And truth be told, after about a month, he’d half wished she would.
“I would tear your bloody head off,” Anthony growled, breaking into Simon’s thoughts with considerable force, “if I hadn’t promised Daphne I wouldn’t do you bodily harm.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t a promise easily made,” Simon said.
Anthony crossed his arms and settled a heavy stare on Simon’s face. “Nor easily kept.”
Simon cleared his throat as he tried to figure out some way to ask about Daphne without seeming too obvious. He missed her. He felt like an idiot, he felt like a fool, but he missed her. He missed her laugh and her scent and the way, sometimes in the middle of the night, she always managed to tangle her legs with his.
Simon was used to being alone, but he wasn’t used to being this lonely.
“Did Daphne send you to fetch me back?” he finally asked.
“No.” Anthony reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, ivory envelope, and slapped it down on the desk. “I caught her summoning a messenger to send you this.”
Simon stared at the envelope with growing horror. It could only mean one thing. He tried to say something neutral, such as “I see,” but his throat closed up.
“I told her I’d be happy to conduct the letter to you,” Anthony said, with considerable sarcasm.
Simon ignored him. He reached for the envelope, hoping that Anthony would not see how his fingers were shaking.
But Anthony did see. “What the devil is wrong with you?” he asked in an abrupt voice. “You look like hell.”
Simon snatched the envelope and pulled it to him. “Always a pleasure to see you, too,” he managed to quip.
Anthony gazed steadily at him, the battle between anger and concern showing clearly on his face. Clearing his throat a few times, Anthony finally asked, in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Are you ill?”
“Of course not.”
Anthony went pale. “Is Daphne ill?”
Simon’s head snapped up. “Not that she’s told me. Why? Does she look ill? Has she—”
“No, she looks fine.” Anthony’s eyes filled with curiosity. “Simon,” he finally asked, shaking his head, “what are you doing here? It’s obvious you love her. And much as I can’t comprehend it, she seems to love you as well.”
Simon pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the pounding headache he never seemed to be without these days. “There are things you don’t know,” he said wearily, shutting his eyes against the pain. “Things you could never understand.”
Anthony was silent for a full minute. Finally, just when Simon opened his eyes, Anthony pushed away from the desk and walked back to the door. “I won’t drag you back to London,” he said in a low voice. “I should but I won’t. Daphne needs to know you came for her, not because her older brother had a pistol at your back.”
Simon almost pointed out that that was why he’d married her, but he bit his tongue. That wasn’t the truth. Not all of it, at least. In another lifetime, he’d have been on bended knee, begging for her hand.
“You should know, however,” Anthony continued, “that people are starting to talk. Daphne returned to London alone, barely a fortnight after your rather hasty marriage. She’s keeping a good face about it, but it’s got to hurt. No one has actually come out and insulted her, but there’s only so much well-meaning pity a body can take. And that damned Whistledown woman has been writing about her.”
Simon winced. He’d not been back in England long, but it was long enough to know that the fictitious Lady Whistledown could inflict a great deal of damage and pain.
Anthony swore in disgust. “Get yourself to a doctor, Hastings. And then get yourself back to your wife.” With that, he strode out the door.
Simon stared at the envelope in his hands for many minutes before opening it. Seeing Anthony had been a shock. Knowing he’d just been with Daphne made Simon’s heart ache.
Bloody hell. He hadn’t expected to miss her.
This was not to say, however, that he wasn’t still furious with her. She’d taken something from him that he quite frankly hadn’t wanted to give. He didn’t want children. He’d told her that. She’d married him knowing that. And she’d tricked him.
Or had she? He rubbed his hands wearily against his eyes and forehead as he tried to remember the exact details of that fateful morning. Daphne had definitely been the leader in their lovemaking, but he distinctly recalled his own voice, urging her on. He should not have encouraged what he knew he could not stop.
She probably wasn’t pregnant, anyway, he reasoned. Hadn’t it taken his own mother over a decade to produce a single living child?
But when he was alone, lying in bed at night, he knew the truth. He hadn’t fled just because Daphne had disobeyed him, or because there was a chance he’d sired a child.
He’d fled because he couldn’t bear the way he’d been with her. She’d reduced him to the stuttering, stammering fool of his childhood. She’d rendered him mute, brought back that awful, choking feeling, the horror of not being able to say what he felt.
He just didn’t know if he could live with her if it meant going back to being the boy who could barely speak. He tried to remind himself of their courtship—their mock-courtship, he thought with a smile—and to remember how easy it had been to be with her, to talk with her. But every memory was tainted by where it had all led—to Daphne’s bedroom that hideous morning, with him tripping over his tongue and choking on his own throat.
And he hated himself like that.
So he’d fled to another of his country estates—as a duke, he had a number of them. This particular house was in Wiltshire, which, he had reasoned, wasn’t too terribly far from Clyvedon. He could get back in a day and a half if he rode hard enough. It wasn’t so much like he’d run away, if he could go back so easily.
And now it looked like he was going to have to go back.
Taking a deep breath, Simon picked up his letter opener and slit the envelope. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and looked down.
Simon,
My efforts, as you termed them, were met with success. I have removed myself to London, so that I might be near my family, and await your directive there.
Yours,
Daphne
Simon didn’t know how long he sat there behind his desk, barely breathing, the cream-colored slip of paper hanging from his fingers. Then finally, a breeze washed over him, or perhaps the light changed, or the house creaked—but something broke him out of his reverie and he jumped to his feet, strode into the hall, and bellowed for his butler.
“Have my carriage hitched,” he barked when the butler appeared. “I’m going to London.”
Chapter 20
The marriage of the season seems to have gone sour. The Duchess of Hastings (formerly Miss Bridgerton) returned to London nearly two months ago, and This Author has seen neither hide nor hair of her new husband, the duke.
Rumor has it that he is not at Clyvedon, where the once happy couple took their honeymoon. Indeed, This Author cannot find anyone who professes to know his whereabouts. (If her grace knows, she is not telling, and furthermore, one rarely has the opportunity to ask, as she has shunned the company of all except her rather large and extensive family.)
It is, of course, This Author’s place and indeed duty to speculate on the source of such rifts, but This Author must confess that even she is baffled. They seemed so very much in love . . .
LADYWHISTLEDOWN’SSOCIETYPAPERS, 2 August 1813
The trip took two days, which was two days longer than Simon would have liked to be alone with his thoughts. He’d brought a few books to read, hoping to keep himself distracted during the tedious journey, but whenever he managed to open one it sat unread in his lap.
It was difficult to keep his mind off Daphne.
It was even more difficult to keep his mind off the prospect of fatherhood.
Once he reached London, he gave his driver instructions to take him directly to Bridgerton House. He was travel-weary, and probably could use a change of clothing, but he’d done nothing for the past two days but play out his upcoming confrontation with Daphne—it seemed foolish to put it off any longer than he had to.
Once admitted to Bridgerton House, however, he discovered that Daphne wasn’t there.
“What do you mean,” Simon asked in a deadly voice, not particularly caring that the butler had done little to earn his ire, “the duchess isn’t here?”
The butler took his deadly voice and raised him one curled upper lip. “I mean, your grace”—this was not said with particular graciousness—“that she is not in residence.”
“I have a letter from my wife—” Simon thrust his hand into his pocket, but—damn it—didn’t come up with the paper. “Well, I have a letter from her somewhere,” he grumbled. “And it specifically states that she has removed herself to London.”
“And she has, your grace.”
“Then where the hell is she?” Simon ground out.
The butler merely raised a brow. “At Hastings House, your grace.”
Simon clamped his mouth shut. There was little more humiliating than being bested by a butler.
“After all,” the butler continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “she is married to you, is she not?”
Simon glared at him. “You must be quite secure in your position.”
“Quite.”
Simon gave him a brief nod (since he couldn’t quite bring himself to thank the man) and stalked off, feeling very much like a fool. Of course Daphne would have gone to Hastings House. She hadn’t left him, after all; she just wanted to be near her family.
If he could have kicked himself on the way back to the carriage, he would have done so.
Once inside, however, he did kick himself. He lived just across Grosvenor Square from the Bridgertons. He could have walked across the blasted green in half the time.
Time, however, proved not to be particularly of the essence, because when he swung open the door to Hastings House and stomped into the hall, he discovered that his wife was not at home.
“She’s riding,” Jeffries said.
Simon stared at his butler in patent disbelief. “She’s riding?” he echoed.
“Yes, your grace,” Jeffries replied. “Riding. On a horse.”
Simon wondered what the penalty was for strangling a butler. “Where,” he bit off, “did she go?”
“Hyde Park, I believe.”
Simon’s blood began to pound, and his breath grew uneven. Riding? Was she bloody insane? She was pregnant, for God’s sake. Even he knew that pregnant women weren’t supposed to ride.
“Have a horse saddled for me,” Simon ordered. “Immediately.”
“Any particular horse?” Jeffries inquired.
“A fast one,” Simon snapped. “And do it now. Or better yet, I’ll do it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the house.
But about halfway to the stables, his panic seeped from his blood to his very bones, and Simon’s determined stride turned into a run.
It wasn’t the same as riding astride, Daphne thought, but at least she was going fast.
In the country, when she’d been growing up, she’d always borrowed Colin’s breeches and joined her brothers on their hell-for-leather rides. Her mother usually suffered an attack of the vapors every time she saw her eldest daughter return covered with mud, and quite frequently sporting a new and startling bruise, but Daphne hadn’t cared. She hadn’t cared where they were riding to or what they were riding from. It had all been about speed.
In the city, of course, she couldn’t don breeches and thus was relegated to the sidesaddle, but if she took her horse out early enough, when fashionable society was still abed, and if she made certain to limit herself to the more remote areas of Hyde Park, she could bend over her saddle and urge her horse to a gallop. The wind whipped her hair out of its bun and stung her eyes to tears, but at least it made her forget.
Atop her favorite mare, tearing across the fields, she felt free. There was no better medicine for a broken heart.
She’d long since ditched her groom, pretending she hadn’t heard him when he’d yelled, “Wait! Your grace! Wait!”
She’d apologize to him later. The grooms at Bridgerton House were used to her antics and well aware of her skill atop a horse. This new man—one of her husband’s servants—would probably worry.
Daphne felt a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. She needed to be alone. She needed to move fast.
She slowed down as she reached a slightly wooded area and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and smells of the park fill her senses. She thought of a blind man she’d once met, who’d told her that the rest of his senses had grown sharper since he’d lost his sight. As she sat there and inhaled the scents of the forest, she thought he might be right.
She listened hard, first identifying the high-pitched chirp of the birds, then the soft, scurrying feet of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts for the winter. Then—
She frowned and opened her eyes. Damn. That was definitely the sound of another rider approaching.
Daphne didn’t want company. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her pain, and she certainly didn’t want to have to explain to some well-meaning society member why she was alone in the park. She listened again, identified the location of the oncoming rider, and took off in the other direction.
She kept her horse to a steady trot, thinking that if she just got out of the other rider’s way, he’d pass her by. But whichever way she went, he seemed to follow.
She picked up speed, more speed than she should have in this lightly wooded area. There were too many low branches and protruding tree roots. But now Daphne was starting to get scared. Her pulse pounded in her ears as a thousand horrifying questions rocked through her head.
What if this rider wasn’t, as she’d originally supposed, a member of the ton? What if he was a criminal? Or a drunk? It was early; there was no one about. If Daphne screamed, who would hear her? Was she close enough to her groom? Had he stayed put where she’d left him or had he tried to follow? And if he had, had he even gone in the right direction?
Her groom! She nearly cried out in relief. It had to be her groom. She swung her mare around to see if she could catch a glimpse of the rider. The Hastings livery was quite distinctly red; surely she’d be able to see if—
Smack!
Every bit of air was violently forced from her body as a branch caught her squarely in the chest. A strangled grunt escaped her lips, and she felt her mare moving forward without her. And then she was falling . . . falling . . .
She landed with a bone-jarring thud, the autumn brown leaves on the ground providing scant cushioning. Her body immediately curled into a fetal position, as if by making herself as small as possible, she could make the hurt as small as possible.
And, oh God, she hurt. Damn it, she hurt everywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. Her mind flooded with curses she’d never dared speak aloud. But it hurt. Bloody hell, it hurt to breathe.
But she had to. Breathe. Breathe, Daphne, she ordered. Breathe. Breathe. You can do it.
“Daphne!”
Daphne made no response. The only sounds she seemed able to make were whimpers. Even groans were beyond her capability.
“Daphne! Christ above, Daphne!”
She heard someone jump off a horse, then felt movement in the leaves around her.
“Daphne?”
“Simon?” she whispered in disbelief. It made no sense that he was here, but it was his voice. And even though she still hadn’t pried her eyes open, it felt like him. The air changed when he was near.
His hands touched her lightly, checking for broken bones. “Tell me where it hurts,” he said.
“Everywhere,” she gasped.
He swore under his breath, but his touch remained achingly gentle and soothing. “Open your eyes,” he ordered softly. “Look at me. Focus on my face.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
She heard him strip off his gloves, and then his warm fingers were on her temples, smoothing away the tension. He moved to her eyebrows, then the bridge of her nose. “Shhhh,” he crooned. “Let it go. Just let the pain go. Open your eyes, Daphne.”
Slowly, and with great difficulty, she did so. Simon’s face filled her vision, and for the moment she forgot everything that had happened between them, everything but the fact that she loved him, and he was here, and he was making the hurt go away.
“Look at me,” he said again, his voice low and insistent. “Look at me and don’t take your eyes off of mine.”
She managed the tiniest of nods. She focused her eyes on his, letting the intensity of his gaze hold her still.
“Now, I want you to relax,” he said. His voice was soft but commanding, and it was exactly what she needed. As he spoke, his hands moved across her body, checking for breaks or sprains.
His eyes never once left hers.
Simon kept speaking to her in low, soothing tones as he examined her body for injuries. She didn’t appear to have suffered anything worse than a few bad bruises and having the wind knocked out of her, but one could never be too careful, and with the baby . . .
The blood drained from his face. In his panic for Daphne, he’d forgotten all about the child she was carrying. His child.
Their child.
“Daphne,” he said slowly. Carefully. “Do you think you’re all right?”
She nodded.
“Are you still in pain?”
“Some,” she admitted, swallowing awkwardly as she blinked. “But it’s getting better.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded again.
“Good,” he said calmly. He was silent for several seconds and then he fairly yelled, “What in God’s name did you think you were doing?”
Daphne’s jaw dropped, and her eyelids started opening and closing with great rapidity. She made a strangled sort of sound that might have metamorphosed into an actual word, but Simon cut her off with more bellows.
“What the hell were you doing out here with no groom? And why were you galloping here, where the terrain clearly does not allow it?” His eyebrows slammed together. “And for the love of God, woman, what were you doing on a horse?”