noted the rascally glint in the young man’s green eyes and couldn’t help but smile in return.
“Anthony here has said such insulting things about you,” Colin continued, his grin growing quite wicked, “that I know we’re sure to be great friends.”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “I’m certain you can understand why my mother is convinced that Colin will be the first of her children to drive her to insanity.”
Colin said, “I pride myself on it, actually.”
“Mother, thankfully, has had a brief respite from Colin’s tender charms,” Anthony continued. “He is actually just returned from a grand tour of the Continent.”
“Just this evening,” Colin said with a boyish grin. He had a devil-may-care youthful look about him. Simon decided he couldn’t be much older than Daphne.
“I have just returned from travels as well,” Simon said.
“Yes, except yours spanned the globe, I hear,” Colin said. “I should love to hear about them someday.”
Simon nodded politely. “Certainly.”
“Have you met Daphne?” Benedict inquired. “She’s the only Bridgerton in attendance who’s unaccounted for.”
Simon was pondering how best to answer that question when Colin let out a snort, and said, “Oh, Daphne’s accounted for. Miserable, but accounted for.”
Simon followed his gaze across the ballroom, where Daphne was standing next to what had to be her mother, looking, just as Colin had promised, as miserable as could be.
And then it occurred to him—Daphne was one of those dreaded unmarried young ladies being paraded about by her mother. She’d seemed far too sensible and forthright to be such a creature, and yet of course that was what she had to be. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, and as her name was still Bridgerton she was clearly a maiden. And since she had a mother—well, of course she’d be trapped into an endless round of introductions.
She looked every bit as pained by the experience as Simon had been. Somehow that made him feel a good deal better.
“One of us should save her,” Benedict mused.
“Nah,” Colin said, grinning. “Mother’s only had her over there with Macclesfield for ten minutes.”
“Macclesfield?” Simon asked.
“The earl,” Benedict replied. “Castleford’s son.”
“Ten minutes?” Anthony asked. “Poor Macclesfield.”
Simon shot him a curious look.
“Not that Daphne is such a chore,” Anthony quickly added, “but when Mother gets it in her head to, ah . . .”
“Pursue,” Benedict filled in helpfully.
“—a gentleman,” Anthony continued with a nod of thanks toward his brother, “she can be, ah . . .”
“Relentless,” Colin said.
Anthony smiled weakly. “Yes. Exactly.”
Simon looked back over toward the trio in question. Sure enough, Daphne looked miserable, Macclesfield was scanning the room, presumably looking for the nearest exit, and Lady Bridgerton’s eyes held a gleam so ambitious that Simon cringed in sympathy for the young earl.
“We should save Daphne,” Anthony said.
“We really should,” Benedict added.
“And Macclesfield,” Anthony said.
“Oh, certainly,” Benedict added.
But Simon noticed that no one was leaping into action.
“All talk, aren’t you?” Colin chortled.
“I don’t see you marching over there to save her,” Anthony shot back.
“Hell no. But I never said we should. You, on the other hand . . .”
“What the devil is going on?” Simon finally asked.
The three Bridgerton brothers looked at him with identical guilty expressions.
“We should save Daff,” Benedict said.
“We really should,” Anthony added.
“What my brothers are too lily-livered to tell you,” Colin said derisively, “is that they are terrified of my mother.”
“It’s true,” Anthony said with a helpless shrug.
Benedict nodded. “I freely admit it.”
Simon thought he’d never seen a more ludicrous sight. These were the Bridgerton brothers, after all. Tall, handsome, athletic, with every miss in the nation setting her cap after them, and here they were, completely cowed by a mere slip of a woman.
Of course, it was their mother. Simon supposed one had to make allowances for that.
“If I save Daff,” Anthony explained, “Mother might get me into her clutches, and then I’m done for.”
Simon choked on laughter as his mind filled with a vision of Anthony being led around by his mother, moving from unmarried lady to unmarried lady.
“Now you see why I avoid these functions like the plague,” Anthony said grimly. “I’m attacked from both directions. If the debutantes and their mothers don’t find me, my mother makes certain I find them.”
“Say!” Benedict exclaimed. “Why don’t you save her, Hastings?”
Simon took one look at Lady Bridgerton (who at that point had her hand firmly wrapped around Macclesfield’s forearm) and decided he’d rather be branded an eternal coward. “Since we haven’t been introduced, I’m sure it would be most improper,” he improvised.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t,” Anthony returned. “You’re a duke.”
“So?”
“So?” Anthony echoed. “Mother would forgive any impropriety if it meant gaining an audience for Daphne with a duke.”
“Now look here,” Simon said hotly, “I’m not some sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of your mother.”
“You have spent a lot of time in Africa, haven’t you?” Colin quipped.
Simon ignored him. “Besides, your sister said—”
All three Bridgerton heads swung around in his direction. Simon immediately realized he’d blundered. Badly.
“You’ve met Daphne?” Anthony queried, his voice just a touch too polite for Simon’s comfort.
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Before Simon could even reply, Benedict leaned in ever-so-slightly closer, and asked, “Why didn’t you mention this?”
“Yes,” Colin said, his mouth utterly serious for the first time that evening. “Why?”
Simon glanced from brother to brother and it became perfectly clear why Daphne must still be unmarried. This belligerent trio would scare off all but the most determined—or stupid—of suitors.
Which would probably explain Nigel Berbrooke.
“Actually,” Simon said, “I bumped into her in the hall as I was making my way into the ballroom. It was”—he glanced rather pointedly at the Bridgertons—“rather obvious that she was a member of your family, so I introduced myself.”
Anthony turned to Benedict. “Must have been when she was fleeing Berbrooke.”
Benedict turned to Colin. “What did happen to Berbrooke? Do you know?”
Colin shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest. Probably left to nurse his broken heart.”
Or broken head, Simon thought acerbically.
“Well, that explains everything, I’m sure,” Anthony said, losing his overbearing big-brother expression and looking once again like a fellow rake and best friend.
“Except,” Benedict said suspiciously, “why he didn’t mention it.”
“Because I didn’t have the chance,” Simon bit off, about ready to throw his arms up in exasperation. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Anthony, you have a ridiculous number of siblings, and it takes a ridiculous amount of time to be introduced to all of them.”
“There are only two of us present,” Colin pointed out.
“I’m going home,” Simon announced. “The three of you are mad.”
Benedict, who had seemed to be the most protective of the brothers, suddenly grinned. “You don’t have a sister, do you?”
“No, thank God.”
“If you ever have a daughter, you’ll understand.”
Simon was rather certain he would never have a daughter, but he kept his mouth shut.
“It can be a trial,” Anthony said.
“Although Daff is better than most,” Benedict put in. “She doesn’t have that many suitors, actually.”
