The Duke and I (6 page)

 As an audience of gossips watched with baited breath, Simon, who couldn't have cared less about the specific arrangement of the Prince's cravat, simply turned his icy blue eyes on Brummel, and answered, "No."

 No explanation, no elaboration, just, "No."

 And then he walked away.

 By the next afternoon, Simon might as well have been the king of society. The irony was unnerving.Simon didn't care for Brummel or his tone, and he would probably have delivered a more loquacious set-down if he'd been sure he could do so without stumbling over his words. And yet in this particular instance, less had most definitely proven to be more, and Simon's terse sentence had turned out to be far more deadly than any long-winded speech he might have uttered.

 Word of the brilliant and devastatingly handsome Hastings heir naturally reached the duke's ears. And although he did not immediately seek Simon out, Simon began to hear bits and pieces of gossip that warned him that his relationship with his father might soon see a change. The duke had laughed when he'd heard of the Brummel incident, and said, "Naturally. He's a Basset." An acquaintance mentioned that the duke had been heard crowing about Simon's first at Oxford.

 And then the two came face-to-face at a London ball.

 The duke would not allow Simon to give him the cut direct.

 Simon tried. Oh, how he tried. But no one had the ability to crush his confidence like his father, and as he stared at the duke, who might as well have been a mirror image, albeit slightly older version, of himself, he couldn't move, couldn't even try to speak.His tongue felt thick, his mouth felt odd, and it almost seemed as if his stutters had spread from his mouth to his body, for he suddenly didn't even feel right in his own skin.The duke had taken advantage of Simon's momentary lapse of reason by embracing him with a heartfelt, "Son."

 Simon had left the country the very next day.

 He'd known that it would be impossible to avoid his father completely if he remained in England. And he refused to act the part of his son after having been denied a father for so many years.

 Besides, lately he'd been growing bored of London's wild life. Rake's reputation aside, Simon didn't really have the temperament of a true debauche. He had enjoyed his nights on the town as much as any of his dissolute cronies, but after three years in Oxford and one in London, the endless round of parties and prostitutes was growing, well, old.

 And so he left.

 Now, however, he was glad to be back. There was something soothing about being home, something peaceful and serene about an English springtime. And after six years of solitary travel, it was damned good to find his friends again.

 He moved silently through the halls, making his way to the ballroom. He hadn't wanted to be announced; the last thing he desired was a declaration of his presence. The afternoon's conversation with Anthony Bridgerton had reaffirmed his

decision not to take an active role in London society.He had no plans to marry. Ever. And there wasn't much point in attending
ton
parties if one wasn't looking for a wife.

 Still, he felt he owed some loyalty to Lady Danbury after her many kindnesses during his childhood, and truth be told, he held a great deal of affection for the forthright old lady. It would have been the height of rudeness to spurn her invitation, especially since it had come accompanied by a personal note welcoming him back to the country.

 Since Simon knew his way around this house, he'd entered through a side door. If all went well, he could slip unobtrusively into the ballroom, give his regards to Lady Danbury, and leave.

 But as he turned a corner, he heard voices, and he froze.

 Simon suppressed a groan. He'd interrupted a lovers' tryst. Bloody hell. How to extricate himself without notice? If his presence was discovered, the ensuing scene was sure to be replete with histrionics, embarrassment, and no end of tedious emotion. Better just to melt into the shadows and let the lovers go on their merry way.

 But as Simon started backing quietly up, he heard something that caught his attention.

 "No."

 No? Had some young lady been forced into the deserted hallway against her will? Simon had no great desire to be anyone's hero, but even he could not let such an insult pass. He craned his neck slightly, pressing his ear forward so that he might hear better. After all, he might have heard incorrectly. If no one needed saving, he certainly wasn't going to charge forward like some bullish fool.

 "Nigel," the girl was saying, "you really shouldn't have followed me out here."

 "But I love you!" the young man cried out in a passionate voice. "All I want is to make you my wife."

 Simon nearly groaned. Poor besotted fool. It was painful to listen to.

 "Nigel," she said again, her voice surprisingly kind and patient, "my brother has already told you that I cannot marry you. I hope that we may continue on as friends."

 "But your brother doesn't understand!"

 "Yes," she said firmly, "he does."

 "Dash it all! If you don't marry me, who will?"

 Simon blinked in surprise. As proposals went, this one was decidedly unromantic.

 The girl apparently thought so, too. "Well," she said, sounding a bit disgruntled, "it's not as if there aren't dozens of other young ladies in Lady Danbury's ballroom right now. I'm sure one of them would be thrilled to marry you."

 Simon leaned forward slightly so that he could get a glimpse of the scene. The girl was in shadows, but he could see the man quite clearly. His face held a hangdog expression, and his shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. Slowly, he shook his head. "No," he said forlornly, "they don't. Don't you see? They...they...”

 Simon winced as the man fought for words. He didn't appear to be stuttering so much as emotionally overcome, but it was never pleasant when one couldn't get a sentence out.

 "No one's as nice as you," the man finally said. "You're the only one who ever smiles at me."

 "Oh, Nigel," the girl said, sighing deeply. "I'm sure that's not true."

 But Simon could tell she was just trying to be kind. And as she sighed again, it became apparent to him that she would not need any rescuing. She seemed to have the situation well in hand, and while Simon felt vague pangs of sympathy for the hapless Nigel, there wasn't anything he could do to help.

 Besides, he was beginning to feel like the worst sort of voyeur.

 He started inching backward, keeping his eye focused on a door that he knew led to the library. There was another door

on the other side of that room, one that led to the conservatory. From there he could enter the main hall and make his way to the ballroom. It wouldn't be as discreet as cutting through the back corridors, but at least poor Nigel wouldn't know that his humiliation had had a witness.But then, just a footstep away from a clean getaway, he heard the girl squeal.

 "You have to marry me!" Nigel cried out. "You have to! I'll never find anyone else—"

 "Nigel, stop!"

 Simon turned around, groaning. It looked like he was going to have to rescue the chit, after all. He strode back into the hall, putting his sternest, most dukish expression on his face. The words, "I believe the lady asked you to stop," rested on the tip of his tongue, but it seemed that he wasn't fated to play the hero tonight, after all, because before he could make a sound, the young lady pulled back her right arm and landed a surprisingly effective punch squarely on Nigel's jaw.

 Nigel went down, his arms comically flailing in the air as his legs slid out from under him. Simon just stood there, watching in disbelief as the girl dropped to her knees.

 "Oh dear," she said, her voice squeaking slightly. "Nigel, are you all right? I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

 Simon laughed. He couldn't help it.The girl looked up, startled.

 Simon caught his breath. She had been in shadows until now, and all he'd been able to discern of her appearance was a

wealth of thick, dark hair. But now, as she lifted her head to face him, he saw that she had large, equally dark eyes, and the widest, lushest mouth he'd ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn't beautiful by society standards, but something about her quite simply sucked the breath from his body.

 Her brows, thick but delicately winged, drew together. "Who," she asked, not sounding at all pleased to see him, "are you?"

 Chapter 3

 It has been whispered to This Author that Nigel Berbrooke was seen at Moreton's Jewelry Shop purchasing a diamond solitaire ring. Can a new Mrs. Berbrooke be very far behind?

 Lady Whistledown's Society Papers,28April 1813

 The night, Daphne decided, couldn't possibly get much worse. First she'd been forced to spend the evening in the darkest corner of ballroom (which wasn't such an easy task, since Lady Danbury clearly appreciated both the aesthetic and illuminating qualities of candles), then she'd managed to trip over Philipa Featherington's foot as she tried to make her escape, which had led Philipa, never the quietest girl in the room, to squeal, "Daphne Bridgerton! Are you hurt?" Which must have captured Nigel's attention, for his head had snapped up like startled bird, and he'd immediately started hurrying across the ballroom. Daphne had hoped, no
prayed
that she could outrun him and make it to the ladies' retiring room before he caught up with her, but no, Nigel had cornered her in the hall and started wailing out his love for her.

 It was all embarrassing enough, but now it appeared this man—this shockingly handsome and almost disturbingly poised stranger—had witnessed the entire thing. And worse, he waslaughing!

 Daphne glared at him as he chuckled at her expense. She'd never seen him before, so he had to be new to London. Her

mother had made certain that Daphne had been introduced to, or at least been made aware of, all eligible gentlemen. Of course, this man could be married and therefore not on Violet's list of potential victims, but Daphne instinctively knew that he could not have been long in London without all the world whispering about it.

 His face was quite simply perfection. It took only a moment to realize that he put all of Michelangelo's statues to shame. His eyes were oddly intense—so blue they practically glowed. His hair was thick and dark, and he was tall—as tall as her brothers, which was a rare thing.

 This was a man. Daphne thought wryly, who could quite possibly steal the gaggle of twittering young ladies away from the Bridgerton men for good.Why that annoyed her so much, she didn't know. Maybe it was because she knew a man like him would never be interested in a woman like her. Maybe it was because she felt like the veriest frump sitting there on the floor in his splendid presence. Maybe it was simply because he was standing there laughing as if she were some sort of circus amusement.

 But whatever the case, an uncharacteristic peevishness rose within her, and her brows drew together as she asked,

"Who are you?"

 Simon didn't know why he didn't answer her question in a straightforward manner, but some devil within caused him to

reply, "My intention had been to be your rescuer, but you clearly had no need of my services."

 "Oh," the girl said, sounding slightly mollified. She clamped her lips together, twisting them slightly as she considered his words. "Well, thank you, then, I suppose! Pity you didn't reveal yourself ten seconds earlier. I'd rather not have had to hit him."

 Simon looked down at the man on the ground. A bruise was already darkening on his chin, and he was moaning, "Laffy, oh Laffy. I love you, Laffy."

 "You're Laffy, I presume?" Simon murmured, sliding his gaze up to her face. Really, she was quite an attractive little thing, and from this angle the bodice of her gown seemed almost decadently low.

 She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating his attempt at subtle humor—and also clearly not realizing that his heavy-lidded gaze had rested on portions of her anatomy that were not her face. "What are we to do with him?" she asked.

 "'We?'" Simon echoed.

 Her scowl deepened. "You did say you aspired to be my rescuer, didn't you?"

 "So I did." Simon planted his hands on his hips and assessed the situation. "Shall I drag him out into the street?"

 "Of course not!" she exclaimed. "For goodness sake, isn't it still raining outside?"

 "My dear Miss Laffy," Simon said, not particularly concerned about the condescending tone of his voice, "don't you think your concern is slightly misplaced? This man tried to attack you."

 "He didn't try to attack me," she replied. "He just...He just...Oh, very well, he tried to attack me. But he would never

have done me any real harm."

 Simon raised a brow. Truly, women were the most contrary creatures. "And you can be sure of that?"

 He watched as she carefully chose her words."Nigel isn't capable of malice," she said slowly. "All he is guilty of is misjudgement."

 "You're a more generous soul than I, then," Simon said quietly.

 The girl let out another sigh, a soft, breathy sound that Simon somehow felt across his entire body. "Nigel's not a bad person," she said with quiet dignity. "It's just that he isn't always terribly bright, and perhaps he mistook kindness on my part for something more."