by Julia Quinn
He inclined his head graciously. “Merely pondering your words.”
“And did they meet with your approval?”
“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I conversed with someone with such obvious good sense.” He added in a slow voice, “It’s good to know what you want out of life.”
“Do you know what you want?”
Ah, how to answer that. There were some things he knew he could not say. But it was so easy to talk to this girl. Something about her put his mind at ease, even as his body tingled with desire. By all rights they should not have been having such a frank conversation so soon into an acquaintance, but somehow it just felt natural.
Finally, he just said, “I made some decisions when I was younger. I try to live my life according to those vows.”
She looked ravenously curious, but good manners prevented her from questioning him further. “My goodness,” she said with a slightly forced smile, “we’ve grown serious. And here I thought all we meant to debate was whose evening was less pleasant.”
They were both trapped, Simon realized. Trapped by their society’s conventions and expectations.
And that’s when an idea popped into his mind. A strange, wild, and appallingly wonderful idea. It was probably also a dangerous idea, since it would put him in her company for long periods of time, which would certainly leave him in a perpetual state of unfulfilled desire, but Simon valued his self-control above all else, and he was certain he could control his baser urges.
“Wouldn’t you like a respite?” he asked suddenly.
“A respite?” she echoed bemusedly. Even as they twirled across the floor, she looked from side to side. “From this?”
“Not precisely. This, you’d still have to endure. What I envision is more of a respite from your mother.”
Daphne choked on her surprise. “You’re going to remove my mother from the social whirl? Doesn’t that seem a touch extreme?”
“I’m not talking about removing your mother. Rather, I want to remove you.”
Daphne tripped over her feet, and then, just as soon as she’d regained her balance, she tripped over his. “I beg your pardon?”
“I had hoped to ignore London society altogether,” he explained, “but I’m finding that may prove to be impossible.”
“Because you’ve suddenly developed a taste for ratafia and weak lemonade?” she quipped.
“No,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm, “because I’ve discovered that half of my university friends married in my absence, and their wives seem to be obsessed with throwing the perfect party—”
“And you’ve been invited?”
He nodded grimly.
Daphne leaned in close, as if she were about to tell him a grave secret. “You’re a duke,” she whispered. “You can say no.”
She watched with fascination as his jaw tightened. “These men,” he said, “their husbands—they are my friends.”
Daphne felt her lips moving into an unbidden grin. “And you don’t want to hurt their wives’ feelings.”
Simon scowled, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said mischievously. “You might just be a nice person after all.”
“I’m hardly nice,” he scoffed.
“Perhaps, but you’re hardly cruel, either.”
The music drew to a close, and Simon took her arm and guided her to the perimeter of the ballroom. Their dance had deposited them on the opposite side of the room from Daphne’s family, so they had time to continue their conversation as they walked slowly back to the Bridgertons.
“What I was trying to say,” he said, “before you so skillfully diverted me, was that it appears I must attend a certain number of London events.”
“Hardly a fate worse than death.”
He ignored her editorial. “You, I gather, must attend them as well.”
She gave him a single regal nod.
“Perhaps there is a way that I might be spared the attentions of the Featheringtons and the like, and at the same time, you might be spared the matchmaking efforts of your mother.”
She looked at him intently. “Go on.”
“We”—he leaned forward, his eyes mesmerizing hers—“will form an attachment.”
Daphne said nothing. Absolutely nothing. She just stared at him as if she were trying to decide if he were the rudest man on the face of the earth or simply mad in the head.
“Not a true attachment,” Simon said impatiently. “Good God, what sort of man do you think I am?”
“Well, I was warned about your reputation,” she pointed out. “And you yourself tried to terrify me with your rakish ways earlier this evening.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Of course you did.” She patted his arm. “But I forgive you. I’m sure you couldn’t help it.”
Simon gave her a startled look. “I don’t believe I have ever been condescended to by a woman before.”
She shrugged. “It was probably past time.”
“Do you know, I’d thought that you were unmarried because your brothers had scared off all your suitors, but now I wonder if you did it all on your own.”
Much to his surprise, she just laughed. “No,” she said, “I’m unmarried because everyone sees me as a friend. No one ever has any romantic interest in me.” She grimaced. “Except Nigel.”
Simon pondered her words for a few moments, then realized that his plan could work to her benefit even more than he’d originally imagined. “Listen,” he said, “and listen quickly because we’re almost back to your family, and Anthony looks as if he’s about to bolt in our direction any minute now.”
They both glanced quickly to the right. Anthony was still trapped in conversation with the Featheringtons. He did not look happy.
“Here is my plan,” Simon continued, his voice low and intense. “We shall pretend to have developed a tendre for each other. I won’t have quite so many debutantes thrown in my direction because it will be perceived that I am no longer available.”
“No it won’t,” Daphne replied. “They won’t believe you’re unavailable until you’re standing up before the bishop, taking your vows.”
The very thought made his stomach churn. “Nonsense,” he said. “It may take a bit of time, but I’m sure I will eventually be able to convince society that I am not anyone’s candidate for marriage.”
“Except mine,” Daphne pointed out.
“Except yours,” he agreed, “but we will know that isn’t true.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Frankly, I do not believe that this will work, but if you’re convinced . . .”
“I am.”
“Well, then, what do I gain?”
“For one thing, your mother will stop dragging you from man to man if she thinks you have secured my interest.”
“Rather conceited of you,” Daphne mused, “but true.”
Simon ignored her gibe. “Secondly,” he continued, “men are always more interested in a woman if they think other men are interested.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, quite simply, and pardon my conceit”—he shot her a sardonic look to show that he hadn’t missed her earlier sarcasm—“but if all the world thinks I intend to make you my duchess, all of those men who see you as nothing more than an affable friend will begin to view you in a new light.”
Her lips pursed. “Meaning that once you throw me over, I shall have hordes of suitors at my beck and call?”
“Oh, I shall allow you to be the one to cry off,” he said gallantly.
He noticed she didn’t bother to thank him.
“I still think I’m gaining much more from this arrangement than you,” she said.
He squeezed her arm slightly. “Then you’ll do it?”
Daphne looked at Mrs. Featherington, who looked like a bird of prey, and then at her brother, who looked as if he had swallowed a chicken bone. She’d seen those expressions dozens of times before—except on the f
aces of her own mother and some hapless potential suitor.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
“What do you suppose is taking them so long?”
Violet Bridgerton tugged on her eldest son’s sleeve, unable to take her eyes off of her daughter—who appeared to have thoroughly captured the attention of the Duke of Hastings—only one week in London and already the catch of the season.
“I don’t know,” Anthony replied, looking gratefully at the backs of the Featheringtons as they moved on to their next victim, “but it feels as if it’s been hours.”
“Do you think he likes her?” Violet asked excitedly. “Do you think our Daphne truly has a chance to be a duchess?”
Anthony’s eyes filled with a mixture of impatience and disbelief. “Mother, you told Daphne she wasn’t even to be seen with him, and now you’re thinking of marriage?”
“I spoke prematurely,” Violet said with a blithe wave of her hand. “Clearly he is a man of great refinement and taste. And how, may I ask, do you know what I said to Daphne?”
“Daff told me, of course,” Anthony lied.
“Hmmph. Well, I am certain that Portia Featherington won’t be forgetting this evening anytime soon.”
Anthony’s eyes widened. “Are you trying to marry Daphne off so that she might be happy as a wife and a mother, or are you just trying to beat Mrs. Featherington to the altar?”
“The former, of course,” Violet replied in a huff, “and I am offended you would even imply otherwise.” Her eyes strayed off of Daphne and the duke for just long enough to locate Portia Featherington and her daughters. “But I certainly shan’t mind seeing the look on her face when she realizes that Daphne will make the season’s greatest match.”
“Mother, you are hopeless.”
“Certainly not. Shameless, perhaps, but never hopeless.”
Anthony just shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
“It’s impolite to mumble,” Violet said, mostly just to annoy him. Then she spotted Daphne and the duke. “Ah, here they come. Anthony, behave yourself. Daphne! Your grace!” She paused as the couple made their way to her side. “I trust you enjoyed your dance.”
“Very much,” Simon murmured. “Your daughter is as graceful as she is lovely.”
Anthony let out a snort.
Simon ignored him. “I hope we may have the pleasure of dancing together again very soon.”
Violet positively glowed. “Oh, I’m sure Daphne would adore that.” When Daphne didn’t answer with all possible haste, she added, quite pointedly, “Wouldn’t you, Daphne?”
“Of course,” Daphne said demurely.
“I’m certain your mother would never be so lax as to allow me a second waltz,” Simon said, looking every inch the debonair duke, “but I do hope she will permit us to take a stroll around the ballroom.”
“You just took a stroll around the ballroom,” Anthony pointed out.
Simon ignored him again. He said to Violet, “We shall, of course, remain in your sight at all times.”
The lavender silk fan in Violet’s hand began to flutter rapidly. “I should be delighted. I mean, Daphne should be delighted. Shouldn’t you, Daphne?”
Daphne was all innocence. “Oh, I should.”
“And I,” Anthony snapped, “should take a dose of laudanum, for clearly I am fevered. What the devil is going on?”
“Anthony!” Violet exclaimed. She turned hastily to Simon. “Don’t mind him.”
“Oh, I never do,” Simon said affably.
“Daphne,” Anthony said pointedly, “I should be delighted to act as your chaperon.”
“Really, Anthony,” Violet cut in, “they hardly need one if they are to remain here in the ballroom.”
“Oh, I insist.”
“You two run along,” Violet said to Daphne and Simon, waving her hand at them. “Anthony will be with you in just a moment.”
Anthony tried to follow immediately, but Violet grabbed onto his wrist. Hard. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
“Protecting my sister!”
“From the duke? He can’t be that wicked. Actually, he reminds me of you.”
Anthony groaned. “Then she definitely needs my protection.”
Violet patted him on the arm. “Don’t be so overprotective. If he attempts to spirit her out onto the balcony, I promise you may dash out to rescue her. But until that unlikely event occurs, please allow your sister her moment of glory.”
Anthony glared at Simon’s back. “Tomorrow I will kill him.”
“Dear me,” Violet said, shaking her head, “I had no idea you could be so high-strung. One would think, as your mother, I would know these things, especially since you are my firstborn, and thus I have known you for the longest of any of my children, but—”
“Is that Colin?” Anthony interrupted, his voice strangled.
Violet blinked, then squinted her eyes. “Why, yes, it is. Isn’t it lovely that he returned early? I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him an hour ago. In fact, I—”
“I’d better go to him,” Anthony said quickly. “He looks lonely. Good-bye, Mother.”
Violet watched as Anthony ran off, presumably to escape her chattering lecture. “Silly boy,” she murmured to herself. None of her children seemed to be on to any of her tricks. Just blather on about nothing in particular, and she could be rid of any of them in a trice.
She let out a satisfied sigh and resumed her watch of her daughter, now on the other side of the ballroom, her hand nestled comfortably in the crook of the duke’s elbow. They made a most handsome couple.
Yes, Violet thought, her eyes growing misty, her daughter would make an excellent duchess.
Then she let her gaze wander briefly over to Anthony, who was now right where she wanted him—out of her hair. She allowed herself a secret smile. Children were so easy to manage.
Then her smile turned to a frown as she noticed Daphne walking back toward her—on the arm of another man. Violet’s eyes immediately scanned the ballroom until she found the duke.
Dash it all, what the devil was he doing dancing with Penelope Featherington?
Chapter 6
It has been reported to This Author that the Duke of Hastings mentioned no fewer than six times yestereve that he has no plans to marry. If his intention was to discourage the Ambitious Mamas, he made a grave error in judgment. They will simply view his remarks as the greatest of challenges.
And in an interesting side note, his half dozen anti-matrimony remarks were all uttered before he made the acquaintance of the lovely and sensible Miss (Daphne) Bridgerton.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 April 1813
The following afternoon found Simon standing on the front steps of Daphne’s home, one hand rapping the brass knocker on the door, the other wrapped around a large bouquet of fiendishly expensive tulips. It hadn’t occurred to him that his little charade might require his attention during the daylight hours, but during their stroll about the ballroom the previous night, Daphne had sagely pointed out that if he did not call upon her the next day, no one—least of all her mother—would truly believe he was interested.
Simon accepted her words as truth, allowing that Daphne almost certainly had more knowledge in this area of etiquette than he did. He’d dutifully found some flowers and trudged across Grosvenor Square to Bridgerton House. He’d never courted a respectable woman before, so the ritual was foreign to him.
The door was opened almost immediately by the Bridgertons’ butler. Simon gave him his card. The butler, a tall thin man with a hawkish nose, looked at it for barely a quarter second before nodding, and murmuring, “Right this way, your grace.”
Clearly, Simon thought wryly, he had been expected.
What was unexpected, however, was the sight that awaited him when he was shown into the Bridgertons’ drawing room.
Daphne, a vision in ice-blue silk, perched on the edge of Lady B
ridgerton’s green damask sofa, her face decorated with another one of those wide wide smiles.
It would have been a lovely sight, had she not been surrounded by at least a half dozen men, one of whom had actually descended to one knee, gales of poetry spewing from his mouth.
Judging from the florid nature of the prose, Simon fully expected a rosebush to sprout from the nitwit’s mouth at any moment.
The entire scene, Simon decided, was most disagreeable.
He fixed his gaze on Daphne, who was directing her magnificent smile at the buffoon reciting poetry, and waited for her to acknowledge him.
She didn’t.
Simon looked down at his free hand and noticed that it was curled into a tight fist. He scanned the room slowly, trying to decide on which man’s face to use it.
Daphne smiled again, and again not at him.
The idiot poet. Definitely the idiot poet. Simon tilted his head slightly to the side as he analyzed the young swain’s face. Would his fist fit best in the right eye socket or the left? Or maybe that was too violent. Maybe a light clip to the chin would be more appropriate. At the very least, it might actually shut the man up.
“This one,” the poet announced grandly, “I wrote in your honor last night.”
Simon groaned. The last poem he had recognized as a rather grandiose rendition of a Shakespearean sonnet, but an original work was more than he could bear.
“Your grace!”
Simon looked up to realize that Daphne had finally noticed that he had entered the room.
He nodded regally, his cool look very much at odds with the puppy-dog faces of her other suitors. “Miss Bridgerton.”
“How lovely to see you,” she said, a delighted smile crossing her face.
Ah, that was more like it. Simon straightened the flowers and started to walk toward her, only to realize that there were three young suitors in his path, and none appeared inclined to move. Simon pierced the first one with his haughtiest stare, which caused the boy—really, he looked all of twenty, hardly old enough to be called a man—to cough in a most unattractive manner and scurry off to an unoccupied window seat.
Simon moved forward, ready to repeat the procedure with the next annoying young man, when the viscountess suddenly stepped into his path, wearing a dark blue frock and a smile that might possibly rival Daphne’s in its brightness.
