Nigel promptly reached for Daphne, practically sobbing her name. Simon had to brace his legs to keep him from lunging at her.
Daphne darted back a step. “Yes, well, I do have four brothers. A better education I cannot imagine.”
There was no way of knowing if the duke had intended to answer her, because Nigel chose that moment to regain his energy (although clearly not his equilibrium) and yanked himself free of Simon’s grip. He threw himself onto Daphne, making incoherent, drunken noises all the way.
If Daphne hadn’t had her back to the wall, she would have been knocked to the ground. As it was, she hit the wall with a bone-jarring thud, knocking all the breath from her body.
“Oh, for the love of Christ,” the duke swore, sounding supremely disgusted. He hauled Nigel off Daphne, then turned to her, and asked, “Can I hit him?”
“Oh, please do go ahead,” she replied, still gasping for breath. She’d tried to be kind and generous toward her erstwhile suitor, but really, enough was enough.
The duke muttered something that sounded like “good” and landed a stunningly powerful blow on Nigel’s chin.
Nigel went down like a stone.
Daphne regarded the man on the floor with equanimity. “I don’t think he’s going to wake up this time.”
Simon shook out his fist. “No.”
Daphne blinked and looked back up. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said, scowling at Nigel.
“What shall we do now?” Her gaze joined his on the man on the floor—now well and truly unconscious.
“Back to the original plan,” he said crisply. “We leave him here while you wait in the library. I’d rather not have to drag him out until I’ve a carriage waiting.”
Daphne gave him a sensible nod. “Do you need help righting him, or should I proceed directly to the library?”
The duke was silent for a moment. His head tilted this way and that as he analyzed Nigel’s position on the floor. “Actually, a bit of help would be greatly appreciated.”
“Really?” Daphne asked, surprised. “I was sure you’d say no.”
That earned her a faintly amused and superior look from the duke. “And is that why you asked?”
“No, of course not,” Daphne replied, slightly offended. “I’m not so stupid as to offer help if I have no intention of giving it. I was merely going to point out that men, in my experience—”
“You have too much experience,” the duke muttered under his breath.
“What?!”
“I beg your pardon,” he amended. “You think you have too much experience.”
Daphne glared at him, her dark eyes smoldering nearly to black. “That is not true, and who are you to say, anyway?”
“No, that’s not quite right, either,” the duke mused, completely ignoring her furious question. “I think it’s more that I think you think you have too much experience.”
“Why you—You—” As retorts went, it wasn’t especially effective, but it was all Daphne could manage to get out. Her powers of speech tended to fail her when she was angry.
And she was really angry.
Simon shrugged, apparently unmoved by her furious visage. “My dear Miss Bridgerton—”
“If you call me that one more time, I swear I shall scream.”
“No, you won’t,” he said with a rakish smile. “That would draw a crowd, and if you recall, you don’t want to be seen with me.”
“I am considering risking it,” Daphne said, each word squeezed out between her teeth.
Simon crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the wall. “Really?” he drawled. “This I should like to see.”
Daphne nearly threw up her arms in frustration. “Forget it. Forget me. Forget this entire evening. I’m leaving.”
She turned around, but before she could even take a step, her movement was arrested by the sound of the duke’s voice.
“I thought you were going to help me.”
Drat. He had her there. She turned slowly around. “Why, yes,” she said, her voice patently false, “I’d be delighted.”
“You know,” he said innocently, “if you didn’t want to help you shouldn’t have—”
“I said I’d help,” she snapped.
Simon smiled to himself. She was such an easy mark. “Here is what we are going to do,” he said. “I’m going to haul him to his feet and drape his right arm over my shoulders. You will go around to the other side and shore him up.”
Daphne did as she was bid, grumbling to herself about his autocratic attitude. But she didn’t voice a single complaint. After all, for all his annoying ways, the Duke of Hastings was helping her out of a possibly embarrassing scandal.
Of course if anyone found her in this position, she’d find herself in even worse straits.
“I have a better idea,” she said suddenly. “Let’s just leave him here.”
The duke’s head swung around to face her, and he looked as if he’d dearly like to toss her through a window—preferably one that was still closed. “I thought,” he said, clearly working hard to keep his voice even, “that you didn’t want to leave him on the floor.”
“That was before he knocked me into the wall.”
“Could you possibly have notified me of your change of heart before I expended my energy to lift him?”
Daphne blushed. She hated that men thought that women were fickle, changeable creatures, and she hated even more that she was living up to that image right then.
“Very well,” he said simply, and dropped Nigel.
The sudden weight of him nearly took Daphne down to the floor as well. She let out a surprised squeal as she ducked out of the way.
“Now may we leave?” the duke asked, sounding insufferably patient.
She nodded hesitantly, glancing down at Nigel. “He looks rather uncomfortable, don’t you think?”
Simon stared at her. Just stared at her. “You’re concerned for his comfort?” he finally asked.
She gave her head a nervous shake, then a nod, then went back to the shake. “Maybe I should—That is to say—Here, just wait a moment.” She crouched and untwisted Nigel’s legs so he lay flat on his back. “I didn’t think he deserved a trip home in your carriage,” she explained as she rearranged his coat, “but it seemed rather cruel to leave him here in this position. There, now I’m done.” She stood and looked up.
And just managed to catch sight of the duke as he walked away, muttering something about Daphne and something about women in general and something else entirely that Daphne didn’t quite catch.
But maybe that was for the best. She rather doubted it had been a compliment.
Chapter 4
London is awash these days with Ambitious Mamas. At Lady Worth’s ball last week This Author saw no fewer than eleven Determined Bachelors, cowering in corners and eventually fleeing the premises with those Ambitious Mamas hot on their heels.
It is difficult to determine who, precisely, is the worst of the lot, although This Author suspects the contest may come down to a near draw between Lady Bridgerton and Mrs. Featherington, with Mrs. F edging Lady B out by a nose. There are three Featherington misses on the market right now, after all, whereas Lady Bridgerton need only worry about one.
It is recommended, however, that all safety-minded people stay far, far away from the latest crop of unmarried men when Bridgerton daughters E, F, and H come of age. Lady B is not likely to look both ways when she barrels across a ballroom with three daughters in tow, and the Lord help us all should she decide to don metal-toed boots.
LADYWHISTLEDOWN’SSOCIETYPAPERS, 28 April 1813
The night, Simon decided, couldn’t possibly get much worse. He wouldn’t have believed it at the time, but his bizarre encounter with Daphne Bridgerton was definitely turning out to be the evening’s high point. Yes, he’d been horrified to discover that he’d been lusting—even briefly—after his best friend’s younger sister. Yes, Nigel Berbrooke’s oafish attempts at seduction had offended every one of his rakish sensibilities. And yes, Daphne had finally exasperated him beyond endurance with her indecision over whether to treat Nigel like a criminal or care for him as she would her dearest friend.
But none of that—not one bit—compared to the torture that he’d been about to endure.
His oh-so-clever plan of slipping into the ballroom, giving his regards to Lady Danbury, and leaving unnoticed had fallen into instant ruin. He’d taken no more than two steps into the ballroom when he’d been recognized by an old friend from Oxford, who, much to Simon’s dismay, had recently married. The wife was a perfectly charming young woman, but unfortunately one with rather high social aspirations, and she had quickly determined that her road to happiness lay in her position as the one to introduce the new duke to society. And Simon, even though he fancied himself a world-weary, cynical sort, discovered that he wasn’t quite rude enough to directly insult the wife of his old university friend.
And so, two hours later, he’d been introduced to every unmarried lady at the ball, every mother of every unmarried lady at the ball, and, of course, every older married sister of every unmarried lady at the ball. Simon couldn’t decide which set of women was the worst. The unmarried ladies were decidedly boring, the mothers were annoyingly ambitious, and the sisters—well, the sisters were so forward Simon began to wonder if he’d stumbled into a brothel. Six of them had made extremely suggestive remarks, two had slipped him notes inviting him to their boudoirs, and one had actually run her hand down his thigh.
In retrospect, Daphne Bridgerton was starting to look very good, indeed.
And speaking of Daphne, where the hell was she? He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of her about an hour earlier, surrounded by her rather large and forbidding brothers. (Not that Simon found them individually forbidding, but he’d quickly decided that any man would have to be an imbecile to provoke them as a group.)
But since then she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, he thought she might have been the only unmarried female at the party to whom he hadn’t been introduced.
Simon wasn’t particularly worried about her being bothered by Berbrooke after he’d left them in the hall. He’d delivered a solid punch to the man’s jaw and had no doubt that he’d be out for several minutes. Probably longer, considering the vast quantities of alcohol Berbrooke had consumed earlier in the evening. And even if Daphne had been foolishly tenderhearted when it came to her clumsy suitor, she wasn’t stupid enough to remain in the hallway with him until he woke up.
Simon glanced back over to the corner where the Bridgerton brothers were gathered, looking as if they were having a grand old time. They had been accosted by almost as many young women and old mothers as Simon, but at least there seemed to be some safety in numbers. Simon noticed that the young debutantes didn’t seem to spend half as much time in the Bridgertons’ company as they did in his.
Simon sent an irritated scowl in their direction.
Anthony, who was leaning lazily against a wall, caught the expression and smirked, raising a glass of red wine in his direction. Then he cocked his head slightly, motioning to Simon’s left. Simon turned, just in time to be detained by yet another mother, this one with a trio of daughters, all of whom were dressed in monstrously fussy frocks, replete with tucks and flounces, and of course, heaps and heaps of lace.
He thought of Daphne, with her simple sage green gown. Daphne, with her direct brown eyes and wide smile . . .
“Your grace!” the mother shrilled. “Your grace!”
Simon blinked to clear his vision. The lace-covered family had managed to surround him with such efficiency that he wasn’t even able to shoot a glare in Anthony’s direction.
“Your grace,” the mother repeated, “it is such an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Simon managed a frosty nod. Words were quite beyond him. The family of females had pressed in so close he feared he might suffocate.
“Georgiana Huxley sent us over,” the woman persisted. “She said I simply must introduce my daughters to you.”
Simon didn’t remember who Georgiana Huxley was, but he thought he might like to strangle her.
“Normally I should not be so bold,” the woman went on, “but your dear, dear papa was such a friend of mine.”
Simon stiffened.
“He was truly a marvelous man,” she continued, her voice like nails to Simon’s skull, “so conscious of his duties to the title. He must have been a marvelous father.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Simon bit off.
“Oh!” The woman had to clear her throat several times before managing to say, “I see. Well. My goodness.”
Simon said nothing, hoping an aloof demeanor would prompt her to take her leave. Damn it, where was Anthony? It was bad enough having these women acting as if he were some prize horse to be bred, but to have to stand here and listen to this woman tell him what a good father the old duke had been . . .
Simon couldn’t possibly bear it.
“Your grace! Your grace!”
Simon forced his icy eyes back to the lady in front of him and told himself to be more patient with her. After all, she was probably only complimenting his father because she thought it was what he wanted to hear.
“I merely wanted to remind you,” she said, “that we were introduced several years ago, back when you were still Clyvedon.”
“Yes,” Simon murmured, looking for any break in the barricade of ladies through which he might make his escape.
“These are my daughters,” the woman said, motioning to the three young ladies. Two were pleasant-looking, but the third was still cloaked in baby fat and an orangey gown which did nothing for her complexion. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the evening.
“Aren’t they lovely?” the lady continued. “My pride and joy. And so even-tempered.”
Simon had the queasy feeling that he’d heard the same words once when shopping for a dog.
“Your grace, may I present Prudence, Philipa, and Penelope.”
The girls made their curtsies, not a one of them daring to meet his eye.
“I have another daughter at home,” the lady continued. “Felicity. But she’s a mere ten years of age, so I do not bring her to such events.”
Simon could not imagine why she felt the need to share this information with him, but he just kept his tone carefully bored (this, he’d long since learned, was the best way not to show anger) and prompted, “And you are . . . ? ”
“Oh, beg pardon! I am Mrs. Featherington, of course. My husband passed on three years ago, but he was your papa’s, er, dearest friend.” Her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence, as she remembered Simon’s last reaction to mention of his father.
Simon nodded curtly.
“Prudence is quite accomplished on the pianoforte,” Mrs. Featherington said, with forced brightness.
Simon noted the oldest girl’s pained expression and quickly decided never to attend a musicale chez Featherington.
“And my darling Philipa is an expert watercolorist.”
Philipa beamed.
“And Penelope?” some devil inside Simon forced him to ask.