by Julia Quinn
“I think she’s hurt,” Simon said to Anthony, his voice sharp with worry. “We need to lift her straight out. If we twist, she’s likely to become even more entangled.”
Anthony gave a curt, businesslike nod, his fury at Simon temporarily put aside. Daphne was in pain, and she had to come first.
“Just hold still, Daff,” Simon crooned, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m going to put my arms around you. Then I’m going to lift you forward and pull you out. Do you understand?”
She shook her head. “You’ll scratch yourself.”
“I have long sleeves. Don’t worry about me.”
“Let me do it,” Anthony said.
But Simon ignored him. While Anthony stood by helplessly, Simon reached into the tangled bramble of the hedge, and slowly pushed his gloved hands through the mess, trying to wedge his coat-covered arms between the prickly branches and Daphne’s bare, tortured skin. When he reached her sleeves, however, he had to stop to disentangle the razor-sharp points from the silk of her dress. Several branches had poked straight through the fabric and were biting her skin.
“I can’t get you completely loose,” he said. “Your dress will tear.”
She nodded, the movement jerky. “I don’t care,” she gasped. “It’s already ruined.”
“But—” Even though Simon had just been in the process of pulling that very same dress down to her waist, he still felt uncomfortable pointing out that the fabric was likely to fall right off her body once the branches were done tearing through the silk. Instead, he turned to Anthony, and said, “She’ll need your coat.”
Anthony was already shrugging out of it.
Simon turned back to Daphne and locked his eyes on hers. “Are you ready?” he asked softly.
She nodded, and maybe it was his imagination, but he thought she seemed a little calmer now that her eyes were focused on his face.
After making sure that no branches were still stuck to her skin, he pushed his arms farther back into the bramble, and then around her body until his hands met and locked together behind her back.
“On the count of three,” he murmured.
She nodded again. “One . . . Two . . .”
He yanked her up and out, the force sending them both sprawling.
“You said three!” Daphne yelled.
“I lied. I didn’t want you to tense up.”
Daphne might have wanted to pursue the argument, but it was at that moment that she realized that her dress was in tatters, and she squealed as her arms flew up to cover herself.
“Take this,” Anthony said, thrusting his coat at her. Daphne gratefully accepted and wrapped herself in Anthony’s superfine coat. It fit him to perfection, but on her it hung so loose that she could easily wrap herself up.
“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.
She nodded.
“Good.” Anthony turned to Simon. “Thank you for pulling her out.”
Simon said nothing, but his chin dipped in acknowledgment of Anthony’s remark.
Anthony’s eyes darted back to Daphne. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“It stings a little,” she admitted, “and I’ll surely need to apply a salve when I get home, but it’s nothing I can’t bear.”
“Good,” Anthony said again. Then he drew back his fist and slammed it into Simon’s face, easily knocking his unsuspecting friend to the ground.
“That,” Anthony spat out, “is for defiling my sister.”
“Anthony!” Daphne shrieked. “Stop this nonsense right now! He didn’t defile me.”
Anthony swung around and glared at her, his eyes burning. “I saw your—”
Daphne’s stomach churned, and for a moment she feared she’d actually cast up her accounts. Good God, Anthony had seen her breast! Her brother! It was unnatural.
“Stand up,” Anthony grunted, “so I can hit you again.”
“Are you mad?” Daphne cried out, jumping between him and Simon, who was still on the ground, his hand clutching his injured eye. “Anthony, I swear if you hit him again, I shall not forgive you.”
Anthony pushed her aside, and not gently. “The next one,” he spit, “is for betraying our friendship.”
Slowly, and to Daphne’s horror, Simon rose to his feet.
“No!” she yelled, jumping back between them.
“Get out of the way, Daphne,” Simon ordered softly. “This is between us.”
“It most certainly is not! In case no one recalls, I’m the one who—” She stopped herself in mid-sentence. There was no point in speaking. Neither man was listening to her.
“Get out of the way, Daphne,” Anthony said, his voice frighteningly still. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze remained focused over her head, straight into Simon’s eyes.
“This is ridiculous! Can we not all discuss this like adults?” She looked from Simon to her brother, then whipped her head back to Simon. “Merciful heavens! Simon! Look at your eye!”
She hurried to him, reaching up to his eye, which was already swelling shut.
Simon remained impassive, not moving even a muscle under her concerned touch. Her fingers skimmed lightly over his swollen skin, oddly soothing. He ached for her still, although this time not with desire. She felt so good next to him, good and honorable and pure.
And he was about to do the most dishonorable thing he’d ever done in his life.
When Anthony finished with his violence, finished with his fury, and finally demanded that Simon marry his sister, Simon was going to say no.
“Move out of the way, Daphne,” he said, his voice strange in his own ears.
“No, I—”
“Move!” he roared.
She fled, pressing her back up against the very hedge in which she’d been caught, staring in horror at the two men.
Simon nodded grimly at Anthony. “Hit me.”
Anthony looked stunned by the request.
“Do it,” Simon said. “Get it over with.”
Anthony’s fist fell slack. He didn’t move his head, but his eyes flitted to Daphne. “I can’t,” he blurted out. “Not when he’s just standing there asking for it.”
Simon took a step forward, bringing his face mockingly close. “Do it now. Make me pay.”
“You’ll pay at the altar,” Anthony replied.
Daphne gasped, the sound drawing Simon’s attention. Why was she surprised? Surely she understood the consequences of, if not their actions, their stupidity in getting caught?
“I won’t force him,” Daphne said.
“I will,” Anthony bit out.
Simon shook his head. “By tomorrow I’ll be on the Continent.”
“You’re leaving?” Daphne asked. The stricken sound of her voice sliced a guilty knife through Simon’s heart.
“If I stay, you’ll forever be tainted by my presence. It’s best if I’m gone.”
Her lower lip was trembling. It killed him that it was trembling. A single word fell from her lips. It was his name, and it was filled with a longing that squeezed his heart in two.
It took Simon a moment to summon the words: “I can’t marry you, Daff.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Anthony demanded.
“Both.”
Anthony punched him again.
Simon hit the ground, stunned by the force of the blow to his chin. But he deserved every sting, every shot of pain. He didn’t want to look at Daphne, didn’t want to catch even the barest of glances at her face, but she knelt beside him, her gentle hand sliding behind his shoulder to help him right himself.
“I’m sorry, Daff,” he said, forcing himself to look at her. He felt odd and off-balance, and he could see out of only one eye, but she’d come to his aid, even after he’d rejected her, and he owed her that much. “I’m so sorry.”
“Save your pathetic words,” Anthony spat. “I’ll see you at dawn.”
“No!” Daphne cried out.
Simon looked up at Anthony and gave him the briefest of nods. The
n he turned back to Daphne, and said, “If it c-could be anybody, Daff, it would be you. I p-promise you that.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, bewilderment turning her dark eyes to frantic orbs. “What do you mean?”
Simon just closed his eye and sighed. By this time tomorrow he’d be dead, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to raise a pistol at Anthony, and he rather doubted that Anthony’s temper would have cooled enough for him to shoot into the air.
And yet—in a bizarre, pathetic sort of way, he would be getting what he’d always wanted out of life. He’d have his final revenge against his father.
Strange, but even so, this wasn’t how he’d thought it would end. He’d thought—Well, he didn’t know what he’d thought—most men avoided trying to predict their own deaths—but it wasn’t this. Not with his best friend’s eyes burning with hatred. Not on a deserted field at dawn.
Not with dishonor.
Daphne’s hands, which had been stroking him so gently, wrapped around his shoulders and shook. The motion jolted his watery eye open, and he saw that her face was very close to his—close and furious.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. Her face was like he’d never seen it before, eyes flashing with anger, and anguish, and even a little desperation. “He’s going to kill you! He’s going to meet you on some godforsaken field tomorrow and shoot you dead. And you’re acting like you want him to.”
“I ddon’t w-w-want to ddie,” he said, too exhausted in mind and body to even care that he’d stammered. “B-but I can’t marry you.”
Her hands fell off his shoulders, and she lurched away. The look of pain and rejection in her eyes was almost impossible to bear. She looked so forlorn, wrapped up in her brother’s too-big coat, pieces of twigs and brambles still caught in her dark hair. When she opened her mouth to speak, it looked as if her words were ripped from her very soul. “I-I’ve always known that I wasn’t the sort of woman men dream of, but I never thought anyone would prefer death to marriage with me.”
“No!” Simon cried out, scrambling to his feet despite the dull aches and stinging pains that jolted his body. “Daphne, it’s not like that.”
“You’ve said enough,” Anthony said in a curt voice, stepping between them. He placed his hands on his sister’s shoulders, steering her away from the man who had broken her heart and possibly damaged her reputation for eternity.
“Just one more thing,” Simon said, hating the pleading, pathetic look he knew must be in his eyes. But he had to talk to Daphne. He had to make sure she understood.
But Anthony just shook his head.
“Wait.” Simon laid a hand on the sleeve of the man who had once been his closest friend. “I can’t fix this. I’ve made—” He let out a ragged breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “I’ve made vows, Anthony. I can’t marry her. I can’t fix this. But I can tell her—”
“Tell her what?” Anthony asked with a complete lack of emotion.
Simon lifted his hand from Anthony’s sleeve and raked it through his hair. He couldn’t tell Daphne. She wouldn’t understand. Or worse, she would, and then all he’d have was her pity. Finally, aware that Anthony was looking at him with an impatient expression, he said, “Maybe I can make it just a little bit better.”
Anthony didn’t move.
“Please.” And Simon wondered if he’d ever put such depth of meaning behind that word before.
Anthony was still for several seconds, and then he stepped aside.
“Thank you,” Simon said in a solemn voice, sparing Anthony the briefest of glances before focusing on Daphne.
He’d thought perhaps that she’d refuse to look at him, insulting him with her scorn, but instead he found her chin up, eyes defiant and daring. Never had he admired her more.
“Daff,” he began, not at all sure what to say but hoping that the words somehow came out right and in one piece. “It—it isn’t you. If it could be anyone it would be you. But marriage to me would destroy you. I could never give you what you want. You’d die a little every day, and it would kill me to watch.”
“You could never hurt me,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “You have to trust me.”
Her eyes were warm and true as she said softly, “I do trust you. But I wonder if you trust me.”
Her words were like a punch to the gut, and Simon felt impotent and hollow as he said, “Please know that I never meant to hurt you.”
She remained motionless for so long that Simon wondered if she’d stopped breathing. But then, without even looking at her brother, she said, “I’d like to go home now.”
Anthony put his arms around her and turned her away, as if he could protect her simply by shielding her from the sight of him. “We’ll get you home,” he said in soothing tones, “tuck you into bed, give you some brandy.”
“I don’t want brandy,” Daphne said sharply, “I want to think.”
Simon thought Anthony looked a bit bewildered by the statement, but to his credit, all he did was give her upper arm an affectionate squeeze, and say, “Very well, then.”
And Simon just stood there, battered and bloodied, until they disappeared into the night.
Chapter 11
Lady Trowbridge’s annual ball at Hampstead Heath on Saturday evening was, as always, a highlight of the gossip season. This Author spied Colin Bridgerton dance with all three of the Featherington sisters (not at once, of course) although it must be said that this most dashing Bridgerton did not appear to be charmed by his fate. Additionally, Nigel Berbrooke was seen courting a woman who was not Miss Daphne Bridgerton—perhaps Mr. Berbrooke has finally realized the futility of his pursuit.
And speaking of Miss Daphne Bridgerton, she made an early departure. Benedict Bridgerton informed the curious that she had the headache, but This Author spied her earlier in the evening, while she was talking to the elderly Duke of Middlethorpe, and she appeared to be in perfect health.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 17 May 1813
It was, of course, impossible to sleep.
Daphne paced the length of her room, her feet wearing treads in the blue-and-white carpet that had lain in her room since childhood. Her mind was spinning in a dozen different directions, but one thing was clear.
She had to stop this duel.
She did not, however, underestimate the difficulties involved in carrying out that task. For one thing, men tended to be mulish idiots when it came to things like honor and duels, and she rather doubted that either Anthony or Simon would appreciate her interference. Secondly, she didn’t even know where the duel was to take place. The men hadn’t discussed that out in Lady Trowbridge’s garden. Daphne assumed that Anthony would send word to Simon by a servant. Or maybe Simon got to choose the location since he was the one who’d been challenged. Daphne was certain there had to be some sort of etiquette surrounding duels, but she certainly didn’t know what it was.
Daphne paused by the window and pushed the curtain aside to peer out. The night was still young by the standards of the ton; she and Anthony had left the party prematurely. As far as she knew, Benedict, Colin, and her mother were all still at Lady Trowbridge’s house. The fact that they had not yet returned (Daphne and Anthony had been home for nearly two hours) Daphne took as a good sign. If the scene with Simon had been witnessed, surely the gossip would have raged across the ballroom in seconds, causing her mother to rush home in disgrace.
And maybe Daphne would make it through the night with only her dress in shreds—and not her reputation.
But concern for her good name was the least of her worries. She needed her family home for another reason. There was no way she’d be able to stop this duel on her own. Only an idiot would ride through London in the wee hours of the morning and try to reason with two belligerent men by herself. She was going to need help.
Benedict, she feared, would immediately take Anthony’s side of the whole thing; in fact, she’d be surprised if Benedict didn’t act
as Anthony’s second.
But Colin—Colin might come around to her way of thinking. Colin would grumble, and Colin would probably say that Simon deserved to be shot at dawn, but if Daphne begged, he would help her.
And the duel had to be stopped. Daphne didn’t understand what was going on in Simon’s head, but he was clearly anguished about something, probably something having to do with his father. It had long been obvious to her that he was tortured by some inner demon. He hid it well, of course, especially when he was with her, but too often she’d seen a desperate bleak look in his eyes. And there had to be a reason why he fell silent with such frequency. Sometimes it seemed to Daphne that she was the only person with whom he was ever truly relaxed enough to laugh and joke and make small talk.
And maybe Anthony. Well, maybe Anthony before all of this.
But despite it all, despite Simon’s rather fatalistic attitude in Lady Trowbridge’s garden, she didn’t think he wanted to die.
Daphne heard the sound of wheels on cobbles and rushed back to the open window just in time to see the Bridgerton carriage rolling past the house on its way to the mews.
Wringing her hands, she hurried across the room and pressed her ear to the door. It wouldn’t do for her to go downstairs; Anthony thought she was asleep, or at least tucked into her bed and contemplating her actions of the evening.
He’d said he wasn’t going to say anything to their mother. Or at least he wasn’t until he could determine what she knew. Violet’s delayed return home led Daphne to believe that there hadn’t been any huge or dreadful rumors circulating about her, but that didn’t mean that she was off scot-free. There would be whispers. There were always whispers. And whispers, if left unchecked, could quickly grow into roars.
Daphne knew that she would have to face her mother eventually. Sooner or later Violet would hear something. The ton would make certain she heard something. Daphne just hoped that by the time Violet was assaulted by rumors—most of them regrettably true—her daughter would already be safely betrothed to a duke.
People would forgive anything if one was connected to a duke.
And that would be the crux of Daphne’s strategy to save Simon’s life. He wouldn’t save himself, but he might save her.
