“Not very much, ah, precisely,” Daphne hedged. She tried to back up a step, but her heels were already pressing against the wall. Any further and she’d be up on her tiptoes. The duke looked beyond furious, and she was beginning to think that she should try for a quick escape and just leave him here with Nigel. The two were perfect for each other—madmen, the both of them!
“Miss Bridgerton.” There was a wealth of warning in his voice.
Daphne decided to take pity on him since, after all, he was new to town and hadn’t had time to adjust to the new world according to Whistledown. She supposed she couldn’t really blame him for being so upset that he’d been written about in the paper. It had been rather startling for Daphne the first time as well, and she’d at least had the warning of a month’s previous Whistledown columns. By the time Lady Whistledown got around to writing about Daphne, it had been almost anticlimactic.
“You needn’t upset yourself over it,” Daphne said, attempting to lend a little compassion to her voice but probably not succeeding. “She merely wrote that you were a terrible rake, a fact which I’m sure you won’t deny, since I have long since learned that men positively yearn to be considered rakes.”
She paused and gave him the opportunity to prove her wrong and deny it. He didn’t.
She continued, “And then my mother, whose acquaintance I gather you must have made at some point or another before you left to travel the world, confirmed it all.”
“Did she?”
Daphne nodded. “She then forbade me ever to be seen in your company.”
“Really?” he drawled.
Something about the tone of his voice—and the way his eyes seemed to have grown almost smoky as they focused on her face—made her extremely uneasy, and it was all she could do not to shut her eyes.
She refused—absolutely refused—to let him see how he’d affected her.
His lips curved into a slow smile. “Let me make certain I have this correctly. Your mother told you I am a very bad man and that you are under no circumstances to be seen with me.”
Confused, she nodded.
“Then what,” he asked, pausing for dramatic effect, “do you think your mother would say about this little scenario?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, unless you count Nigel here”—he waved his hand toward the unconscious man on the floor—“no one has actually seen you in my presence. And yet . . .” He let his words trail off, having far too much fun watching the play of emotions on her face to do anything but drag this moment out to its lengthiest extreme.
Of course most of the emotions on her face were varying shades of irritation and dismay, but that made the moment all the sweeter.
“And yet?” she ground out.
He leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them to only a few inches. “And yet,” he said softly, knowing that she’d feel his breath on her face, “here we are, completely alone.”
“Except for Nigel,” she retorted.
Simon spared the man on the floor the briefest of glances before returning his wolfish gaze to Miss Bridgerton. “I’m not terribly concerned about Nigel,” he murmured. “Are you?”
Simon watched as she looked down at Nigel in dismay. It had to be clear to her that her spurned suitor wasn’t going to save her should Simon decide to make an amorous advance. Not that he would, of course. After all, this was Anthony’s younger sister. He might have to remind himself of this at frequent intervals, but it wasn’t a fact that was likely to slip his mind on a permanent basis.
Simon knew that it was past time to end this little game. Not that he thought she would report the interlude to Anthony; somehow he knew that she would prefer to keep this to herself, stewing over it in privately righteous fury, and, dare he hope it—just a touch of excitement?
But even as he knew it was time to stop this flirtation and get back to the business of hauling Daphne’s idiotic suitor out of the building, he couldn’t resist one last comment. Maybe it was the way her lips pursed when she was annoyed. Or maybe it was the way they parted when she was shocked. All he knew was that he was helpless against his own devilish nature when it came to this girl.
And so he leaned forward, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive as he said, “I think I know what your mother would say.”
She looked a little befuddled by his onslaught, but still she managed a rather defiant, “Oh?”
Simon nodded slowly, and he touched one finger to her chin. “She’d tell you to be very, very afraid.”
There was a moment of utter silence, and then Daphne’s eyes grew very wide. Her lips tightened, as if she were keeping something inside, and then her shoulders rose slightly, and then . . .
And then she laughed. Right in his face.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “Oh, that was funny.”
Simon was not amused.
“I’m sorry.” This was said between laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, but really, you shouldn’t be so melodramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”
Simon paused, rather irritated that this slip of a girl had shown such disrespect for his authority. There were advantages to being considered a dangerous man, and being able to cow young maidens was supposed to be one of them.
“Well, actually, it does suit you, I ought to admit,” she added, still grinning at his expense. “You looked quite dangerous. And very handsome, of course.” When he made no comment, her face took on a bemused expression, and she asked, “That was your intention, was it not?”
He still said nothing, so she said, “Of course it was. And I would be remiss if I did not tell you that you would have been successful with any other woman besides me.”
A comment he couldn’t resist. “And why is that?”
“Four brothers.” She shrugged as if that should explain everything. “I’m quite immune to your games.”
“Oh?”
She gave his arm a reassuring pat. “But yours was a most admirable attempt. And truly, I’m quite flattered you thought me worthy of such a magnificent display of dukish rakishness.” She grinned, her smile wide and unfeigned. “Or do you prefer rakish dukishness?”
Simon stroked his jaw thoughtfully, trying to regain his mood of menacing predator. “You’re a most annoying little chit, did you know that, Miss Bridgerton?”
She gave him her sickliest of smiles. “Most people find me the soul of kindness and amiability.”
“Most people,” Simon said bluntly, “are fools.”
Daphne cocked her head to the side, obviously pondering his words. Then she looked over at Nigel and sighed. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you, much as it pains me.”
Simon bit back a smile. “It pains you to agree with me, or that most people are fools?”
“Both.” She grinned again—a wide, enchanting smile that did odd things to his brain. “But mostly the former.”
Simon let out a loud laugh, then was startled to realize how foreign the sound was to his ears. He was a man who frequently smiled; occasionally chuckled, but it had been a very long time since he’d felt such a spontaneous burst of joy. “My dear Miss Bridgerton,” he said, wiping his eyes, “if you are the soul of kindness and amiability, then the world must be a very dangerous place.”
“Oh, for certain,” she replied. “At least to hear my mother tell it.”
“I can’t imagine why I do not recall your mother,” Simon murmured, “because she certainly sounds a memorable character.”
Daphne raised a brow. “You don’t remember her?”
He shook his head.
“Then you don’t know her.”
“Does she look like you?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“Not so very odd,” Simon replied, thinking that Daphne was exactly right. It was an odd question, and he had no idea why he’d voiced it. But since he had, and since she had questioned it, he added, “After all, I’m told that all of you Bridgertons look alike.”
A tiny, and to Simon mysterious, frown touched her face. “We do. Look alike, that is. Except for my mother. She’s rather fair, actually, with blue eyes. We all get our dark hair from our father. I’m told I have her smile, though.”
An awkward pause fell across the conversation. Daphne was shifting from foot to foot, not at all certain what to say to the duke, when Nigel exhibited stellar timing for the first time in his life, and sat up. “Daphne?” he said, blinking as if he couldn’t see straight. “Daphne, is that you?”
“Good God, Miss Bridgerton,” the duke swore, “how hard did you hit him?”
“Hard enough to knock him down, but no worse than that, I swear!” Her brow furrowed. “Maybe he is drunk.”
“Oh, Daphne,” Nigel moaned.
The duke crouched next to him, then reeled back, coughing.
“Is he drunk?” Daphne asked.
The duke staggered back. “He must have drunk an entire bottle of whiskey just to get up the nerve to propose.”
“Who would have thought I could be so terrifying?” Daphne murmured, thinking of all the men who thought of her as a jolly good friend and nothing more. “How wonderful.”
Simon stared at her as if she were insane, then muttered, “I’m not even going to question that statement.”
Daphne ignored his comment. “Should we set our plan into action?”
Simon planted his hands on his hips and reassessed the scene. Nigel was trying to rise to his feet, but it didn’t appear, to Simon’s eye at least, that he was going to find success anytime in the near future. Still, he was probably lucid enough to make trouble, and certainly lucid enough to make noise, which he was doing. Quite well, actually.
“Oh, Daphne. I luff you so much, Daffery.” Nigel managed to raise himself to his knees, weaving around as he shuffled toward Daphne, looking rather like a sotted churchgoer attempting to pray. “Please marry me, Duffne. You have to.”
“Buck up, man,” Simon grunted, grabbing him by the collar. “This is getting embarrassing.” He turned to Daphne. “I’m going to have to take him outside now. We can’t leave him here in the hall. He’s liable to start moaning like a sickened cow—”
“I rather thought he’d already started,” Daphne said.
Simon felt one corner of his mouth twist up in a reluctant smile. Daphne Bridgerton might be a marriageable female and thus a disaster waiting to happen for any man in his position, but she was certainly a good sport.
She was, it occurred to him in a rather bizarre moment of clarity, the sort of person he’d probably call friend if she were a man.
But since it was abundantly obvious—to both his eyes and his body—that she wasn’t a man, Simon decided it was in both of their best interests to wrap up this “situation” as soon as possible. Aside from the fact that Daphne’s reputation would suffer a deadly blow if they were discovered, Simon wasn’t positive that he could trust himself to keep his hands off of her for very much longer.
It was an unsettling feeling, that. Especially for a man who so valued his self-control. Control was everything. Without it he’d never have stood up to his father or taken a first at university. Without it, he’d—
Without it, he thought grimly, he’d still be speaking like an idiot.
“I’ll haul him out of here,” he said suddenly. “You go back to the ballroom.”
Daphne frowned, glancing over her shoulder to the hall that led back to the party. “Are you certain? I thought you wanted me to go to the library.”
“That was when we were going to leave him here while I summoned the carriage. But we can’t do that if he’s awake.”
She nodded her agreement, and asked, “Are you sure you can do it? Nigel’s a rather large man.”
“I’m larger.”
She cocked her head. The duke, although lean, was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and firmly muscled thighs. (Daphne knew she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, but, really, was it her fault that current fashions dictated such snug breeches?) More to the point, he had a certain air about him, something almost predatory, something that hinted of tightly controlled strength and power.
Daphne decided she had no doubt that he’d be able to move Nigel.
“Very well,” she said, giving him a nod. “And thank you. It’s very kind of you to help me in this way.”
“I’m rarely kind,” he muttered.
“Really?” she murmured, allowing herself a tiny smile. “How odd. I couldn’t possibly think of anything else to call it. But then again, I’ve learned that men—”
“You do seem to be the expert on men,” he said, somewhat acerbically, then grunted as he hauled Nigel to his feet.