The Duke and I (40 page)

asked, "And how did you get up here? Don't I have a butler?"

 "You
had
a butler," he growled.

 "Oh, dear."

 "Where is he?"

 "Not here, obviously." There didn't seem any point in pretending she didn't know exactly who he was talking about.

 "I'm going to kill him."

 Daphne stood, eyes flashing. "No, you're not!"

 Anthony, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, leaned forward and speared her with a stare. "I made a vow to Hastings before he married you, did you know that?"

 She shook her head.

 "I reminded him that I had been prepared to kill him for damaging your reputation. Heaven help him if he damages your soul."

 "He hasn't damaged my soul, Anthony." Her hand strayed to her abdomen. "Quite the opposite, actually."

 But if Anthony found her words odd, she would never know, because his eyes strayed to her writing table, then narrowed. "What is that?" he asked.

 Daphne followed his line of vision to the small pile of paper that constituted her discarded attempts at a letter to Simon.

"It's nothing," she said, reaching forward to grab the evidence.

 "You're writing him a letter, aren't you?" Anthony's already stormy expression grew positively thunderous. "Oh, for the love of God, don't try to lie about it. I saw his name at the top of the paper."

 Daphne crumpled the wasted papers and dropped them into a basket under the desk. "It's none of your business."

 Anthony eyed the basket as if he were about to lunge under the desk and retrieve the half-written notes. Finally, he just

looked back at Daphne, and said, "I'm not going let him get away with this."

 "Anthony, this isn't your affair."

 He didn't dignify that with a reply. "I'll find him, you know. I'll find him, and I'll kill—"

 "Oh, for goodness sake," Daphne finally exploded. "This is
my
marriage, Anthony, not yours. And if you interfere in my affairs, so help me God, I swear I will never speak to you again."

 Her eyes were steady, and her tone was forceful, and Anthony looked slightly shaken by her words. "Very well," he

muttered, "I won't kill him."

 "Thank you," Daphne said, rather sarcastically.

 "But I will find him," Anthony vowed. "And I will make my disapproval clear."

 Daphne took one look at his face and knew that he meant it. "Very well," she said, reaching for the completed letter that

she'd tucked away in a drawer. "I'll letyou deliver this."

 "Good." He reached for the envelope.

 Daphne moved it out of his reach. "But only if you make me two promises."

 "Which are...?"

 "First, you must promise that you won't read this."

 He looked mortally affronted that she'd even suggested he would.

 "Don't try that 'I'm so honorable' expresssion with me," Daphne said with a snort. "I know you, Anthony Bridgerton, and I know that you would read this in a second if you thought you could get away with it."

 Anthony glared at her.

 "But I also know," she continued, "that you would never break an explicit promise made to me. So I'll need your

promise, Anthony."

 "This is hardly necessary, Daff."

 "Promise!" she ordered.

 "Oh, all right," he grumbled, "I promise."

 "Good." She handed him the letter. He looked at it longingly.

 "Secondly," Daphne said loudly, forcing his attention back to her, "you must promise not to hurt him."

 "Oh, now, wait one second, Daphne," Anthony burst out. "You ask far too much."

 She held out her hand. "I'll be taking that letter back."

 He shoved it behind his back. "You already gave it to me."

 She smirked. "I didn't give you his address."

 "I can get his address," he returned.

 "No, you can't, and you know it," Daphne shot back. "He has no end of estates. It'd take you weeks to figure out which

one he's visiting."

 "A-ha!" Anthony said triumphantly. "So he's at one of his estates. You, my dear, let slip a vital clue."

 "Is this a
game?"
Daphne asked in amazement.

 "Just tell me where he is."

 "Not unless you promise—no violence, Anthony." She crossed her arms. "I mean it."

 "All right," he mumbled.

 "Say it."

 "You're a hard woman, Daphne Bridgerton."

  "It's Daphne Basset, and I've had good teachers."

 "I promise," he said—barely. His words weren't precisely crisp.

 "I need a bit more than that," Daphne said. She uncrossed her arms and twisted her right hand in a rolling manner, as if to draw forth the words from his lips. "I promise not to ..."

 "I promise not to hurt your bloody idiot of a husband," Anthony spat out. "There. Is that good enough?"

 "Certainly," Daphne said congenially. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the letter she'd received earlier that week from Simon's steward, giving his address. "Here you are."

 Anthony took it with a decidedly ungraceful—and ungrateful—swipe of his hand. He glanced down, scanned the lines, then said, "I'll be back in four days."

 "You're leaving today?" Daphne asked, surprised.

 "I don't know how long I can keep my violent impulses in check," he drawled.

 "Then by all means, go today," Daphne said.

 He did.

 *  *  *

 "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull your lungs out through your mouth."

 Simon looked up from his desk to see a travel-dusty Anthony Bridgerton, fuming in the doorway to his study. "It's nice to see you, too, Anthony," he murmured.

 Anthony entered the room with all the grace of a thunderstorm, planted his hands on Simon's desk and leaned forward menacingly. "Would you mind telling me why my sister is in London, crying herself to sleep every night, while you're in—" He looked around the office and scowled. "Where the hell are we?"

 "Wiltshire," Simon supplied.

 "While you're in Wiltshire, puttering around an inconsequential estate?"

 "Daphne's inLondon?"

 "You'd think," Anthony growled, "that as her husband you'd know that."

 "You'd think a lot of things," Simon muttered, "but most of the time, you'd be wrong." It had been two months since he'd left Clyvedon. Two months since he'd looked at Daphne and not been able to utter a word. Two months of utter emptiness.

 In all honesty, Simon was surprised it had taken Daphne this long to get in touch with him, even if she had elected to do so through her somewhat belligerent older brother. Simon wasn't exactly certain why, but he'd thought she would have contacted him sooner, if only to blister his ears. Daphne wasn't the sort to stew in silence when she was upset; he'd half expected her to track him down and explain in six different ways why he was an utter fool.

 And truth be told, after about a month, he'd half wished she would.

 "I would tear your bloody head off," Anthony growled, breaking into Simon's thoughts with considerable force, "if I hadn't promised Daphne I wouldn't do you bodily harm."

 "I'm sure that wasn't a promise easily made," Simon said.

 Anthony crossed his arms and settled a heavy stare on Simon's face. "Nor easily kept."

 Simon cleared his throat as he tried to figure out some way to ask about Daphne without seeming too obvious. He missed her. He felt like an idiot, he felt like a fool, but he missed her. He missed her laugh and her scent and the way, sometimes in the middle of the night, she always managed to tangle her legs with his.

 Simon was used to being alone, buthe wasn't used to being this lonely.

 "Did Daphne send you to fetch me back?" he finally asked.

 "No." Anthony reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, ivory envelope, and slapped it down on the desk. "I caught her summoning a messenger to send you this."

 Simon stared at the envelope with growing horror. It could only mean one thing. He tried to say something neutral, such as "I see," but his throat closed up.

 "I told her I'd be happy to conduct the letter to you," Anthony said, with considerable sarcasm.

 Simon ignored him. He reached for the envelope, hoping that Anthony would not see how his fingers were shaking.

 But Anthony did see. "What the devil is wrong with you?" he asked in an abrupt voice. "You look like hell."

 Simon snatched the envelope and pulled it to him. "Always a pleasure to see you, too," he managed to quip.

 Anthony gazed steadily at him, the battle between anger and concern showing clearly on his face. Clearing his throat a few times, Anthony finally asked, in a surprisingly gentle tone, "Are you ill?"

 "Of coursenot."

 Anthony went pale. "Is Daphne ill?"

 Simon's head snapped up. "Not that she's told me. Why? Does she look ill? Has she—"

 "No, she looks fine." Anthony's eyes filled with curiosity. "Simon," he finally asked, shaking his head, "what are you doing here? It's obvious you love her. And much as I can't comprehend it, she seems to love you as well."

 Simon pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the pounding headache he never seemed to be without these days. "There are things you don't know," he said wearily, shutting his eyes against the pain. "Things you could never understand."

 Anthony was silent for a full minute. Finally, just when Simon opened his eyes, Anthony pushed away from the desk and walked back to the door. "I won't drag you back to London," he said in a low voice. "I should but I won't. Daphne needs to know you came for her, not because her older brother had a pistol at your back."

 Simon almost pointed out that that was why he'd married her, but he bit his tongue. That wasn't the truth. Not all of it, at least. In another lifetime, he'd have been on bended knee, begging for her hand.

 "You should know, however," Anthony continued, "that people are starting to talk. Daphne returned to London alone, barely a fortnight after your rather hasty marriage. She's keeping a good face about it, but it's got to hurt. No one has actually come out and insulted her, but there's only so much well-meaning pity a body can take. And that damned Whistledown woman has been writing about her."

 Simon winced. He'd not been back in England long, but it was long enough to know that the fictitious Lady Whistledown could inflict a great deal of damage and pain.

 Anthony swore in disgust. "Get yourself to a doctor, Hastings. And then get yourself back to your wife." With that, he

strode out the door.

 Simon stared at the envelope in his hands for many minutes before opening it. Seeing Anthony had been a shock. Knowing he'd just been with Daphne made Simon's heart ache.

 Bloody hell. He hadn't expected to miss her.

 This was not to say, however, that he wasn't still furious with her. She'd taken something from him that he quite frankly

hadn't wanted to give. He didn't want children. He'd told her that. She'd married him knowing that. And she'd tricked him.

 Or had she? He rubbed his hands wearily against his eyes and forehead as he tried to remember the exact details of that

fateful morning. Daphne had definitely been the leader in their lovemaking, but he distinctly recalled his own voice, urging her on. He should not have encouraged what he knew he could not stop.

 She probably wasn't pregnant, anyway, he reasoned. Hadn't it taken his own mother over a decade to produce a single

livingchild?

 But when he was alone, lying in bed at night, he knew the truth. He hadn't fled just because Daphne had disobeyed him, or because there was a chance he'd sired a child.

 He'd fled because he couldn't bear the way he'd been with her. She'd reduced him to the stuttering, stammering fool of his childhood. She'd rendered him mute, brought back that awful, choking feeling, the horror of not being able to say what he felt.

 He just didn't know if he could live with her if it meant going back to being the boy who could barely speak. He tried to

remind himself of their courtship— their mock-courtship, he thought with a smile—and to remember how easy it had been to be with her, to talk with her. But every memory was tainted by where it had all led—to Daphne's bedroom that hideous morning, with him tripping over his tongue and choking on his own throat.

 And he hated himself like that.

 So he'd fled to another of his country estates—as a duke, he had a number of them. This particular house was in Wiltshire, which, he had reasoned, wasn't too terribly far from Clyvedon. He could get back in a day and a half if he rode hard enough. It wasn't so much like he'd run away, if he could go back so easily.

 And now it looked like he was going to have to go back.

 Taking a deep breath, Simon picked up his letter opener and slit the envelope. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and