She rose to her feet, dusting her hands off on the sage green silk of her skirts. Her hair had been styled so that one thick lock fell over her shoulder, curling seductively at the top of her breast. Simon knew he should be listening to her—she was prattling on about something, as women were wont to do—but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off that single dark lock of hair. It fell like a silky ribbon across her swanlike neck, and Simon had the most appalling urge to close the distance between them and trace the line of her hair with his lips.
He’d never dallied with an innocent before, but all the world had already painted him a rake. What could be the harm? It wasn’t as if he were going to ravish her. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss.
It was tempting, so deliciously, maddeningly tempting.
“Sir! Sir!”
With great reluctance, he dragged his eyes up to her face. Which was, of course, delightful in and of itself, but it was difficult to picture her seduction when she was scowling at him.
“Were you listening to me?”
“Of course,” he lied.
“You weren’t.”
“No,” he admitted.
A sound came from the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “Then why,” she ground out, “did you say you were?”
He shrugged. “I thought it was what you wanted to hear.”
Simon watched with fascinated interest as she took a deep breath and muttered something to herself. He couldn’t hear her words, but he doubted any of them could be construed as complimentary. Finally, her voice almost comically even, she said, “If you don’t wish to aid me, I’d prefer it if you would just leave.”
Simon decided it was time to stop acting like such a boor, so he said, “My apologies. Of course I’ll help you.”
She exhaled, and then looked back to Nigel, who was still lying on the floor, moaning incoherently. Simon looked down, too, and for several seconds they just stood there, staring at the unconscious man, until the girl said, “I really didn’t hit him very hard.”
“Maybe he’s drunk.”
She looked dubious. “Do you think? I smelled spirits on his breath, but I’ve never seen him drunk before.”
Simon had nothing to add to that line of thought, so he just asked, “Well, what do you want to do?”
“I suppose we could just leave him here,” she said, the expression in her dark eyes hesitant.
Simon thought that was an excellent idea, but it was obvious she wanted the idiot cared for in a more tender manner. And heaven help him, but he felt the strangest compulsion to make her happy. “Here is what we’re going to do,” he said crisply, glad that his tone belied any of the odd tenderness he was feeling. “I am going to summon my carriage—”
“Oh, good,” she interrupted. “I really didn’t want to leave him here. It seemed rather cruel.”
Simon thought it seemed rather generous considering the big oaf had nearly attacked her, but he kept that opinion to himself and instead continued on with his plan. “You will wait in the library while I’m gone.”
“In the library? But—”
“In the library,” he repeated firmly. “With the door shut. Do you really want to be discovered with Nigel’s body should anyone happen to wander down this hallway?”
“His body? Good gracious, sir, you needn’t make it sound as if he were dead.”
“As I was saying,” he continued, ignoring her comment completely, “you will remain in the library. When I return, we will relocate Nigel here to my carriage.”
“And how will we do that?”
He gave her a disarmingly lopsided grin. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
For a moment Daphne forgot to breathe. Just when she’d decided that her would-be rescuer was irredeemingly arrogant, he had to go and smile at her like that. It was one of those boyish grins, the kind that melted female hearts within a ten-mile radius.
And, much to Daphne’s dismay, it was awfully hard to remain thoroughly irritated with a man under the influence of such a smile. After growing up with four brothers, all of whom had seemed to know how to charm ladies from birth, Daphne had thought she was immune.
But apparently not. Her chest was tingling, her stomach was turning cartwheels, and her knees felt like melted butter.
“Nigel,” she muttered, desperately trying to force her attention away from the nameless man standing across from her, “I must see to Nigel.” She crouched down and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. “Nigel? Nigel? You have to wake up now, Nigel.”
“Daphne,” Nigel moaned. “Oh, Daphne.”
The dark-haired stranger’s head snapped around. “Daphne? Did he say Daphne?”
She drew back, unnerved by his direct question and the rather intense look in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Your name is Daphne?”
Now she was beginning to wonder if he was an idiot. “Yes.”
He groaned. “Not Daphne Bridgerton.”
Her face slid into a puzzled frown. “The very one.”
Simon staggered back a step. He suddenly felt physically ill, as his brain finally processed the fact that she had thick, chestnut hair. The famous Bridgerton hair. Not to mention the Bridgerton nose, and cheekbones, and—Bugger it all, this was Anthony’s sister!
Bloody hell.
There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.
While he stood there, probably staring at her like a complete idiot, she planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “And who are you?”
“Simon Basset,” he muttered.
“The duke?” she squeaked.
He nodded grimly.
“Oh, dear.”
Simon watched with growing horror as the blood drained from her face. “Good God, woman, you’re not going to swoon, are you?” He couldn’t imagine why she would, but Anthony—her brother, he reminded himself—had spent half the afternoon warning him about the effects of a young, unmarried duke on the young, unmarried female population. Anthony had specifically singled out Daphne as the exception to the rule, but still, she looked deucedly pale. “Are you?” he demanded, when she said nothing. “Going to swoon?”
She looked offended that he’d even considered the notion. “Of course not!”
“Good.”
“It’s just that—”
“What?” Simon asked suspiciously.
“Well,” she said with a rather dainty shrug of her shoulders, “I’ve been warned about you.”
This was really too much. “By whom?” he demanded.
She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. “By everyone.”
“That, my d—” He felt something suspiciously like a stammer coming on, and so he took a deep breath to steady his tongue. He’d become a master at this kind of control. All she would see was a man who looked as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. And considering the direction of their conversation, that image could not seem terribly far-fetched.
“My dear Miss Bridgerton,” Simon said, starting anew in a more even and controlled tone, “I find that difficult to believe.”
She shrugged again, and he had the most irritating sensation that she was enjoying his distress. “Believe what you will,” she said blithely, “but it was in the paper today.”
“What?”
“In Whistledown,” she replied, as if that explained anything.
“Whistle-which?”
Daphne stared at him blankly for a moment until she remembered that he was newly returned to London. “Oh, you must not know about it,” she said softly, a wicked little smile crossing her lips. “Fancy that.”
The duke took a step forward, his stance positively menacing. “Miss Bridgerton, I feel I should warn you that I am within an inch of strangling the information out of you.”
“It’s a gossip sheet,” she said, hastily backing up a step. “That’s all. It’s rather silly, actually, but everyone reads it.”
He said nothing, just arched one arrogant brow.
Daphne quickly added, “There was a report of your return in Monday’s edition.”
“And what”—his eyes narrowed dangerously—“precisely”—now they turned to ice—“did it say?”