Later that week, Daphne found herself standing on the fringes of Lady Danbury's ballroom, far away from the fashionable crowd. She was quite content with her position.

Normally she would have enjoyed the festivities; she liked a good party as well as the next young lady, but earlier that evening, Anthony had informed her that Nigel Berbrooke had sought him out two days earlier and asked for her hand. Again. Anthony had, of course, refused (again!), but Daphne had the sinking feeling that Nigel was going to prove uncomfortably persistent. After all, two marriage proposals in two weeks did not paint a picture of a man who accepted defeat easily.

Across the ballroom she could see him looking this way and that, and she shrank further into the shadows.

She had no idea how to deal with the poor man. He wasn't very bright, but he also wasn't unkind, and though she knew she had to somehow put an end to his infatuation, she was finding it far easier to take the coward's way out and simply avoid him.

She was considering slinking into the ladies' retiring room when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I say, Daphne, what are you doing all the way over here?”

Daphne looked up to see her eldest brother making his way toward her. “Anthony,” she said, trying to decide if she was pleased to see him or annoyed that he might be coming over to meddle in her affairs. “I hadn't realized you would be in attendance.”

“Mother,” he said grimly. No other words were necessary.

“Ah,” Daphne said with a sympathetic nod. “Say no more. I understand completely.”

“She made a list of potential brides.” He shot his sister a beleaguered look. “We do love her, don't we?”

Daphne choked on a laugh. “Yes, Anthony, we do.”

“It's temporary insanity,” he grumbled. “It has to be. There is no other explanation. She was a perfectly reasonable mother until you reached marriageable age.”

“Me?” Daphne squeaked. “Then this is all my fault? You're a full eight years older than I am!”

“Yes, but she wasn't gripped by this matrimonial fervor until you came along.”

Daphne snorted. “Forgive me if I lack sympathy. I received a list last year.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. And lately she's been threatening to deliver them to me on a weekly basis. She badgers me on the issue of marriage far more than you could ever imagine. After all, bachelors are a challenge. Spinsters are merely pathetic. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm female.”

Anthony let out a low chuckle. “I'm your brother. I don't notice those things.” He gave her a sly, sideways look. “Did you bring it?”

“My list? Heavens, no. What can you be thinking?”

His smile widened. “I brought mine.”

Daphne gasped. “You didn't!”

“I did. Just to torture Mother. I'm going peruse it right in front of her, pull out my quizzing glass—”

“You don't have a quizzing glass.”

He grinned—the slow, devastatingly wicked smile that all Bridgerton males seemed to possess. “I bought one just for this occasion.”

“Anthony, you absolutely cannot. She will kill you. And then, somehow, she'll find a way to blame me.”

“I'm counting on it.”

Daphne swatted him in the shoulder, eliciting a loud enough grunt to cause a half dozen partygoers to send curious looks in their direction.

“A solid punch,” Anthony said, rubbing his arm.

“A girl can't live long with four brothers without learning how to throw one.” She crossed her arms. “Let me see your list.”

“After you just assaulted me?”

Daphne rolled her brown eyes and cocked her head in a decidedly impatient gesture.

“Oh, very well.” He reached into his waistcoat, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and handed it to her. “Tell me what you think. I'm sure you'll have no end of cutting remarks.”

Daphne unfolded the paper and stared down at her mother's neat, elegant handwriting. The Viscountess Bridgerton had listed the names of eight women. Eight very eligible, very wealthy young women.

“Precisely what I expected,” Daphne murmured.

“Is it as dreadful as I think?”

“Worse. Philipa Featherington is as dumb as a post.”

“And the rest of them?”

Daphne looked up at him under raised brows. “You didn't really want to get married this year, anyway, did you?”

Anthony winced. “And how was your list?”

“Blessedly out-of-date, now. Three of the five married last season. Mother is still berating me for letting them slip through my fingers.”

The two Bridgertons let out identical sighs as they slumped against the wall. Violet Bridgerton was undeterred in her mission to marry off her children. Anthony, her eldest son, and Daphne, her eldest daughter, had borne the brunt of the pressure, although Daphne suspected that the viscountess might have cheerfully married off ten-year-old Hyacinth if she'd received a suitable offer.

“Good God, you look a pair of sad sorts. What are you doing so far off in the corner?”

Another instantly recognizable voice. “Benedict,” Daphne said, glancing sideways at him without moving her head. “Don't tell me Mother managed to get you to attend tonight's festivities.”

He nodded grimly. “She has completely bypassed cajoling and moved on to guilt. Three times this week she has reminded me I may have to provide the next viscount, if Anthony here doesn't get busy.”

Anthony groaned.

“I assume that explains your flight as well to the darkest corners of the ballroom?” Benedict continued. “Avoiding Mother?”

“Actually,” Anthony replied, “I saw Daff skulking in the corner and—”

“Skulking?” Benedict said with mock horror.

She shot them both an irritated scowl. “I came over to hide from Nigel Berbrooke,” she explained. “I left Mother in the company of Lady Jersey, so she's not likely to pester me anytime soon, but Nigel—”

“Is more monkey than man,” Benedict quipped.

“Well, I wouldn't have put it that way precisely,” Daphne said, trying to be kind, “but he isn't terribly bright, and it's so much easier to stay out of his way than to hurt his feelings. Of course now that you lot have found me, I shan't be able to avoid him for long.”

Anthony voiced a simple, “Oh?”

Daphne looked at her two older brothers, both an inch above six feet with broad shoulders and melting brown eyes. They each sported thick chestnut hair—much the same color as her own—and more to the point, they could not go anywhere in polite society without a small gaggle of twittering young ladies following them about.

And where a gaggle of twittering young ladies went, Nigel Berbrooke was sure to follow.

Already Daphne could see heads turning in their direction. Ambitious mamas were nudging their daughters and pointing to the two Bridgerton brothers, off by themselves with no company save for their sister.

“I knew I should have made for the retiring room,” Daphne muttered.

“I say, what's that piece of paper in your hand, Daff?” Benedict inquired.

Somewhat absentmindedly, she handed him the list of Anthony's supposed brides.

At Benedict's loud chortle, Anthony crossed his arms, and said, “Try not to have too much fun at my expense. I predict you'll be receiving a similar list next week.”

“No doubt,” Benedict agreed. “It's a wonder Colin—” His eyes snapped up. “Colin!”

Yet another Bridgerton brother joined the crowd.

“Oh, Colin!” Daphne exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “It's so good to see you.”

“Note that we didn't receive similarly enthusiastic greetings,” Anthony said to Benedict.

“You I see all the time,” Daphne retorted. “Colin's been away a full year.” After giving him one last squeeze, she stepped back, and scolded, “We didn't expect you until next week.”

Colin's one-shoulder shrug matched his lopsided smile to perfection. “Paris grew dull.”

“Ah,” Daphne said with a shrewd look in her eye. “Then you ran out of money.”

Colin laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

Anthony hugged his brother, and said gruffly, “It's damned fine to have you home, brother. Although the funds I sent you should have lasted you at least until—”

“Stop,” Colin said helplessly, laughter still tinging his voice. “I promise you may scold me all you want tomorrow. Tonight I merely wish to enjoy the company of my beloved family.”

Benedict let out a snort. “You must be completely broke if you're calling us ‘beloved.’” But he leaned forward to give his brother a hearty hug all the same. “Welcome home.”

Colin, always the most devil-may-care of the family, grinned, his green eyes twinkling. “Good to be back. Although I must say the weather is not nearly so fine as on the Continent, and as for the women, well, England would be hard pressed to compete with the signorina I—”

Daphne punched him in the arm. “Kindly recall that there is a lady present, churl.” But there was little ire in her voice. Of all her siblings, Colin was the closest to her in age—only eighteen months her elder. As children, they had been inseparable—and always in trouble. Colin was a natural prankster, and Daphne had never needed much convincing to go along with his schemes. “Does Mother know you're home?” she asked.

Colin shook his head. “I arrived to an empty house, and—”

“Yes, Mother put the younger ones to bed early tonight,” Daphne interrupted.

“I didn't want to wait about and twiddle my thumbs, so Humboldt gave me your direction and I came here.”

Daphne beamed, her wide smile lending warmth to her dark eyes. “I'm glad you did.”

“Where is Mother?” Colin asked, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. Like all Bridgerton males, he was tall, so he didn't have to stretch very far.

“Over in the corner with Lady Jersey,” Daphne replied.

Colin shuddered. “I'll wait until she's extricated herself. I have no wish to be flayed alive by that dragon.”

“Speaking of dragons,” Benedict said pointedly. His head didn't move, but his eyes flicked off to the left.

Daphne followed his line of vision to see Lady Danbury marching slowly toward them. She carried a cane, but Daphne swallowed nervously and steeled her shoulders. Lady Danbury's often cutting wit was legendary among the ton. Daphne had always suspected that a sentimental heart beat under her acerbic exterior, but still, it was always terrifying when Lady Danbury pressed one into conversation.

“No escape,” Daphne heard one of her brothers groan.

Daphne shushed him and offered the old lady a hesitant smile.

Lady Danbury's brows rose, and when she was but four feet away from the group of Bridgertons, she stopped, and barked, “Don't pretend you don't see me!”

This was followed by a thump of the cane so loud that Daphne jumped back just enough to trample Benedict's toe.

“Euf,” said Benedict.

Since her brothers appeared to have gone temporarily mute (except for Benedict, of course, but Daphne didn't think that grunts of pain counted as intelligible speech) Daphne swallowed, and said, “I hope I did not give that impression, Lady Danbury, for—”

“Not you,” Lady Danbury said imperiously. She jabbed her cane into the air, making a perfectly horizontal line that ended perilously close to Colin's stomach. “Them.”

A chorus of mumbled greetings emerged as a response.

Lady Danbury flicked the men the briefest of glances before turning back to Daphne, and saying, “Mr. Berbrooke was asking after you.”

Daphne actually felt her skin turn green. “He was?”

Lady Danbury gave her a curt nod. “I'd nip that one in the bud, were I you, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Did you tell him where I was?”

Lady Danbury's mouth slid into a sly, conspiratorial smile. “I always knew I liked you. And no, I did not tell him where you were.”

“Thank you,” Daphne said gratefully.

“It'd be a waste of a good mind if you were shackled to that nitwit,” Lady Danbury said, “and the good Lord knows that the ton can't afford to waste the few good minds we've got.”

“Er, thank you,” Daphne said.

“As for you lot”—Lady Danbury waved her cane at Daphne's brothers—“I still reserve judgment. You”—she pointed the cane at Anthony—“I'm inclined to be favorable toward, since you refused Berbrooke's suit on your sister's behalf, but the rest of you…Hmmph.”

And with that she walked away.

“‘Hmmph?’” Benedict echoed. “‘Hmmph?’ She purports to quantify my intelligence and all she comes up with is ‘Hmmph?’”

Daphne smirked. “She likes me.”

“You're welcome to her,” Benedict grumbled.

“Rather sporting of her to warn you about Berbrooke,” Anthony admitted.

Daphne nodded. “I believe that was my cue to take my leave.” She turned to Anthony with a beseeching look. “If he comes looking for me—”

“I'll take care of it,” he said gently. “Don't worry.”

“Thank you.” And then, with a smile to her brothers, she slipped out of the ballroom.

As Simon walked quietly through the halls of Lady Danbury's London home, it occurred to him that he was in a singularly good mood. This, he thought with a chuckle, was truly remarkable, considering the fact that he was about to attend a society ball and thus subject himself to all the horrors Anthony Bridgerton had laid out before him earlier that afternoon.

But he could console himself with the knowledge that after today, he needn't bother with such functions again; as he had told Anthony earlier that afternoon, he was only attending this particular ball out of loyalty to Lady Danbury, who, despite her curmudgeonly ways, had always been quite nice to him as a child.

His good mood, he was coming to realize, derived from the simple fact that he was pleased to be back in England.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed his journeys across the globe. He'd traveled the length and breadth of Europe, sailed the exquisitely blue seas of the Mediterranean, and delved into the mysteries of North Africa. From there he'd gone on to the Holy Land, and then, when inquiries revealed that it was not yet time to return home, he crossed the Atlantic and explored the West Indies. At that point he considered moving on to the United States of America, but the new nation had seen fit to enter into conflict with Britain, so Simon had stayed away.

Besides, that was when he'd learned that his father, ill for several years, had finally died.

It was ironic, really. Simon wouldn't have traded his years of exploration for anything. Six years gave a man a lot of time to think, a lot of time to learn what it meant to be a man. And yet the only reason the then-twenty-two-year-old Simon had left England was because his father had suddenly decided that he was finally willing to accept his son.

Simon hadn't been willing to accept his father, though, and so he'd simply packed his bags and left the country, preferring exile to the old duke's hypocritical overtures of affection.

It had all started when Simon had finished at Oxford. The duke hadn't originally wanted to pay for his son's schooling; Simon had once seen a letter written to a tutor stating that he refused to let his idiot son make a fool of the family at Eton. But Simon had had a hungry mind as well as a stubborn heart, and so he'd ordered a carriage to take him to Eton, knocked on the headmaster's door, and announced his presence.

It had been the most terrifying thing he'd ever done, but he'd somehow managed to convince the headmaster that the mix-up was the school's fault, that somehow Eton must have lost his enrollment papers and fees. He'd copied all of his father's mannerisms, raising an arrogant brow, lifting his chin, and looking down his nose, and generally appearing as if he thought he owned the world.

And the entire time, he'd been quaking in his shoes, terrified that at any moment his words would grow garbled and land on top of each other, that “I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am here to begin classes,” would instead come out as, “I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am h-h-h-h-h-h—”

But it hadn't, and the headmaster, who'd spent enough years educating England's elite to immediately recognize Simon as a member of the Basset family, had enrolled him posthaste and without question. It had taken several months for the duke (who was always quite busy with his own pursuits) to learn of his son's new status and change in residence. By that point, Simon was well ensconced at Eton, and it would have looked very bad if the duke had pulled the boy out of school for no reason.

And the duke didn't like to look bad.

Simon had often wondered why his father hadn't chosen to make an overture at that time. Clearly Simon wasn't tripping over his every word at Eton; the duke would have heard from the headmaster if his son weren't able to keep up with his studies. Simon's speech still occasionally slipped, but by then he'd grown remarkably proficient in covering up his mistakes with a cough or, if he was lucky enough to be taking a meal at the time, a well-timed sip of tea or milk.

But the duke never even wrote him a letter. Simon supposed his father had grown so used to ignoring his son that it didn't even matter that he wasn't proving to be an embarrassment to the Basset name.

After Eton, Simon followed the natural progression to Oxford, where he earned the reputations of both scholar and rake. Truth be told, he hadn't deserved the label of rake any more than most of the young bucks at university, but Simon's somewhat aloof demeanor somehow fed the persona.

Simon wasn't exactly certain how it had happened, but gradually he became aware that his peers craved his approval. He was intelligent and athletic, but it seemed his elevated status had more to do with his manner than anything else. Because Simon didn't speak when words were not necessary, people judged him to be arrogant, just as a future duke should be. Because he preferred to surround himself with only those friends with whom he truly felt comfortable, people decided he was exceptionally discriminating in his choice of companions, just as a future duke should be.

He wasn't very talkative, but when he did say something, he had a quick and often ironic wit—just the sort of humor that guaranteed that people would hang on his every word. And again, because he didn't constantly run off at the mouth, as did so many of the ton, people were even more obsessed with what he had to say.

He was called “supremely confident,”“heartstoppingly handsome,” and “the perfect specimen of English manhood.” Men wanted his opinion on any number of topics.

The women swooned at his feet.

Simon never could quite believe it all, but he enjoyed his status nonetheless, taking what was offered him, running wild with his friends, and enjoying the company of all the young widows and opera singers who sought his attention—and every escapade was all the more delicious for knowing that his father must disapprove.

But, as it turned out, his father didn't entirely disapprove. Unbeknownst to Simon, the Duke of Hastings had already begun to grow interested in the progress of his only son. He requested academic reports from the university and hired a Bow Street Runner to keep him apprised of Simon's extracurricular activities. And eventually, the duke stopped expecting every missive to contain tales of his son's idiocy.

It would have been impossible to pinpoint exactly when his change of heart occurred, but one day the duke realized that his son had turned out rather nicely, after all.

The duke puffed out with pride. As always, good breeding had proven true in the end. He should have known that Basset blood could not produce an imbecile.

Upon finishing Oxford with a first in mathematics, Simon came to London with his friends. He had, of course, taken bachelor's lodgings, having no wish to reside with his father. And as Simon went out in society, more and more people misinterpreted his pregnant pauses for arrogance and his small circle of friends for exclusivity.

His reputation was sealed when Beau Brummel—the then recognized leader of society—had asked a rather involved question about some trivial new fashion. Brummel's tone had been condescending and he had clearly hoped to embarrass the young lord. As all London knew, Brummel loved nothing better than to reduce England's elite into blithering idiots. And so he had pretended to care about Simon's opinion, ending his question with a drawled, “Don't you think?”

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 debauché. 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?”