The Duke and I (21 page)

 "And the thud will be her body hitting the floor in a dead faint?"

 Daphne nodded, a reluctant smile playing across her lips. "But of course." She waited a moment before saying, "I wasn't expecting you this evening."

 He shrugged, the black cloth of his evening jacket wrinkling slightly with the movement. "I was bored."

 "You were bored so you decided to come all the way out to Hampstead Heath to attend Lady Trowbridge's annual ball?" Her eyebrows arched up. Hampstead Heath was a good seven miles from Mayfair, at least an hour's drive in the best of conditions, more on nights like tonight, when all the
ton
was clogging the roads. "Forgive me if I start to question your sanity."

 "I'm starting to question it myself," he muttered.

 "Well, whatever the case," she said with a happy sigh, "I'm glad you're here. It's been a ghastly evening."

 "Really?"

 She nodded. "I have been plagued by questions about you."

 "Well, now, this grows interesting."

 "Think again. The first person to interrogate me was my mother. She wants to know why you never call upon me in the afternoon."

 Simon frowned. "Do you think it's necessary? I rather thought my undivided attention at these evening affairs would be

enough to perpetrate the ruse."

 Daphne surprised herself by managing not to growl in frustration. He didn't need to make this sound like such a chore.

"Your undivided attention," she said, "would have been enough to fool anyone but my mother. And she probably wouldn't have said anything except that your lack of calls was reported in
Whistledown.
"

 "Really?" Simon asked with great interest.

 "Really. So now you'd better call tomorrow or everyone will start to wonder."

 "I'd like to know who that woman's spies are," Simon murmured, "and then I'd like to hire them for myself."

 "What do you need spies for?"

 "Nothing. But it seems a shame to let such stellar talentgo to waste."

 Daphne rather doubted that the fictitious Lady Whistledown would agree that any talents were being wasted, but she didn't particularly want to get into a discussion of the merits and evils of that newspaper, so she just shrugged off his comment. "And then," she continued, "once my mother was through with me, everyone else set in, and they were even worse."

 "Heaven forbid."

 She turned an acerbic look on him. "All but one of the questioners were female, and although they all vehemently professed their happiness on my behalf, they were clearly trying to deduce the probability of our not becoming betrothed."

 "You told them all I was desperately in love with you, I assume?"

 Daphne felt something lurch in her chest. "Yes," she lied, offering him a too-sweet smile. "I have a reputation to maintain, after all."

 Simon laughed. "So then, who was the lone male doing the questioning?"

 Daphne pulled a face. "It was another duke, actually. A bizarre old man who claimed to have been friends with your father."

 Simon's face went suddenly tight.

 She just shrugged, not having seen the change in his expression. "He went on and on about what a
good duke
your father was." She let out a little laugh as she tried to imitate the old man's voice. "I had no idea you dukes had to look out for one another so much. We don't want an incompetent duke making the title look bad, after all."

 Simon said nothing.

 Daphne tapped her finger against her cheek in thought. "Do you know, I've never heard you mention your father, actually."

 "That is because I don't choose to discuss him," Simon said curtly.

 She blinked with concern. "Is something wrong?"

 "Not at all," he said, his voice clipped.

 "Oh." She caught herself chewing on her lower lip and forced herself to stop. "I won't mention it then."

 "I said there is
nothing wrong.
"

 Daphne kept her expression impassive. "Of course."

 There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Daphne picked awkwardly at the fabric of her skirts before finally saying,

"Lovely flowers Lady Trowbridge used for decoration, don't you think?"

 Simon followed the motion of her hand toward a large arrangement of pink and white roses. "Yes."

 "I wonder if she grew them."

 "I haven't the faintest."

 Another awkward silence.

 "Roses are so difficult to grow."

 This time his reply was just a grunt.

 Daphne cleared her throat, and then, when he didn't even so much as look at her, asked, "Have you tried the lemonade?"

 "I don't drink lemonade."

 "Well, I do," she snapped, deciding she'd had enough. "And I'm thirsty. So if you will excuse me, I'm going to fetch myself a glass and leave you to your black mood. I'm certain you can find someone more entertaining than I."

 She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, she felt a heavy hand on her arm. She looked down, momentarily mesmerized by the sight of his white-gloved hand resting against the peach silk of her gown. She stared at it, almost waiting for it to move, to travel down the length of her arm until it reached the bare skin of her elbow.

 But of course he wouldn't do that. He only did such things in her dreams.

 "Daphne, please," he said, "turnaround."

 His voice was low, and there was an intensity to it that made her shiver.

 She turned, and as soon as her eyes met his, he said, "Please accept myapologies."

 She nodded.

 But he clearly felt the need to explain further. "I did not..." He stopped and coughed quietly into his hand. "I was not on

good terms with my father. I—I don't like to talk about him."

 Daphne stared at him in fascination. She'd never seen him at such a loss for words.

 Simon let out an irritated exhale. It was strange, Daphne thought, because it seemed as if he were irritated with himself.

 "When you brought him up..." He shook his head, as if deciding to try a different avenue of conversation. "It grabs at my mind. I can't stop thinking about him. It—it—it makes me extremely angry."

 "I'm sorry," she said, knowing her confusion must show on her face. She thought she should say more, but she didn't know what words to use.

 "Not at you," he said quickly, and as his pale blue eyes focused on hers, something seemed to clear in them. His face seemed to relax as well, especially the tight lines that had formed around his mouth. He swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm angry at myself."

 "And apparently at your father as well," she said softly.

 He said nothing. She hadn't expected him to, she realized. His hand was still on her arm, and she covered it with her own. "Would you like to get a bit of air?" she asked gently. "You look as if you might need it."

 He nodded. "You stay. Anthony will have my head if I take you out onto the terrace."

 "Anthony can hang for all I care." Daphne's mouth tightened with irritation. "I'm sick of his constant hovering, anyway."

 "He is only trying to be a good brother to you."

 Her lips parted in consternation. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

 Deftly ignoring her question, he said, "Very well. But just a short walk. Anthony I can take on, but if he enlists the aid of your brothers, I'm a dead man."

 There was a door leading out to the terrace a few yards away. Daphne nodded toward it, and Simon's hand slid down her arm and around the crook of her elbow.

 "There are probably dozens of couples out on the terrace, anyway," she said. "He'll have nothing about which to complain."

 But before they could make their way outside, a loud male voice sounded from behind them. "Hastings!"

 Simon halted and turned around, grimly realizing that he had grown used to the name. In no time, he'd be thinking of it as his own.

 Somehow that concept made him ill.

 An older man leaning on a cane hobbled his way toward them. "That's the duke I told you about," Daphne said.

"Of Middlethorpe, I believe."

 Simon nodded curtly, having no desire to speak.

 "Hastings!" the old man said, patting him on the arm. "I have wanted to make your acquaintance for so very long. I am Middlethorpe. Your father was a good friend of mine."

 Simon just nodded again, the motion almost military in its precision.

 "He missed you, you know. While you were off traveling."

 A rage began to build in his mouth, a rage that rendered his tongue swollen and his cheeks tight and rigid. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he tried to speak, he would sound just as he'd done when he was a lad of eight.

 And there was no way he'd shame himself in such a way in front of Daphne.

 Somehow—he'd never know how, maybe it was because he'd never had much trouble with vowels aside from "I'—he managed to say, "Oh?" He was pleased that his voice came out sharp and condescending.

 But if the old man heard the rancor in his tone, he made no reaction to it. "I was with him when he died," Middlethorpe said.

 Simon said nothing.

 Daphne—bless her—leapt into the fray with a sympathetic, "My goodness."

 "He asked me to pass along some messages to you. I have several letters in my house."

 "Burn them."

 Daphne gasped and grabbed Middlethorpe by the arm. "Oh, no, don't do that. He might not want to see them now, but

surely he will change his mind in thefuture."

 Simon blasted her with an icy glare before turning back to Middlethorpe. "I saidburn them."

 "I—ah—" Middlethorpe looked hopelessly confused. He must have been aware that the Basset father and son were not on good terms, but clearly the late duke had not revealed to him the true depth of the estrangement. He looked to Daphne, sensing a possible ally, and said to her, "In addition to the letters, there were things he asked me to tell him. I could tell them tohim now."

 But Simon had already dropped Daphne's arm and stalked outside.

 "I'm so sorry," Daphne said to Middlethorpe, feeling the need to apologize for Simon's atrocious behavior. "I'm sure he

doesn't meanto be rude."

 Middlethorpe's expression told her that he
knew
Simon meant to be rude.

 But Daphne still said, "He's a bit sensitive about his father."

 Middlethorpe nodded. "The duke warned me he'd react this way. But he laughed as he said it, then made a joke about the Basset pride. I must confess I didn't think he was completely serious."

 Daphne looked nervously through the open door to the terrace. "Apparently he was," she murmured. "I had best see to him."

 Middlethorpe nodded.

 "Please don't burn those letters,"she said.

 "I would never dream of it.But—"

 Daphne had already taken a step toward the terrace door and turned around at the halting tone of the old man's voice.

"What is it?"she asked.

 "I'm not a well man," Middlethorpe said. "I—The doctor says it could be anytime now. May I trust the lettersinto your safekeeping?"

 Daphne stared at the duke with a mix of shock and horror. Shock because she could not believe he would trust such

personal correspondence to a young woman he'd known for barely an hour. Horror because she knew that if she accepted them, Simon might never forgive her.

 "I don't know," she said in a strained voice. "I'm not sure I'm the right person."

 Middlethorpe's ancient eyes crinkled with wisdom. "I think you might be exactly the right person," he said softly. "And I believe you'll know when the time is right to give him the letters. May I have them delivered to you?" Mutely, she nodded. She didn't know what else to do.

 Middlethorpe lifted his cane and pointed it out toward the terrace. "You'd best go to him."

 Daphne caught his gaze, nodded, and scurried outside. The terrace was lit by only a few wall sconces, so the night air was dim, and it was only with the aid of the moon that she saw Simon off in the corner. His stance was wide and angry, and his arms were crossed across his chest. He was facing the endless lawn that stretched out past the terrace, but Daphne sincerely doubted he saw anything aside from his own raging emotions.

 She moved silently toward him, the cool breeze a welcome change from the stagnant air in the overcrowded ballroom. Light murmurs of voices drifted through the night, indicating that they were not alone on the terrace, but Daphne saw no one else in the dim light. Clearly the other guests had elected to sequester themselves in dark corners. Or maybe they had descended the steps to the garden and were sitting on the benches below.

 As she walked to him, she thought about saying something like, "You were very rude to the duke," or "Why are you so angry at your father?" but in the end she decided this was not the time to probe into Simon's feelings, and so when she reached his side, she just leaned against the balustrade, and said, "I wish I could see the stars."