The Duke and I (27 page)

 Anthony motioned to Simon's eyes. "Which one is mine?"

 "The right," Simon replied, gingerly touching his abused skin. "Daphne packs quite a punch for a girl, but she lacks your size and strength."

 "Still," Anthony said, leaning forward to inspect his sister's handiwork, "she did quite a nice job."

 "You should be proud of her," Simon grunted. "Hurts like the devil."

 "Good."

 And then they were silent, with so much to say and no idea how to say it.

 "I never wanted it to be like this," Anthony finally said.

 "Nor I."

 Anthony leaned against the edge of Simon's desk, but he shifted uncomfortably, looking oddly ill at ease in his own body. "It wasn't easy for me to let you court her."

 "You knew it wasn't real."

 "You
made
it real last night."

 What was he to say? That Daphne had been the seducer, not he? That she'd been the one to lead him off the terrace and

dance into the darkness of the night? None of that mattered. He was far more experienced than Daphne. He should have

been able to stop.

 He said nothing.

 "I hope we may put this behind us," Anthony said.

 "I'm certain that would be Daphne's fondest wish."

 Anthony's eyes narrowed. "And is it now your aim in life to grant her fondest wishes?" 

 All but one,Simon thought.
All but the one that really matters.
"You know that I will do everything in my capabilities to keep her happy," he said quietly.

 Anthony nodded. "If you hurt her—"

 "I will never hurt her," Simon vowed, his eyes blazing.

 Anthony regarded him with a long and even stare. "I was prepared to kill you for dishonoring her. If you damage her soul, I guarantee you will never find peace as long as you live. Which," he added, his eyes turning slightly harder, "would not be long."

 "Just long enough to put me in excruciating pain?" Simon asked mildly.

 "Exactly."

 Simon nodded. Even though Anthony was threatening torture and death, Simon could not help but respect him for it.

Devotion to one's sister was an honorable thing.

 Simon wondered if Anthony perhaps saw something in him that no one else did. They had known each other for over half of their lives. Did Anthony somehow see the darkest corners of his soul? The anguish and fury he tried so hard to keephidden?

 And if so, was that why he worried for his sister's happiness?

 "I give you my word," Simon said. "I will do everything in my power to keep Daphne safe and content."

 Anthony nodded curtly. "See that you do." He pushed himself away from the desk and walked to the door. "Or you'll be seeing me."

 He left.

 Simon groaned and sank back into the leather chair. When had his life grown so damned complicated? When had friends become enemies and flirtations grown to lust?

 And what the hell was he going to do with Daphne? He didn't want to hurt her, couldn't bear to hurt her, actually, and yet he was doomed to do so simply by marrying her. He burned for her, ached for the day when he could lay her down and cover her body with his, slowly entering her until she moaned his name—

 He shuddered. Such thoughts could not possibly be advantageous to his health.

 "Your grace?"

 Jeffries again. Simon was too tired to look up, so he just made an acknowledging motion with his hand.

 "Perhaps you would like to retire for the evening, your grace."

 Simon managed to look at the clock, but that was only because he didn't have to move his head to do it. It was barely seven in the evening. Hardly his usual bedtime. "It's early yet," he mumbled.

 "Still," the butler said pointedly, "perhaps you'd like to retire."

 Simon closed his eyes. Jeffries had a point. Maybe what he needed was a long engagement with his feather mattress and fine linen sheets. He could escape to his bedroom, where he might manage to avoid seeing a Bridgerton for an entire night.

 Hell, the way he felt, he might hole up there for days.

 Chapter 13

 It's
marriage for the Duke of Hasting and Miss
Bridgerton!

 This Author must take this opportunity to remind you, dear reader, that the forthcoming nuptials were predicted

 in this very column. It has not escaped the note of This Author that when this newspaper reports a new attachment between an eligible gentleman and an unmarried lady, the odds in the betting books at gentleman's clubs change within hours, and always in favor of marriage .

 Although This Author is not allowed in White's, she has reason to believe that the official odds concerning the marriage of the duke and Miss Bridgerton were 2-1 fo r.

 Lady Whistledowns Society Papers,21 May 1813

 The rest of the week flew by in a rush. Daphne didn't see Simon for several days. She might have thought he'd left town, except that Anthony told her he'd been over to Hastings House to settle the details of the marriage contract.

 Much to Anthony's surprise, Simon had refused to accept even a penny as dowry. Finally, the two men had decided that Anthony would put the money his father had put aside for Daphne's marriage in a separate estate with himself as the trustee. It would be hers to spend or save as she liked.

 "You can pass it along to your children," Anthony suggested.

 Daphne only smiled. It was either that or cry.

 A few days after that, Simon called upon Bridgerton House in the afternoon. It was two days before the wedding.

 Daphne waited in the drawing room after Humboldt announced his arrival. She sat primly on the edge of the damask sofa, her back straight and her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked, she was sure, the very model of genteel English womanhood.

 She felt a bundle of nerves.

 Correction, she thought, as her stomach turned itself inside out, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges.

 She looked down at her hands and realized that her fingernails were leaving red, crescent-shaped indentations on her palms.

 Second correction, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges with an arrow stuck through them. Maybe a flaming arrow at that.

 The urge to laugh was almost as overwhelming as it was inappropriate. She had never felt nervous at seeing Simon before. In fact, that had been possibly the most remarkable aspect of their friendship. Even when she caught him gazing at her with smoldering heat, and she was sure that her eyes reflected the same need, she had felt utterly comfortable with him. Yes, her stomach flipped and her skin tingled, but those were symptoms of desire, not of unease. First and foremost, Simon had been her friend, and Daphne knew that the easy, happy feeling she'd experienced whenever he was near was not something to be taken for granted.

 She was confident that they would find their way back to that sense of comfort and companionship, but after the scene in Regent's Park, she very much feared that this would occur later rather than sooner.

 "Good day, Daphne."

 Simon appeared in the doorway, filling it with his marvelous presence. Well, perhaps his presence wasn't quite as marvelous as usual. His eyes still sported matching purple bruises, and the one on his chin was starting to turn an impressive shade of green.

 Still, it was better than a bullet in the heart.

 "Simon," Daphne replied. "How nice to see you. What brings you to Bridgerton House?"

 He gave her a surprised look. "Aren't we betrothed?"

 She blushed. "Yes, of course."

 "It was my impression that men were supposed to visit their betrothed." He sat down across from her. "Didn't Lady Whistledown say something to that effect?"

 "I don't think so," Daphne murmured, "but I'm certain my mother must have done."

 They both smiled, and for a moment Daphne thought that all would be well again, but as soon as the smiles faded, an uncomfortable silence fell across the room.

 "Are your eyes feeling any better?" she finally asked. "They don't look quite as swollen."

 "Do you think?" Simon turned so that he was facing a large gilt mirror. "I rather think the bruises have turned a spectacular shade of blue."

 "Purple."

 He leaned forward, not that that brought him appreciably closer to the mirror. "Purple then, but I suppose it might be a debatable fact."

 "Do they hurt?"

 He smiled humorlessly. "Only when someone pokes at them."

 "I shall refrain from doing so, then," she murmured, her lips quirking in a telltale twitch. "It shall be difficult, of course, but I shall persevere."

 "Yes," he said, with a perfectly deadpan expression, "I've often been told I make women want to poke me in the eye."

 Daphne's smile was one of relief. Surely if they could joke about such things, everything would go back to the way it was.

 Simon cleared his throat. "I did have a specific reason for coming to see you."

 Daphne gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

 He held out a jewelers' box. "This is for you."

 Her breath caught in her throat as she reached for the small, velvet-covered box. "Are you certain?" she asked.

 "I believe betrothal rings are considered quite
de rigueur,"
he said quietly.

 "Oh. How stupid of me. I didn't realize..."

 'That it was a betrothal ring? What did youthink it was?"

 "I
wasn't
thinking," she admitted sheepishly. He'd never given her a gift before. She'd been so taken aback by the gesture she'd completely forgotten that he owed her a betrothal ring.

 "Owed." She didn't like that word, didn't like that she'd even thought it. But she was fairly certain that that was what Simon must have been thinking when he'd picked out the ring.

 This depressed her.

 Daphne forced a smile. "Is this a family heirloom?"

 "No!" he said, with enough vehemence to make her blink.

 "Oh."

 Yet another awkward silence.

 He coughed, then said, "I thought you might like something of your own. All of the Hastings jewelry was chosen for someone else. This I chose for you."

 Daphne thought it a wonder she didn't melt on the spot. "That's so sweet," she said, just barely managing to stifle a

sentimental sniffle.

 Simon squirmed in his seat, which didn't surprise her. Men did so hate to be called sweet.

 "Aren't you going to open it?" he grunted.

 "Oh, yes, of course." Daphne shook her head slightly as she snapped back to attention. "How silly of me." Her eyes had

glazed over slightly as she stared at the jeweler's box. Blinking a few times to clear her vision, she carefully released the box's clasp and opened it.

 And couldn't possibly say anything besides, "Oh, my goodness," and even that came out with more breath than voice.

 Nestled in the box was a stunning band of white gold, adorned with a large marquis-cut emerald, flanked on either side by a single, perfect diamond. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry Daphne had ever seen, brilliant but elegant, obviously precious but not overly showy.

 "It's beautiful," she whispered. "I love it."

 "Are you certain?" Simon removed his gloves, then leaned forward and took the ring out of the box. "Because it is your

ring. You shall be the one to wear it, and it should reflect your tastes, not mine."

 Daphne's voice shook slightly as she said, "Clearly, our tastes coincide."

 Simon breathed a small sigh of relief and picked up her hand. He hadn't realized how much it meant to him that she liked the ring until that very moment. He hated that he felt so nervous around her when they'd been such easy friends for the past few weeks. He hated that there were silences in their conversations, when before she'd been the only person with whom he never felt the need to pause and take stock of his words.

 Not that he was having any trouble speaking now. It was just that he didn't seem to know what to say.

 "May I put it on?" he asked softly.

 She nodded and started to remove her glove.

 But Simon stilled her fingers with his own, then took over the task. He gave the tip of each finger a tug, then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unabashedly erotic, clearly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do: remove every stitch from her body.

 Daphne gasped as the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. The sound of her breath rushing across her lips made him want her all the more.

 With tremulous hands, he slid the ring on her finger, easing it over her knuckle until it rested in place.

 "It fits perfectly," she said, moving her hand this way and that so that she could see how it reflected the light.

 Simon, however, didn't let go of her hand. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a warmth that was oddly soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "I'm glad," he murmured. "It suits you."