All in all, Daphne thought, Anthony was taking this rather well. By the time Simon had finished explaining their little plan (with, she had to admit, frequent interruptions on her part), Anthony had raised his voice only seven times.

That was about seven fewer than Daphne would have predicted.

Finally, after Daphne begged him to hold his tongue until she and Simon were done with their story, Anthony gave a curt nod, crossed his arms, and clamped his mouth shut for the duration of the explanation. His frown was enough to shake the plaster off the walls, but true to his word, he remained utterly silent.

Until Simon finished with, “And that's that.”

There was silence. Dead silence. For a full ten seconds, nothing but silence, although Daphne would have sworn she could hear her eyes moving in their sockets as they darted back from Anthony to Simon.

And then finally, from Anthony: “Are you mad?”

“I thought this might be his reaction,” Daphne murmured.

“Are you both completely, irrevocably, abominably insane?” Anthony's voice rose to a roar. “I don't know which of you is more clearly the idiot.”

“Will you hush!” Daphne hissed. “Mother will hear you.”

“Mother would perish of heart failure if she knew what you were about,” Anthony retorted, but he did use a softer tone.

“But Mother is not going to hear of it, is she?” Daphne shot back.

“No, she's not,” Anthony replied, his chin jutting forward, “because your little scheme is finished as of this very moment.”

Daphne crossed her arms. “You can't do anything to stop me.”

Anthony jerked his head toward Simon. “I can kill him.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Duels have been fought for less.”

“By idiots!”

“I'm not disputing the title as regards to him.”

“If I might interrupt,” Simon said quietly.

“He's your best friend!” Daphne protested.

“Not,” Anthony said, the single syllable brimming with barely contained violence, “anymore.”

Daphne turned to Simon with a huff. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

His lips quirked into an amused half-smile. “And when would I have had the chance?”

Anthony turned to Simon. “I want you out of this house.”

“Before I may defend myself?”

“It's my house, too,” Daphne said hotly, “and I want him to stay.”

Anthony glared at his sister, exasperation evident in every inch of his posture. “Very well,” he said, “I'll give you two minutes to state your case. No more.”

Daphne glanced hesitantly at Simon, wondering if he'd want to use the two minutes himself. But all he did was shrug, and say, “Go right ahead. He's your brother.”

She took a fortifying breath, planted her hands on her hips without even realizing it, and said, “First of all, I must point out that I have far more to gain from this alliance than his grace. He says he wishes to use me to keep the other women—”

“And their mothers,” Simon interrupted.

“—and their mothers at bay. But frankly”—Daphne glanced at Simon as she said this—“I think he's wrong. The women aren't going to stop pursuing him just because they think he might have formed an attachment with another young lady—especially when that young lady is me.”

“And what is wrong with you?” Anthony demanded.

Daphne started to explain, but then she caught a strange glance pass between the two men. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” Anthony muttered, looking a trifle sheepish.

“I explained to your brother your theory on why you have not had more suitors,” Simon said gently.

“I see.” Daphne pursed her lips as she tried to decide whether that was something she ought to be irritated about. “Hmmph. Well, he should have figured that out on his own.”

Simon made an odd snorting sound that might have been a laugh.

Daphne leveled a sharp look at both men. “I do hope my two minutes do not include all of these interruptions.”

Simon shrugged. “He's the timekeeper.”

Anthony clutched at the edge of the desk, probably, Daphne thought, to keep himself from going for Simon's throat. “And he,” he said menacingly, “is going to find himself headfirst through the goddamned window if he doesn't shut up.”

“Did you know I have always suspected that men were idiots,” Daphne ground out, “but I was never positive until today.”

Simon grinned.

“Allowing for interruptions,” Anthony bit off, shooting yet another deadly glare in Simon's direction even as he spoke to Daphne, “you have a minute and a half left.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Then I'll reduce this conversation to one single fact. Today I had six callers. Six! Can you recall the last time I had six callers?”

Anthony just stared at her blankly.

“I can't,” Daphne continued, in fine form now. “Because it has never happened. Six men marched up our steps, knocked on our door, and gave Humboldt their cards. Six men brought me flowers, engaged me in conversation, and one even recited poetry.”

Simon winced.

“And do you know why?” she demanded, her voice rising dangerously. “Do you?”

Anthony, in his somewhat belatedly arrived wisdom, held his tongue.

“It is all because he”—she jabbed her forefinger toward Simon—“was kind enough to feign interest in me last night at Lady Danbury's ball.”

Simon, who had been leaning casually against the edge of the desk, suddenly straightened. “Well, now,”he said quickly, “I wouldn't quite put it that way.”

She turned to him, her eyes remarkably steady. “And how would you put it?”

He didn't get much past, “I—” before she added, “Because I can assure you those men have never seen fit to call on me before.”

“If they are so myopic,” Simon said quietly, “why do you care for their regard?”

She fell silent, drawing back slightly. Simon had the sinking suspicion that he might have said something very, very wrong, but he wasn't positive until he saw her blinking rapidly.

Oh, damn.

Then she wiped one of her eyes. She coughed as she did it, trying to hide the maneuver by pretending to cover her mouth, but Simon still felt like the worst sort of heel.

“Now look what you've done,” Anthony snapped. He placed a comforting hand on his sister's arm, all the while glaring at Simon. “Pay him no mind, Daphne. He's an ass.”

“Maybe,” she sniffled. “But he's an intelligent ass.”

Anthony's mouth fell open.

She shot him a testy look. “Well, if you didn't want me to repeat it, you shouldn't have said it.”

Anthony let out a weary sigh. “Were there really six men here this afternoon?”

She nodded. “Seven including Hastings.”

“And,” he asked carefully, “were any of them men you might be interested in marrying?”

Simon realized that his fingers were gouging small holes in his thigh and forced himself to move his hand to the desk.

Daphne nodded again. “They are all men with whom I have enjoyed a previous friendship. It is only that they never viewed me as a candidate for romance before Hastings led the way. I might, if given the opportunity, develop an attachment for one of them.”

“But—” Simon quickly shut his mouth.

“But what?” Daphne asked, turning to him with curious eyes.

It occurred to him that what he wanted to say was that if those men had only noticed Daphne's charms because a duke had shown interest in her, then they were idiots, and thus she shouldn't even contemplate marrying them. But considering that he had been the one to originally point out that his interest would gain her more suitors—well, frankly, it seemed a bit self-defeating to mention it.

“Nothing,” he finally said, raising a hand in a don't-mind-me motion. “It doesn't signify.”

Daphne looked at him for a few moments, as if waiting for him to change his mind, and then turned back to her brother. “Do you admit the wisdom of our plan, then?”

“‘Wisdom’ might be a bit of a stretch, but”—Anthony looked pained to say it—“I can see where you might think it might benefit you.”

“Anthony, I have to find a husband. Besides the fact that Mother is pestering me to death, I want a husband. I want to marry and have a family of my own. I want it more than you could ever know. And thus far, no one acceptable has asked.”

Simon had no idea how Anthony could possibly hold out against the warm pleading in her dark eyes. And sure enough, Anthony sagged against the desk and let out a weary groan. “Very well,” he said, closing his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was saying, “I shall agree to this if I must.”

Daphne jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Anthony, I knew you were the very best of brothers.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You're just occasionally misguided.”

Anthony's eyes floated heavenward before focusing on Simon. “Do you see what I have to put up with?” he asked with a shake of his head. His tone was that particular timbre used only from one beleaguered male to another.

Simon chuckled to himself as he wondered when he'd turned from evil seducer back into good friend.

“But,” Anthony said loudly, causing Daphne to back up, “I am placing some conditions on this.”

Daphne didn't say anything, just blinked as she waited for her brother to continue.

“First of all, this goes no further than this room.”

“Agreed,” she said quickly.

Anthony looked pointedly at Simon.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Mother would be devastated if she learned the truth.”

“Actually,” Simon murmured, “I rather think your mother would applaud our ingenuity, but since you have quite obviously known her longer, I bow to your discretion.”

Anthony shot him a frosty look. “Second, under no circumstances are the two of you to be alone together. Ever.”

“Well, that should be easy,” Daphne said, “as we wouldn't be allowed to be alone if we were courting in truth, anyway.”

Simon recalled their brief interlude in the hall at Lady Danbury's house, and found it a pity that he wasn't to be allowed any more private time with Daphne, but he recognized a brick wall when he saw one, especially when said wall happened to be named Anthony Bridgerton. So he just nodded and murmured his assent.

“Third—”

“There is a third?” Daphne asked.

“There would be thirty if I could think of them,” Anthony growled.

“Very well,” she acceded, looking most aggrieved. “If you must.”

For a split second Simon thought Anthony might strangle her.

“What are you laughing about?” Anthony demanded.

It was only then that Simon realized that he had snorted a laugh. “Nothing,” he said quickly.

“Good,” Anthony grunted, “because the third condition is this: If I ever, even once, catch you in any behavior that compromises her…If I ever even catch you kissing her bloody hand without a chaperone, I shall tear your head off.”

Daphne blinked. “Don't you think that's a bit excessive?”

Anthony leveled a hard stare in her direction. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Hastings?”

Simon had no choice but to nod.

“Good,” Anthony replied gruffly. “And now that we're done with that, you”—he cocked his head rather abruptly toward Simon—“can leave.”

“Anthony!” Daphne exclaimed.

“I assume this means I am disinvited for supper this evening?” Simon asked.

“Yes.”

“No!” Daphne jabbed her brother in the arm. “Is Hastings invited for supper? Why did you not say something?”

“It was days ago,” Anthony grumbled. “Years.”

“It was Monday,” Simon said.

“Well, then you must join us,” Daphne said firmly. “Mother will be so delighted. And you”—she poked her brother in the arm—“stop thinking about how you may poison him.”

Before Anthony could reply, Simon waved off her words with a chuckle. “Do not worry on my behalf, Daphne. You forget that I attended school with him for nearly a decade. He never did understand the principles of chemistry.”

“I shall kill him,” Anthony said to himself. “Before the week is out, I shall kill him.”

“No you won't,” Daphne said blithely. “By tomorrow you will have forgotten all of this and will be smoking cheroots at White's.”

“I don't think so,” Anthony said ominously.

“Of course you will. Don't you agree, Simon?”

Simon studied his best friend's face and realized he was seeing something new. Something in his eyes. Something serious.

Six years ago, when Simon had left England, he and Anthony had been boys. Oh, they'd thought they were men. They'd gambled and whored and strutted about society, consumed with their own importance, but now they were different.

Now they were men in truth.

Simon had felt the change within himself during his travels. It had been a slow transformation, wrought over time as he faced new challenges. But now he realized that he'd returned to England still picturing Anthony as that twenty-two-year-old boy he'd left behind.

He'd done his friend a great disservice, he'd realized, in failing to realize that he, too, had grown up. Anthony had responsibilities Simon had never even dreamed of. He had brothers to guide, sisters to protect. Simon had a dukedom, but Anthony had a family.

There was a grave difference, and Simon found that he couldn't fault his friend for his overprotective and indeed somewhat mulish behavior.

“I think,” Simon said slowly, finally answering Daphne's question, “that your brother and I are both different people than we were when we ran wild six years ago. And I think that might not be such a bad thing.”

Several hours later, the Bridgerton household was in chaos.

Daphne had changed into an evening dress of dark green velvet that someone had once said almost made her eyes look not quite brown, and was presently idling about in the great hall, trying to find a way to calm her mother's racing nerves.

“I cannot believe,” Violet said, one hand fluttering on her chest, “that Anthony forgot to tell me he invited the duke to dinner. I had no time to prepare. None at all.”

Daphne eyed the menu in her hand, which began with turtle soup and marched through three more courses before finishing with lamb à la bechamel (followed, of course, by a choice of four desserts). She tried to keep her voice free of sarcasm as she said, “I do not think the duke will have cause to complain.”

“I pray that he won't,” Violet replied. “But if I had known he was coming, I would have made sure we had a beef dish as well. One cannot entertain without a beef dish.”

“He knows this is an informal meal.”

Violet shot her an acerbic look. “No meal is informal when a duke is calling.”

Daphne regarded her mother thoughtfully. Violet was wringing her hands and gnashing her teeth. “Mother,” Daphne said, “I don't think the duke is the sort to expect us to dramatically alter our family supper plans on his behalf.”

“He might not expect it,” Violet said, “but I do. Daphne, there are certain rules in society. Expectations. And frankly, I do not understand how you can be quite so calm and disinterested.”

“I'm not disinterested!”

“You certainly don't look nervous.” Violet eyed her suspiciously. “How can you not be nervous? For goodness sake, Daphne, this man is thinking of marrying you.”

Daphne caught herself just before she groaned. “He has never said as much, Mother.”

“He didn't have to. Why else would he have danced with you last night? The only other lady he so honored was Penelope Featherington, and we both know that that had to be out of pity.”

“I like Penelope,” Daphne said.

“I like Penelope, too,” Violet returned, “and I long for the day her mother realizes that a girl of her complexion cannot be dressed in tangerine satin, but that is beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“I don't know!” Violet very nearly wailed.

Daphne shook her head. “I'm going to find Eloise.”

“Yes, do that,” Violet said distractedly, “and make sure Gregory is clean. He never washes behind his ears. And Hyacinth—Good God, what are we to do about Hyacinth? Hastings will not expect a ten-year-old at the table.”

“Yes, he will,” Daphne replied patiently. “Anthony told him we were dining as a family.”

“Most families do not allow their younger children to dine with them,” Violet pointed out.

“Then that is their problem.” Daphne finally gave in to her exasperation and let out a loud sigh. “Mother, I spoke to the duke. He understands that this is not a formal meal. And he specifically told me that he was looking forward to a change of pace. He has no family himself, so he has never experienced anything like a Bridgerton family dinner.”

“God help us.” Violet's face went utterly pale.

“Now, Mother,” Daphne said quickly, “I know what you're thinking, and I assure you that you don't have to worry about Gregory putting creamed potatoes on Francesca's chair again. I'm certain he has outgrown such childish behavior.”

“He did it last week!”

“Well, then,” Daphne said briskly, not missing a beat, “then I'm sure he's learned his lesson.”

The look Violet gave her daughter was dubious in the extreme.

“Very well, then,” Daphne said, her tone considerably less businesslike, “then I will simply threaten him with death if he does anything to upset you.”

“Death won't scare him,” Violet mused, “but perhaps I can threaten to sell his horse.”

“He'll never believe you.”

“No, you're right. I'm far too softhearted.” Violet frowned. “But he might believe me if I told him he would be forbidden to go on his daily ride.”

“That might work,” Daphne agreed.

“Good. I shall go off and scare some sense into him.” Violet took two steps then turned around. “Having children is such a challenge.”

Daphne just smiled. She knew it was a challenge her mother adored.

Violet cleared her throat softly, signaling a more serious turn of conversation. “I do hope this supper goes well, Daphne. I think Hastings might be an excellent match for you.”

“‘Might’?” Daphne teased. “I thought dukes were good matches even if they had two heads and spit while they talked.” She laughed. “Out of both mouths!”

Violet smiled benignly. “You might find this difficult to believe, Daphne, but I don't want to see you married off to just anyone. I may introduce you to no end of eligible men, but that is only because I would like you to have as many suitors as possible from which to choose a husband.” Violet smiled wistfully. “It is my fondest dream to see you as happy as I was with your father.”

And then, before Daphne could reply, Violet disappeared down the hall.

Leaving Daphne with second thoughts.

Maybe this plan with Hastings wasn't such a good idea, after all. Violet was going to be crushed when they broke off their faux alliance. Simon had said that Daphne might be the one to do the jilting, but she was beginning to wonder if perhaps it wouldn't be better the other way around. It would be mortifying for Daphne to be thrown over by Simon, but at least that way she wouldn't have to endure Violet's bewildered chorus of “Why?”

Violet was going to think she was insane for letting him get away.

And Daphne would be left wondering if maybe her mother was right.

Simon had not been prepared for supper with the Bridgertons. It was a loud, raucous affair, with plenty of laughter and thankfully, only one incident involving a flying pea.

(It had looked as if the pea in question had originated at Hyacinth's end of the table, but the littlest Bridgerton had looked so innocent and angelic that Simon had difficulty believing she had actually aimed the legume at her brother.)

Thankfully, Violet had not noticed the flying pea, even though it sailed right over her head in a perfect arc.

But Daphne, who was sitting directly across from him, most certainly had, because her napkin flew up to cover her mouth with remarkable alacrity. Judging from the way her eyes were crinkling at the corners, she was definitely laughing under the square of linen.

Simon spoke little throughout the meal. Truth be told, it was far easier to listen to the Bridgertons than actually to try to converse with them, especially considering the number of malevolent stares he was receiving from Anthony and Benedict.

But Simon had been seated clear at the opposite end of the table from the two eldest Bridgertons (no accident on Violet's part, he was sure) so it was relatively simple to ignore them and instead enjoy Daphne's interactions with the rest of her family. Every now and then one of them would ask him a direct question, and he would answer, and then he would return to his demeanor of quiet observation.

Finally, Hyacinth, who was seated to Daphne's right, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “You don't talk much, do you?”

Violet choked on her wine.

“The duke,” Daphne said to Hyacinth, “is being far more polite than we are, constantly jumping into the conversation and interrupting one another as if we're afraid we might not be heard.”

“I'm not afraid I might not be heard,” Gregory said.

“I'm not afraid of that, either,” Violet commented dryly. “Gregory, eat your peas.”

“But Hyacinth—”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Simon said loudly, “may I trouble you for another helping of those delicious peas?”

“Why certainly.” Violet shot an arch look at Gregory. “Notice how the duke is eating his peas.”

Gregory ate his peas.

Simon smiled to himself as he spooned another portion of peas onto his plate, thankful that Lady Bridgerton had not decided to serve dinner à la russe. It would have been difficult to stave off Gregory's certain accusation of Hyacinth as a pea-tosser if he'd had to summon a footman to serve him.

Simon busied himself with his peas, since he really had no choice but to finish off every last one. He stole a glance at Daphne, however, who was wearing a secret little smile. Her eyes were brimming with infectious good humor, and Simon soon felt the corners of his mouth turning up as well.

“Anthony, why are you scowling?” asked one of the other Bridgerton girls—Simon thought it might be Francesca, but it was hard to say. The two middle ones looked amazingly alike, right down to their blue eyes, so like their mother's.

“I'm not scowling,” Anthony snapped, but Simon, having been on the receiving end of those scowls for the better part of an hour, rather thought he was lying.

“You are, too,” either Francesca or Eloise said.

Anthony's tone of reply was condescending in the extreme. “If you think I am going to say, ‘Am not,’ you are sadly mistaken.”

Daphne laughed into her napkin again.

Simon decided life was more amusing than it had been in ages.

“Do you know,” Violet suddenly announced, “that I think this might be one of the most pleasant evenings of the year. Even”—she sent a knowing glance down the table at Hyacinth—“if my youngest is tossing peas down the table.”

Simon looked up just as Hyacinth cried out, “How did you know?”

Violet shook her head as she rolled her eyes. “My dear children,” she said, “when will you learn that I know everything?”

Simon decided he had a great deal of respect for Violet Bridgerton.

But even still, she managed to completely confuse him with a question and a smile. “Tell me, your grace,” she said, “are you busy tomorrow?”

Despite her blond and blue-eyed coloring, she looked so like Daphne as she asked him this question that he was momentarily befuddled. Which had to be the only reason he didn't bother to think before he stammered, “N-no. Not that I recall.”

“Excellent!” Violet exclaimed, beaming. “Then you must join us on our outing to Greenwich.”

“Greenwich?” Simon echoed.

“Yes, we've been planning a family outing for several weeks now. We thought we'd take a boat, then perhaps have a picnic on the shores of the Thames.” Violet smiled at him confidently. “You'll come, won't you?”

“Mother,” Daphne interjected, “I'm certain the duke has any number of commitments.”

Violet gave Daphne a look so frigid Simon was surprised that neither one of them turned to ice. “Nonsense,” Violet replied. “He just said himself that he wasn't busy.” She turned back to Simon. “And we shall be visiting the Royal Observatory as well, so you needn't worry that this will be a mindless jaunt. It's not open to the public, of course, but my late husband was a great patron, so we are assured entry.”

Simon looked at Daphne. She just shrugged and apologized with her eyes.

He turned back to Violet. “I'd be delighted.”

Violet beamed and patted him on the arm.

And Simon had the sinking sensation that his fate had just been sealed.