by Julia Quinn
Simon held out his arm. “Certainly.”
They took a few steps toward the boat, and then Daphne said, “You were very good with Hyacinth. You must have spent a great deal of time with children.”
“None,” he said tersely.
“Oh,” she said, a puzzled frown decorating her face. “I knew you had no siblings, but I had assumed you must have met some children on your travels.”
“No.”
Daphne held silent for a moment, wondering if she should pursue the conversation. Simon’s voice had grown hard and forbidding, and his face . . .
He didn’t look like the same man who had teased Hyacinth mere minutes earlier.
But for some reason—maybe because it had been such a lovely afternoon, maybe it was just because the weather was fine—she faked a sunny smile and said, “Well, experience or no, you clearly have the touch. Some adults don’t know how to talk to children, you know.”
He said nothing.
She patted his arm. “You’ll make some lucky child an excellent father someday.”
His head whipped around to face her, and the look in his eyes nearly froze her heart. “I believe I told you I have no intention of marrying,” he bit off. “Ever.”
“But surely you—”
“Therefore it is unlikely that I shall ever have children.”
“I . . . I see.” Daphne swallowed and attempted a shaky smile, but she had a feeling she didn’t manage anything more than a slight quivering of her lips. And even though she knew that their courtship was nothing more than a charade, she felt a vague sense of disappointment.
They reached the edge of the dock, where most of the rest of the Bridgertons were milling about. A few had already boarded, and Gregory was dancing on the gangplank.
“Gregory!” Violet called out, her voice sharp. “Stop that at once!”
He stilled, but didn’t move from his position.
“Either get on the boat or come back to the dock.”
Simon slipped his arm from Daphne’s, muttering, “That gangplank looks wet.” He started moving forward.
“You heard Mother!” Hyacinth called out.
“Oh, Hyacinth,” Daphne sighed to herself. “Can’t you just keep out of it?”
Gregory stuck out his tongue.
Daphne groaned, then noticed that Simon was still walking toward the gangplank. She hurried to his side, whispering, “Simon, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Not if he slips and gets caught in the ropes.” He motioned with his chin to a tangled mess of ropes that were hanging off the boat.
Simon reached the end of the gangplank, walking casually, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. “Are you going to get moving?” he called out, stepping out onto the narrow piece of wood. “So that I might cross?”
Gregory blinked. “Don’t you have to escort Daphne?”
Simon groaned and moved forward, but just then, Anthony, who had already boarded the small yacht, appeared at the top of the gangplank.
“Gregory!” he called out sharply. “Get on this boat at once!”
From down on the dock, Daphne watched with horror as Gregory spun around in surprise, losing his footing on the slippery wood. Anthony leapt forward, making a frantic grab with his arms, but Gregory had already slid to his bottom, and Anthony caught only air.
Anthony fought for balance as Gregory slid down the gangplank, clipping Simon rather neatly in the shins.
“Simon!” Daphne croaked, running forward.
Simon went tumbling into the murky water of the Thames, just as Gregory wailed a heartfelt, “I’m sorry!” He scooted up the gangplank backwards on his behind—rather like a crab, actually—not at all looking where he was going.
Which probably explained why he had no idea that Anthony—who had almost managed to regain his balance—was only a few short feet behind him.
Gregory rammed into Anthony with a thud on his part and a grunt on Anthony’s, and before anyone knew it, Anthony was sputtering in the water, right next to Simon.
Daphne clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.
Violet yanked on her arm. “I highly suggest you don’t laugh.”
Daphne pinched her lips together in an effort to comply, but it was difficult. “You’re laughing,” she pointed out.
“I’m not,” Violet lied. Her entire neck was quivering with the exertion required to keep her laughter inside. “And besides, I’m a mother. They wouldn’t dare do anything to me.”
Anthony and Simon came stalking out of the water, dripping and glaring at each other.
Gregory crawled the rest of the way up the gangplank and disappeared over the edge.
“Maybe you should intercede,” Violet suggested.
“Me?” Daphne squeaked.
“It looks as if they might come to blows.”
“But why? It was all Gregory’s fault.”
“Of course,” Violet said impatiently, “but they’re men, and they’re both furious and embarrassed, and they can’t very well take it out on a boy of twelve.”
Sure enough, Anthony was muttering, “I could have taken care of him,” just as Simon growled, “If you hadn’t surprised him . . .”
Violet rolled her eyes, and said to Daphne, “Any man, you’ll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool.”
Daphne rushed forward, fully intending to attempt to reason with the two men, but one close look at their faces told her that nothing she could possibly say could imbue them with as much intelligence and sensibility as a woman would have in such a situation, so she simply pasted on a bright smile, grabbed Simon’s arm, and said, “Escort me up?”
Simon glared at Anthony.
Anthony glared at Simon.
Daphne yanked.
“This isn’t over, Hastings,” Anthony hissed.
“Far from it,” Simon hissed back.
Daphne realized that they were simply looking for an excuse to come to blows. She yanked harder, prepared to dislocate Simon’s shoulder if need be.
After one last burning glare, he acquiesced and followed her up into the boat.
It was a very long trip home.
Later that night, as Daphne prepared for bed, she found herself oddly restless. Sleep, she could already tell, would prove impossible, so she pulled on a robe and wandered downstairs in search of warm milk and some company. With so many siblings, she thought wryly, surely someone had to be up and about.
On her way to the kitchen, however, she heard rustlings in Anthony’s study, so she poked her head in. Her eldest brother was hunched over his desk, ink spots on his fingers from the correspondence he was answering. It was uncommon to find him here so late into the evening. He’d preferred to keep his study at Bridgerton House even after he’d moved into his bachelor’s lodgings, but he usually took care of his business matters during the day.
“Don’t you have a secretary to do that?” Daphne asked with a smile.
Anthony looked up. “Damned fool got married and moved to Bristol,” he muttered.
“Ah.” She walked into the room and perched on a chair opposite the desk. “That would explain your presence here in the wee hours of the morning.”
Anthony glanced up at the clock. “Midnight is hardly wee. And besides, it took me all afternoon just to get the Thames out of my hair.”
Daphne tried not to smile.
“But you’re right,” Anthony said with a sigh, setting down his quill. “It’s late, and there’s nothing here that won’t keep until the morning.” He leaned back and stretched out his neck. “What are you doing up and about?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Daphne explained with a shrug. “I came downstairs for some hot milk and heard you cursing.”
Anthony let out a grunt. “It’s this bloody quill. I swear I—” He smiled sheepishly. “I suppose ‘I swear’ pretty much takes care of it, eh?”
Daphne smiled in return. Her brothers had never minded their language around her. �
�So you’ll be heading home soon, then?”
He nodded. “Although that warm milk you mentioned sounds rather nice. Why don’t you ring for it?”
Daphne stood. “I’ve a better idea. Why don’t we get it ourselves? We’re not complete idiots. We should be able to warm some milk. And besides, the servants are probably in bed.”
Anthony followed her out the door. “Very well, but you shall have to do all the work. I haven’t the faintest idea how to boil milk.”
“I don’t think one is supposed to let it boil,” Daphne said with a frown. She rounded the last corner on the way to the kitchen and pushed open the door. The room was dark, save for moonlight glowing through the windows. “Find a lamp while I find some milk,” she said to Anthony. Her face took on a slight smirk. “You can light a lamp, can’t you?”
“Oh, I believe I can manage that,” he said good-naturedly.
Daphne smiled to herself as she fumbled about in the dark, pulling a small pot from the hanging rack above her. She and Anthony usually had an easy, joking relationship, and it was nice to see him back to his normal self again. He’d been in such a beastly mood for the past week, with most of his sour temper directed squarely at her.
And Simon, of course, but Simon was rarely present to receive Anthony’s scowls.
A light flickered to life behind her, and Daphne turned to see Anthony smiling triumphantly. “Have you found the milk,” he asked, “or must I venture out in search of a cow?”
She laughed and held up a bottle. “Found it!” She wandered over to the enclosed range, a rather modern-looking contraption that Cook had purchased earlier in the year. “Do you know how to work this?” she asked.
“No idea. You?”
Daphne shook her head. “None.” She reached forward and gingerly touched the surface of the stove top. “It’s not hot.”
“Not even a little bit?”
She shook her head. “It’s rather cold, actually.”
Brother and sister were silent for a few seconds.
“You know,” Anthony finally said, “cold milk might be quite refreshing.”
“I was just thinking that very thing!”
Anthony grinned and found two mugs. “Here, you pour.”
Daphne did, and soon they were seated on stools, gulping down the fresh milk. Anthony drained his mug in short order, and poured another. “You need some more?” he asked, wiping off his milk mustache.
“No, I’m barely halfway to the bottom,” Daphne said, taking another sip. She licked at her lips, fidgeting in her chair. Now that she was alone with Anthony, and he seemed like he was back in his usual good humor, it seemed like a good time to . . . Well, the truth was . . .
Oh, blast, she thought to herself, just go ahead and ask him.
“Anthony?” she said, a touch hesitantly. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about the duke.”
Anthony’s mug hit the table with a loud thunk. “What about the duke?”
“I know you don’t like him . . .” she began, her words trailing off.
“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Anthony said with a weary sigh. “He’s one of my closest friends.”
Daphne’s brows rose. “One would be hard-pressed to deduce that based on your recent behavior.”
“I just don’t trust him around women. Around you in particular.”
“Anthony, you must know that that is one of the silliest things you have ever said. The duke might have been a rake—I suppose he might still be a rake for all I know—but he would never seduce me, if only because I’m your sister.”
Anthony looked unconvinced.
“Even if there weren’t some male code of honor about such things,” Daphne persisted, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, “he knows you’d kill him if he touched me. The man isn’t stupid.”
Anthony refrained from commenting, instead saying, “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Actually,” Daphne said slowly, “I was wondering if you knew why the duke was so opposed to marriage.”
Anthony spit his milk halfway across the table. “For Christ’s sake, Daphne! I thought we agreed that this was just a charade! Why are you even thinking about marrying him?”
“I’m not!” she insisted, thinking that she might be lying but unwilling to examine her feelings closely enough to be sure. “I’m just curious,” she muttered defensively.
“You had better not be thinking about trying to get him to marry you,” Anthony said with a grunt, “because I’ll tell you right now he’ll never do it. Never. Do you understand me, Daphne? He won’t marry you.”
“I would have to be a half-wit not to understand you,” she grumbled.
“Good. Then that’s the end of it.”
“No, it’s not!” she returned. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Anthony leveled a stony stare at her across the table.
“About why he won’t get married,” she prodded.
“Why are you so interested?” he asked wearily.
The truth, Daphne feared, lay a little too close to Anthony’s accusations, but she just said, “I’m curious, and besides, I think I have a right to know, since, if I don’t find an acceptable suitor soon, I may become a pariah after the duke drops me.”
“I thought you were supposed to jilt him,” Anthony said suspiciously.
Daphne snorted. “Who is going to believe that?”
Anthony didn’t immediately jump to her defense, which Daphne found vaguely annoying. But he did say, “I don’t know why Hastings refuses to marry. All I know is that he has maintained this opinion for as long as I’ve known him.”
Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but Anthony cut her off by adding, “And he’s stated it in such a way so that I do not believe his is the weak vow of the beleaguered bachelor.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that unlike most men, when he says he will never marry, he means it.”
“I see.”
Anthony let out a long, tired breath, and Daphne noticed tiny lines of concern around his eyes that she’d never seen before. “Choose a man from your new crowd of suitors,” he said, “and forget Hastings. He’s a good man, but he’s not for you.”
Daphne latched on to the first part of his sentence. “But you think he’s a good—”
“He’s not for you,” Anthony repeated.
But Daphne couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, Anthony might be wrong.
Chapter 9
The Duke of Hastings was espied yet again with Miss Bridgerton. (That is Miss Daphne Bridgerton, for those of you who, like This Author, find it difficult to differentiate between the multitudes of Bridgerton offspring.) It has been some time since This Author has seen a couple so obviously devoted to one another.
It does seem odd, however, that, with the exception of the Bridgerton family outing to Greenwich, which was reported in this newspaper ten days earlier, they are seen together only at evening functions. This Author has it on the best authority that while the duke called upon Miss Bridgerton at her home a fortnight ago, this courtesy has not been repeated, and indeed, they have not been seen riding together in Hyde Park even once!
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 May 1813
Two weeks later, Daphne found herself in Hampstead Heath, standing on the fringes of Lady Trowbridge’s ballroom, far away from the fashionable crowd. She was quite content with her position.
She didn’t want to be at the center of the party. She didn’t want to be found by the dozens of suitors now clamoring to claim her in a dance. In all truth, she didn’t want to be in Lady Trowbridge’s ballroom at all.
Because Simon was not there.
This did not mean that she was destined to spend the evening as a wallflower. All of Simon’s predictions in regard to her burgeoning popularity had proven correct, and Daphne, who had always been the girl everyone liked but no one adored, was suddenly pro
claimed the season’s Incomparable. Everyone who cared to air an opinion on the subject (and this being the ton, that meant everyone) declared that they always knew that Daphne was special and were just waiting for everyone else to notice. Lady Jersey told everyone who would listen that she had been predicting Daphne’s success for months, and the only mystery was why no one had listened to her sooner.
Which was, of course, hogwash. While Daphne had certainly never been the object of Lady Jersey’s scorn, not one Bridgerton could recall ever hearing Lady Jersey refer to her (as she was presently doing) as “Tomorrow’s Treasure.”
But even though Daphne’s dance card was now full within minutes of her arrival at any ball, and even though men fought for the privilege of fetching her a glass of lemonade (Daphne had almost laughed out loud the first time that had happened), she found that no evening was truly memorable unless Simon was at her side.
It didn’t matter that he seemed to find it necessary to mention at least once every evening that he was adamantly opposed to the institution of marriage. (Although, to his credit, he usually mentioned this in conjunction with his thankfulness to Daphne for saving him from the multitudes of Ambitious Mamas.) And it didn’t matter that he occasionally fell silent and was even almost rude to certain members of society.
All that seemed to matter were those moments when they were not quite alone (they were never alone), but still somehow left to their own devices. A laughing conversation in a corner, a waltz around a ballroom. Daphne could look into his pale blue eyes and almost forget that she was surrounded by five hundred onlookers, all of whom were inordinately interested in the state of her courtship.
And she could almost forget that her courtship was a complete sham.
Daphne hadn’t tried to talk to Anthony about Simon again. Her brother’s hostility was apparent every time the duke’s name was brought up in conversation. And when he and Simon actually met—well, Anthony usually managed a certain level of cordiality, but that was all he seemed able to muster.
And yet even amidst all this anger, Daphne could see faint glimmers of the old friendship between them. She could only hope that when all this was over—and she was married off to some boring but affable earl who never quite managed to make her heart sing—that the two men would be friends again.
