“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.
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 3
It has been whispered to This Author that Nigel Berbrooke was seen at Moreton’s Jewelry Shop purchasing a diamond solitaire ring. Can a new Mrs. Berbrooke be very far behind?
LADYWHISTLEDOWN’SSOCIETYPAPERS, 28 April 1813
The night, Daphne decided, couldn’t possibly get much worse. First she’d been forced to spend the evening in the darkest corner of the ballroom (which wasn’t such an easy task, since Lady Danbury clearly appreciated both the aesthetic and illuminating qualities of candles), then she’d managed to trip over Philipa Featherington’s foot as she tried to make her escape, which had led Philipa, never the quietest girl in the room, to squeal, “Daphne Bridgerton! Are you hurt?” Which must have captured Nigel’s attention, for his head had snapped up like a startled bird, and he’d immediately started hurrying across the ballroom. Daphne had hoped, no prayed that she could outrun him and make it to the ladies’ retiring room before he caught up with her, but no, Nigel had cornered her in the hall and started wailing out his love for her.
It was all embarrassing enough, but now it appeared this man—this shockingly handsome and almost disturbingly poised stranger—had witnessed the entire thing. And worse, he was laughing!
Daphne glared at him as he chuckled at her expense. She’d never seen him before, so he had to be new to London. Her mother had made certain that Daphne had been introduced to, or at least been made aware of, all eligible gentlemen. Of course, this man could be married and therefore not on Violet’s list of potential victims, but Daphne instinctively knew that he could not have been long in London without all the world whispering about it.
His face was quite simply perfection. It took only a moment to realize that he put all of Michelangelo’s statues to shame. His eyes were oddly intense—so blue they practically glowed. His hair was thick and dark, and he was tall—as tall as her brothers, which was a rare thing.
This was a man, Daphne thought wryly, who could quite possibly steal the gaggle of twittering young ladies away from the Bridgerton men for good.
Why that annoyed her so much, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because she knew a man like him would never be interested in a woman like her. Maybe it was because she felt like the veriest frump sitting there on the floor in his splendid presence. Maybe it was simply because he was standing there laughing as if she were some sort of circus amusement.
But whatever the case, an uncharacteristic peevishness rose within her, and her brows drew together as she asked, “Who are you?”
Simon didn’t know why he didn’t answer her question in a straightforward manner, but some devil within caused him to reply, “My intention had been to be your rescuer, but you clearly had no need of my services.”
“Oh,” the girl said, sounding slightly mollified. She clamped her lips together, twisting them slightly as she considered his words. “Well, thank you, then, I suppose. Pity you didn’t reveal yourself ten seconds earlier. I’d rather not have had to hit him.”
Simon looked down at the man on the ground. A bruise was already darkening on his chin, and he was moaning, “Laffy, oh Laffy. I love you, Laffy.”
“You’re Laffy, I presume?” Simon murmured, sliding his gaze up to her face. Really, she was quite an attractive little thing, and from this angle the bodice of her gown seemed almost decadently low.
She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating his attempt at subtle humor—and also clearly not realizing that his heavy-lidded gaze had rested on portions of her anatomy that were not her face. “What are we to do with him?” she asked.
“‘We?’” Simon echoed.
Her scowl deepened. “You did say you aspired to be my rescuer, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” Simon planted his hands on his hips and assessed the situation. “Shall I drag him out into the street?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “For goodness’ sake, isn’t it still raining outside?”
“My dear Miss Laffy,” Simon said, not particularly concerned about the condescending tone of his voice, “don’t you think your concern is slightly misplaced? This man tried to attack you.”
“He didn’t try to attack me,” she replied. “He just . . . He just . . . Oh, very well, he tried to attack me. But he would never have done me any real harm.”
Simon raised a brow. Truly, women were the most contrary creatures. “And you can be sure of that?”
He watched as she carefully chose her words. “Nigel isn’t capable of malice,” she said slowly. “All he is guilty of is misjudgment.”
“You’re a more generous soul than I, then,” Simon said quietly.
The girl let out another sigh, a soft, breathy sound that Simon somehow felt across his entire body. “Nigel’s not a bad person,” she said with quiet dignity. “It’s just that he isn’t always terribly bright, and perhaps he mistook kindness on my part for something more.”
Simon felt a strange sort of admiration for this girl. Most women of his acquaintance would have been in hysterics at this point, but she—whoever she was—had taken the situation firmly in hand, and was now displaying a generosity of spirit that was astounding. That she could even think to defend this Nigel person was quite beyond him.