A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.
Elbert Hubbard
ePub
A4Chapter 5
Were you at Lady Danbury's ball last night? If not, shame on you. You missed witnessing quite the most remarkable coup of the season. It was clear to all partygoers, and especially to This Author, that Miss Daphne Bridgerton has captured the interest of the newly returned to England Duke of Hastings.!!!One can only imagine the relief of Lady Bridgerton. How mortifying it will be if Daphne remains on the shelf for yet another season! And Lady B—with three more daughters to marry off. Oh, the horror.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1813
o O o
There was no way Daphne could refuse.
First of all, her mother was impaling her with her deadly I-Am-Your-Mother-Don't-You-Dare-Defy-Me gaze.
Secondly, the duke had clearly not given Anthony the entire story of their meeting in the dimly lit hallway; to make a show of refusing to dance with him would certainly raise undue speculation.
Not to mention that Daphne really didn't particularly relish getting drawn into a conversation with the Featheringtons, which was sure to happen if she didn't make immediate haste for the dance floor.
And finally, she kind of sort of just a little teeny bit actually wanted to dance with the duke.
Of course the arrogant boor didn't even give her the chance to accept. Before Daphne could manage an “I'd be delighted,” or even a mere, “Yes,” he had her halfway across the room.
The orchestra was still producing those awful noises it makes while the musicians were getting ready to begin, so they were forced to wait a moment before they actually danced.
“Thank God you didn't refuse,” the duke said with great feeling.
“When would I have had the opportunity?”
He grinned at her.
Daphne answered that with a scowl. “I wasn't given the opportunity to accept, either, if you recall.”
He raised a brow. “Does that mean I must ask you again?”
“No, of course not,” Daphne replied, rolling her eyes. “That would be rather childish of me, don't you think? And besides, it would cause a terrible scene, which I don't think either of us desires.”
He cocked his head and gave her a rather assessing glance, as if he had analyzed her personality in an instant and decided she might just be acceptable. Daphne found the experience somewhat unnerving.
Just then the orchestra ceased its discordant warm-up and struck the first notes of a waltz.
Simon groaned. “Do young ladies still need permission to waltz?”
Daphne found herself smiling at his discomfort. “How long have you been away?”
“Five years. Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have it?” He looked almost pained at the prospect of his escape plan falling apart.
“Of course.”
He swept her into his arms and whirled her into the throng of elegantly clad couples. “Good.”
They had made a full circle of the ballroom before Daphne asked, “How much of our meeting did you reveal to my brothers? I saw you with them, you know.”
Simon only smiled.
“What are you grinning about?” she asked suspiciously.
“I was merely marveling at your restraint.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shrugged slightly, his shoulders rising as his head tilted to the right. “I hadn't thought you the most patient of ladies,” he said, “and here it took you a full three and a half minutes before asking me about my conversation with your brothers.”
Daphne fought a blush. The truth was, the duke was a most accomplished dancer, and she'd been enjoying the waltz too much even to think of conversation.
“But since you asked,” he said, mercifully sparing her from having to make a comment, “all I told them was that I ran into you in the hall and that, given your coloring, I instantly recognized you as a Bridgerton and introduced myself.”
“Do you think they believed you?”
“Yes,” he said softly, “I rather think they did.”
“Not that we have anything to hide,” she added quickly.
“Of course not.”
“If there is any villain in this piece it is most certainly Nigel.”
“Of course.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Do you think he's still out in the hall?”
“I certainly have no intention of finding out.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Daphne said, “It has been some time since you have attended a London ball, has it not? Nigel and I must have been quite a welcome.”
“You were a welcome sight. He was not.”
She smiled slightly at the compliment. “Aside from our little escapade, have you been enjoying your evening?”
Simon's answer was so unequivocally in the negative that he actually snorted a laugh before saying it.
“Really?” Daphne replied, her brows arching with curiosity. “Now that is interesting.”
“You find my agony interesting? Remind me never to turn to you should I ever fall ill.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “It can't have been that bad.”
“Oh, it can.”
“Certainly not as bad as my evening.”
“You did look rather miserable with your mother and Macclesfield,” he allowed.
“How kind of you to point it out,” she muttered.
“But I still think my evening was worse.”
Daphne laughed, a light musical sound that warmed Simon's bones. “What a sad pair we are,” she said. “Surely we can manage a conversation on a topic other than our respective terrible evenings.”
Simon said nothing.
Daphne said nothing.
“Well, I can't think of anything,” he said.
Daphne laughed again, this time with more gaiety, and Simon once again found himself mesmerized by her smile.
“I give in,” she gasped. “What has turned your evening into such a dreadful affair?”
“What or whom?”
“‘Whom’?” she echoed, tilting her head as she looked at him. “This grows even more interesting.”
“I can think of any number of adjectives to describe all of the ‘whoms’ I have had the pleasure of meeting this evening, but ‘interesting’ is not one of them.”
“Now, now,” she chided, “don't be rude. I did see you chatting with my brothers, after all.”
He nodded gallantly, tightening his hand slightly at her waist as they swung around in a graceful arc. “My apologies. The Bridgertons are, of course, excluded from my insults.”
“We are all relieved, I'm sure.”
Simon cracked a smile at her deadpan wit. “I live to make Bridgertons happy.”
“Now that is a statement that may come back to haunt you,” she chided. “But in all seriousness, what has you in such a dither? If your evening has gone that far downhill since our interlude with Nigel, you're in sad straits, indeed.”
“How shall I put this,” he mused, “so that I do not completely offend you?”
“Oh, go right ahead,” she said blithely. “I promise not to be offended.”
Simon grinned wickedly. “A statement that may come back to haunt you.”
She blushed slightly. The color was barely noticeable in the shadowy candlelight, but Simon had been watching her closely. She didn't say anything, however, so he added, “Very well, if you must know, I have been introduced to every single unmarried lady in the ballroom.”
A strange snorting sound came from the vicinity of her mouth. Simon had the sneaking suspicion that she was laughing at him.
“I have also,” he continued, “been introduced to all of their mothers.”
She gurgled. She actually gurgled.
“Bad show,” he scolded. “Laughing at your dance partner.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, her lips tight from trying not to smile.
“No, you're not.”
“All right,” she admitted, “I'm not. But only because I have had to suffer the same torture for two years. It's difficult to summon too much pity for a mere evening's worth.”
“Why don't you just find someone to marry and put yourself out of your misery?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Are you asking?”
Simon felt the blood leave his face.
“I thought not.” She took one look at him and let out an impatient exhale. “Oh, for goodness sake. You can start breathing now, your grace. I was only teasing.”
Simon wanted to make some sort of dry, cutting, and utterly ironic comment, but the truth was, she has so startled him that he couldn't utter a word.
“To answer your question,” she continued, her voice a touch more brittle than he was accustomed to hearing from her, “a lady must consider her options. There is Nigel, of course, but I think we must agree he is not a suitable candidate.”
Simon shook his head.
“Earlier this year there was Lord Chalmers.”
“Chalmers?” He frowned. “Isn't he—”
“On the darker side of sixty? Yes. And since I would someday like to have children, it seemed—”
“Some men that age can still sire brats,” Simon pointed out.
“It wasn't a risk I was prepared to take,” she returned. “Besides—” She shuddered slightly, a look of revulsion passing over her features. “I didn't particularly care to have children with him.”
Much to his annoyance, Simon found himself picturing Daphne in bed with the elderly Chalmers. It was a disgusting image, and it left him feeling faintly furious. At whom, he didn't know; maybe at himself for even bothering to imagine the damned thing, but—
“Before Lord Chalmers,” Daphne continued, thankfully interrupting his rather unpleasant thought process, “there were two others, both just as repulsive.”
Simon looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you want to marry?”
“Well, of course.” Her face registered her surprise. “Doesn't everyone?”
“I don't.”
She smiled condescendingly. “You think you don't. All men think they don't. But you will.”
“No,” he said emphatically. “I will never marry.”
She gaped at him. Something in the duke's tone of voice told her that he truly meant what he said. “What about your title?”
Simon shrugged. “What about it?”
“If you don't marry and sire an heir, it will expire. Or go to some beastly cousin.”
That caused him to raise an amused brow. “And how do you know that my cousins are beastly?”
“All cousins who are next in line for a title are beastly.” She cocked her head in a mischievous manner. “Or at least they are according to the men who actually possess the title.”
“And this is information you've gleaned from your extensive knowledge of men?” he teased.
She shot him a devastatingly superior grin. “Of course.”
Simon was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “Is it worth it?”
She looked bemused by his sudden change of subject. “Is what worth it?”
He let go of her hand just long enough to wave at the crowd. “This. This endless parade of parties. Your mother nipping at your heels.”
Daphne let out a surprised chuckle. “I doubt she'd appreciate the metaphor.” She fell silent for a moment, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she said, “But yes, I suppose it is worth it. It has to be worth it.”
She snapped back to attention and looked back to his face, her dark eyes meltingly honest. “I want a husband. I want a family. It's not so silly when you think about it. I'm fourth of eight children. All I know are large families. I shouldn't know how to exist outside of one.”
Simon caught her gaze, his eyes burning hot and intense into hers. A warning bell sounded in his mind. He wanted her. He wanted her so desperately he was straining against his clothing, but he could never, ever so much as touch her. Because to do so would be to shatter every last one of her dreams, and rake or not, Simon wasn't certain he could live with himself if he did that.
He would never marry, never sire a child, and that was all she wanted out of life.
He might enjoy her company; he wasn't certain he could deny himself that. But he had to leave her untouched for another man.
“Your grace?” she asked quietly. When he blinked, she smiled and said, “You were woolgathering.”
He inclined his head graciously. “Merely pondering your words.”
“And did they meet with your approval?”
“Actually, I can't remember the last time I conversed with someone with such obvious good sense.” He added in a slow voice, “It's good to know what you want out of life.”
“Do you know what you want?”
Ah, how to answer that. There were some things he knew he could not say. But it was so easy to talk to this girl. Something about her put his mind at ease, even as his body tingled with desire. By all rights they should not have been having such a frank conversation so soon into an acquaintance, but somehow it just felt natural.
Finally, he just said, “I made some decisions when I was younger. I try to live my life according to those vows.”
She looked ravenously curious, but good manners prevented her from questioning him further. “My goodness,” she said with a slightly forced smile, “we've grown serious. And here I thought all we meant to debate was whose evening was less pleasant.”
They were both trapped, Simon realized. Trapped by their society's conventions and expectations.
And that's when an idea popped into his mind. A strange, wild, and appallingly wonderful idea. It was probably also a dangerous idea, since it would put him in her company for long periods of time, which would certainly leave him in a perpetual state of unfulfilled desire, but Simon valued his self-control above all else, and he was certain he could control his baser urges.
“Wouldn't you like a respite?” he asked suddenly.
“A respite?” she echoed bemusedly. Even as they twirled across the floor, she looked from side to side. “From this?”
“Not precisely. This, you'd still have to endure. What I envision is more of a respite from your mother.”
Daphne choked on her surprise. “You're going to remove my mother from the social whirl? Doesn't that seem a touch extreme?”
“I'm not talking about removing your mother. Rather, I want to remove you.”
Daphne tripped over her feet, and then, just as soon as she'd regained her balance, she tripped over his. “I beg your pardon?”
“I had hoped to ignore London society altogether,” he explained, “but I'm finding that may prove to be impossible.”
“Because you've suddenly developed a taste for ratafia and weak lemonade?” she quipped.
“No,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm, “because I've discovered that half of my university friends married in my absence, and their wives seem to be obsessed with throwing the perfect party—”
“And you've been invited?”
He nodded grimly.
Daphne leaned in close, as if she were about to tell him a grave secret. “You're a duke,” she whispered. “You can say no.”
She watched with fascination as his jaw tightened. “These men,” he said, “their husbands—they are my friends.”
Daphne felt her lips moving into an unbidden grin. “And you don't want to hurt their wives' feelings.”
Simon scowled, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment.
“Well, I'll be,” she said mischievously. “You might just be a nice person after all.”
“I'm hardly nice,” he scoffed.
“Perhaps, but you're hardly cruel, either.”
The music drew to a close, and Simon took her arm and guided her to the perimeter of the ballroom. Their dance had deposited them on the opposite side of the room from Daphne's family, so they had time to continue their conversation as they walked slowly back to the Bridgertons.
“What I was trying to say,” he said, “before you so skillfully diverted me, was that it appears I must attend a certain number of London events.”
“Hardly a fate worse than death.”
He ignored her editorial. “You, I gather, must attend them as well.”
She gave him a single regal nod.
“Perhaps there is a way that I might be spared the attentions of the Featheringtons and the like, and at the same time, you might be spared the matchmaking efforts of your mother.”
She looked at him intently. “Go on.”
“We”—he leaned forward, his eyes mesmerizing hers—“will form an attachment.”
Daphne said nothing. Absolutely nothing. She just stared at him as if she were trying to decide if he were the rudest man on the face of the earth or simply mad in the head.
“Not a true attachment,” Simon said impatiently. “Good God, what sort of man do you think I am?”
“Well, I was warned about your reputation,” she pointed out. “And you yourself tried to terrify me with your rakish ways earlier this evening.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Of course you did.” She patted his arm. “But I forgive you. I'm sure you couldn't help it.”
Simon gave her a startled look. “I don't believe I have ever been condescended to by a woman before.”
She shrugged. “It was probably past time.”
“Do you know, I'd thought that you were unmarried because your brothers had scared off all your suitors, but now I wonder if you did it all on your own.”
Much to his surprise, she just laughed. “No,” she said, “I'm unmarried because everyone sees me as a friend. No one ever has any romantic interest in me.” She grimaced. “Except Nigel.”
Simon pondered her words for a few moments, then realized that his plan could work to her benefit even more than he'd originally imagined. “Listen,” he said, “and listen quickly because we're almost back to your family, and Anthony looks as if he's about to bolt in our direction any minute now.”
They both glanced quickly to the right. Anthony was still trapped in conversation with the Featheringtons. He did not look happy.
“Here is my plan,” Simon continued, his voice low and intense. “We shall pretend to have developed a tendre for each other. I won't have quite so many debutantes thrown in my direction because it will be perceived that I am no longer available.”
“No it won't,” Daphne replied. “They won't believe you're unavailable until you're standing up before the bishop, taking your vows.”
The very thought made his stomach churn. “Nonsense,” he said. “It may take a bit of time, but I'm sure I will eventually be able to convince society that I am not anyone's candidate for marriage.”
“Except mine,” Daphne pointed out.
“Except yours,” he agreed, “but we will know that isn't true.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Frankly, I do not believe that this will work, but if you're convinced…”
“I am.”
“Well, then, what do I gain?”
“For one thing, your mother will stop dragging you from man to man if she thinks you have secured my interest.”
“Rather conceited of you,” Daphne mused, “but true.”
Simon ignored her gibe. “Secondly,” he continued, “men are always more interested in a woman if they think other men are interested.”
“Meaning?'
“Meaning, quite simply, and pardon my conceit”—he shot her a sardonic look to show that he hadn't missed her earlier sarcasm—“but if all the world thinks I intend to make you my duchess, all of those men who see you as nothing more than an affable friend will begin to view you in a new light.”
Her lips pursed. “Meaning that once you throw me over, I shall have hordes of suitors at my beck and call?”
“Oh, I shall allow you to be the one to cry off,” he said gallantly.
He noticed she didn't bother to thank him.
“I still think I'm gaining much more from this arrangement than you,” she said.
He squeezed her arm slightly. “Then you'll do it?”
Daphne looked at Mrs. Featherington, who looked like a bird of prey, and then at her brother, who looked as if he had swallowed a chicken bone. She'd seen those expressions dozens of times before—except on the faces of her own mother and some hapless potential suitor.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “Yes, I'll do it.”
o O o
“What do you suppose is taking them so long?”
Violet Bridgerton tugged on her eldest son's sleeve, unable to take her eyes off of her daughter—who appeared to have thoroughly captured the attention of the Duke of Hastings—only one week in London and already the catch of the season.
“I don't know,” Anthony replied, looking gratefully at the backs of the Featheringtons as they moved on to their next victim, “but it feels as if it's been hours.”
“Do you think he likes her?” Violet asked excitedly. “Do you think our Daphne truly has a chance to be a duchess?”
Anthony's eyes filled with a mixture of impatience and disbelief. “Mother, you told Daphne she wasn't even to be seen with him, and now you're thinking of marriage?”
“I spoke prematurely,” Violet said with a blithe wave of her hand. “Clearly he is a man of great refinement and taste. And how, may I ask, do you know what I said to Daphne?”
“Daff told me, of course,” Anthony lied.
“Hmmph. Well, I am certain that Portia Featherington won't be forgetting this evening anytime soon.”
Anthony's eyes widened. “Are you trying to marry Daphne off so that she might be happy as a wife and a mother, or are you just trying to beat Mrs. Featherington to the altar?”
“The former, of course,” Violet replied in a huff, “and I am offended you would even imply otherwise.” Her eyes strayed off of Daphne and the duke for just long enough to locate Portia Featherington and her daughters. “But I certainly shan't mind seeing the look on her face when she realizes that Daphne will make the season's greatest match.”
“Mother, you are hopeless.”
“Certainly not. Shameless, perhaps, but never hopeless.”
Anthony just shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
“It's impolite to mumble,” Violet said, mostly just to annoy him. Then she spotted Daphne and the duke. “Ah, here they come. Anthony, behave yourself. Daphne! Your grace!” She paused as the couple made their way to her side. “I trust you enjoyed your dance.”
“Very much,” Simon murmured. “Your daughter is as graceful as she is lovely.”
Anthony let out a snort.
Simon ignored him. “I hope we may have the pleasure of dancing together again very soon.”
Violet positively glowed. “Oh, I'm sure Daphne would adore that.” When Daphne didn't answer with all possible haste, she added, quite pointedly, “Wouldn't you, Daphne?”
“Of course,” Daphne said demurely.
“I'm certain your mother would never be so lax as to allow me a second waltz,” Simon said, looking every inch the debonair duke, “but I do hope she will permit us to take a stroll around the ballroom.”
“You just took a stroll around the ballroom,” Anthony pointed out.
Simon ignored him again. He said to Violet, “We shall, of course, remain in your sight at all times.”
The lavender silk fan in Violet's hand began to flutter rapidly. “I should be delighted. I mean, Daphne should be delighted. Shouldn't you, Daphne?”
Daphne was all innocence. “Oh, I should.”
“And I,” Anthony snapped, “should take a dose of laudanum, for clearly I am fevered. What the devil is going on?”
“Anthony!” Violet exclaimed. She turned hastily to Simon. “Don't mind him.”
“Oh, I never do,” Simon said affably.
“Daphne,” Anthony said pointedly, “I should be delighted to act as your chaperon.”
“Really, Anthony,” Violet cut in, “they hardly need one if they are to remain here in the ballroom.”
“Oh, I insist.”
“You two run along,” Violet said to Daphne and Simon, waving her hand at them. “Anthony will be with you in just a moment.”
Anthony tried to follow immediately, but Violet grabbed onto his wrist. Hard. “What the devil do you think you're doing?” she hissed.
“Protecting my sister!”
“From the duke? He can't be that wicked. Actually, he reminds me of you.”
Anthony groaned. “Then she definitely needs my protection.”
Violet patted him on the arm. “Don't be so over-protective. If he attempts to spirit her out onto the balcony, I promise you may dash out to rescue her. But until that unlikely event occurs, please allow your sister her moment of glory.”
Anthony glared at Simon's back. “Tomorrow I will kill him.”
“Dear me,” Violet said, shaking her head, “I had no idea you could be so high-strung. One would think, as your mother, I would know these things, especially since you are my firstborn, and thus I have known you for the longest of any of my children, but—”
“Is that Colin?” Anthony interrupted, his voice strangled.
Violet blinked, then squinted her eyes. “Why, yes, it is. Isn't it lovely that he returned early? I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him an hour ago. In fact, I—”
“I'd better go to him,” Anthony said quickly. “He looks lonely. Good-bye, Mother.”
Violet watched as Anthony ran off, presumably to escape her chattering lecture. “Silly boy,” she murmured to herself. None of her children seemed to be on to any of her tricks. Just blather on about nothing in particular, and she could be rid of any of them in a trice.
She let out a satisfied sigh and resumed her watch of her daughter, now on the other side of the ballroom, her hand nestled comfortably in the crook of the duke's elbow. They made a most handsome couple.
Yes, Violet thought, her eyes growing misty, her daughter would make an excellent duchess.
Then she let her gaze wander briefly over to Anthony, who was now right where she wanted him—out of her hair. She allowed herself a secret smile. Children were so easy to manage.
Then her smile turned to a frown as she noticed Daphne walking back toward her—on the arm of another man. Violet's eyes immediately scanned the ballroom until she found the duke.
Dash it all, what the devil was he doing dancing with Penelope Featherington
