The Duke and I (3 page)

 Violet pressed a delicate hand to her chest. "She cast aspersionson your parentage."

 "No," Daphne said slowly. It was always wise to proceed with caution when contradicting her mother. "Actually, what she said was that there could be no doubt that we are all legitimate. Which is more than one can say for most largefamilies of the
ton."
 

 "She shouldn't have even brought it up," Violet sniffed.

 "Mother, she's the author of a scandal sheet. It's her job to bring such things up."

 "She isn't even a real person," Violet added angrily. She planted her hands on her slim hips, then changed her mind and

shook her finger in the air. "Whistledown, ha! I've never heard of any Whistledowns. Whoever this depraved woman is,

I doubt she's one of
us.
As if anyone of breeding would write such wicked lies."

 "Of course she's one of us," Daphne said, her brown eyes filling with amusement. "If she weren't a, member of the
ton,
there is no way she'd be privy to the sort of news she reports. Did you think she was some sort of impostor, peeking in windows and listening at doors?"

 "I don't like your tone, Daphne Bridgerton," Violet said, her eyes narrowing.

 Daphne bit back another smile. "I don't like your tone," was Violet's standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.But it was too much fun to tease her mother. "I wouldn't be surprised," she said, cocking her head to the side, "if Lady Whistledown was one of your "friends."

 "Bite your tongue, Daphne. No friend of mine would ever stoop so low."

 "Very well," Daphne allowed, "it's probably not one of your friends. But I'm certain it's someone we know. No interloper could ever obtain the information she reports."

 Violet crossed her arms. "I should like to put her out of business once and for all."

 "If you wish to put her out of business," Daphne could not resist pointing out, "you shouldn't support her by buying her newspaper."

 "And what good would that do?" Violet demanded. "Everyone else is reading it. My puny little embargo would do nothing except make me look ignorant when everyone else is chuckling over her latest gossip."

 That much was true, Daphne silently agreed. Fashionable London was positively addicted to
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers.
The mysterious newspaper had arrived on the doorstep of every member of the
ton
three months earlier. For two weeks it was delivered unbidden every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And then, on the third Monday, butlers across London waited in vain for the pack of paperboys who normally delivered
Whistledown,
only to discover that instead of free delivery, they were selling the gossip sheet for the outrageous price of five pennies a paper.

 Daphne had to admire the fictitious Lady Whistledown's savvy. By the time she started forcing people to pay for their gossip, all the
ton
was addicted. Everyone forked over their pennies, and somewhere some meddlesome woman was getting very rich.

 While Violet paced the room and huffed about this "hideous slight" against her family, Daphne looked up to make certain her mother wasn't paying her any attention, then let her eyes drop to peruse the rest of the scandal sheet.
Whistledown
—as it was now called—was a curious mix of commentary, social news, scathing insult, and the occasional compliment. What set it apart from any previous society news sheets was that the author actually listed her subjects' names in full. There was no hiding behind abbreviations such as Lord S------and Lady G------. If Lady Whistledown wanted to write about someone, she used his full name. The
ton
declared themselves scandalized, but they were secretly fascinated.

 This most recent edition was typical
Whistledown.
Aside from the short piece on the Bridgertons—which was really no

more than a description of the family— Lady Whistledown had recounted the events at the previous night's ball. Daphne hadn't attended, as it had been her younger sister's birthday, and the Bridgertons always made a big fuss about birthdays. And with eight children, there were a lot of birthdays to celebrate.

 "You're reading that rubbish," Violet accused.

 Daphne looked up, refusing to feel the least bit guilty. "It's a rather good column today. Apparently Cecil Tumbley knocked over an entire tower of champagne glasses last night."

 "Really?" Violet asked, trying not to look interested.

 "Mmm-hmm," Daphne replied. "She gives quite a good account of the Middlethorpe ball. Mentions who was talking to

whom, what everyone was wearing—"

 "And I suppose she felt the need to offer her opinions on that point,"Violet cut in.

 Daphne smiled wickedly. "Oh, come now, Mother. You know that Mrs. Featherington has always looked dreadfulin purple."

 Violet tried not to smile. Daphne could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to maintain the composure she deemed appropriate for a viscountessand mother. But within two seconds, she was grinning and sitting next to her daughter on the sofa. "Let me see that," she said, snatching up the paper. "What else happened? Did we miss anything important?"

 Daphne said, "Really, Mother, with Lady Whistledown as a reporter, one needn't actually
attend
any events." She waved toward the paper. "This is almost as good as actually being there. Better, probably. I'm certain we had better food last night than they did at the ball. And give that back." She yanked the paper back, leaving a torn corner in Violet's hands.

 "Daphne!"

 Daphne affected mock righteousness. "I was reading it."

 "Well!"

 "Listen to this." Violet leaned in.Daphne read: ""The rake formerly known as Earl Clyvedon has finally seen fit to grace London with his presence. Although he has not yet deigned to make an appearance at a respectable evening function, the new Duke of Hastings has been spotted several times at White's and once at Tattersall's.' " She paused to take a breath. "'His grace has resided abroad for six years. Can it be any coincidence that he has returned only now that the old duke is dead?'"

 Daphne looked up. "My goodness, she
is
blunt, isn't she? Isn't Clyvedon one of Anthony's friends?"

 "He's Hastings now," Violet said automatically, "and yes, I do believe he and Anthony were friendly at Oxford. And Eton as well, I think." Her brow scrunched and her blue eyes narrowed with thought. "He was something of a hellion, if my memory serves. Always at odds with his father. But reputed to be quite brilliant. I'm fairly sure that Anthony said he took a first in mathematics. Which," she added with a maternal roll of her eyes, "is more than I can say for any of
my
children."

 "Now, now, Mother," Daphne teased. "I'm sure I would take a first if Oxford would only see fit to admit women."

 Violet snorted. "I corrected your arithmetic papers when your governess was ill,Daphne."

 "Well, maybe in history, then," Daphne said with a grin. She looked back down at the paper in her hands, her eyes straying to the new duke's name. "He sounds quite interesting," shemurmured.

 Violet looked at her sharply. "He's quite unsuitable for a young lady of your years is what he is."

 "Funny how my 'years,' as you put it, volley back and forth between being so young that I cannot even meet Anthony's

friends and being so old that you despair of my ever contracting a goodmarriage."

 "Daphne Bridgerton, I don't—"

 "—like my tone, I know." Daphne grinned. "But you love me."

 Violet smiled warmly and wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulder. "Heaven help me, I do."

 Daphne gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. "It's the curse of motherhood. You're required to love us even when we vex you."

 Violet just sighed. "I hope that someday you have children—"

 "—just like me, I know." Daphne smiled nostalgically and rested her head on her mother's shoulder. Her mother could be overly inquisitive, and her father had been more interested in hounds and hunting than he'd been in society affairs, but theirs had been a warm marriage, filled with love, laughter, and children. "I could do a great deal worse than follow your example, Mother," she murmured.

 "Why, Daphne," Violet said, her eyes growing watery, "what a lovely thing to say."

 Daphne twirled a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger, and grinned, letting the sentimental moment melt into a more teasing one. "I'm happy to follow in your footsteps when it comes to marriage and children, Mother, just so long as I don't have to have
eight.
"

 *  *  *

 At that exact moment, Simon Basset, the new Duke of Hastings and the erstwhile topic of the Bridgerton ladies' conversation, was sitting at White's. His companion was none other than Anthony Bridgerton, Daphne's eldest brother. The two cut a striking pair, both tall and athletic, with thick dark hair. But where Anthony's eyes were the same deep chocolate brown as his sister's, Simon's were icy blue, with an oddly penetrating gaze.

 It was those eyes as much as anything that had earned him his reputation as a man to be reckoned with. When he stared at a person, clear and unwavering, men grew uncomfortable. Women positively shivered.

 But not Anthony. The two men had known each other for years, and Anthony just laughed when Simon raised a brow and turned his icy gaze upon him. "You forget, I've seen you with your head being lowered into a chamber pot," Anthony had once told him. "It's been difficult to take you seriously ever since."

 To which Simon had replied, "Yes, but if I recall, you were the one holding me over that fragrant receptacle."

 "One of my proudest moments, to be sure. But you had your revenge the next night in the form of a dozen eels in my bed."

 Simon allowed himself a smile as he remembered both the incident and their subsequent conversation about it. Anthony was a good friend, just the sort a man would want by his side in a pinch. He'd been the first person Simon had looked up upon returning to England.

 "It's damned fine to have you back, Clyvedon," Anthony said, once they'd settled in at their table at White's. "Oh, but I

suppose you'll insist I call you Hastings now."

 "No," Simon said rather emphatically. "Hastings will always be my father. He never answered to anything else." He paused. "I'll assume his title if I must, but I won't be called by his name."

 "If you must?" Anthony's eyes widened slightly. "Most men would not sound quite so resigned about the prospect of a dukedom."

 Simon raked a hand through his dark hair. He knew he was supposed to cherish his birthright and display unwavering pride in the Basset family's illustrious history, but the truth was it all made him sick inside. He'd spent his entire life not living up to his father's expectations; it seemed ridiculous now to try to live up to his name. "It's a damned burden is what it is," he finally grumbled.

 "You'd best get used to it," Anthony said pragmatically, "because that's what everyone will call you."

 Simon knew it was true, but he doubted if the title would ever sit well upon his shoulders.

 "Well, whatever the case," Anthony added, respecting his friend's privacy by not delving further into what was obviously an uncomfortable topic, "I'm glad to have you back. I might finally get some peace next time I escort my sister to a ball."

 Simon leaned back, crossing his long, muscular legs at the ankles. "An intriguing remark."

 Anthony raised a brow. "One that you're certain I'll explain?"

 "But of course."

 "I ought to let you learn for yourself, but then, I've never been a cruel man."

 Simon chuckled. "This coming from the man who dunked my head in a chamber pot?"

 Anthony waved his hand dismissively. "I was young."

 "And now you're a model of mature decorum and respectability?"

 Anthony grinned. "Absolutely."

 "So tell me," Simon drawled, "how, exactly, am I meant to make your existence that much more peaceful?"

 "I assume you plan to take your place in society?"

 "You assume incorrectly."

 "But you
are
planning to attend Lady Danbury's ball this week," Anthony said.

 "Only because I am inexplicably fond of the old woman. She says what she means, and—" Simon's eyes grew somewhat shuttered.

 "And?" Anthony prompted.

 Simon gave his head a little shake. "It's nothing. Just that she was rather kind to me as a child. I spent a few school holidays at her house with Riverdale. Her nephew, you know."

 Anthony nodded once. "I see. So you have no intention of entering society. I'm impressed by your resolve. But allow me to warn you—even if you do not choose to attend the
ton's
events,
they
will find you."

 Simon, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his brandy, choked on the spirit at the look on Anthony's face when he said, "they." After a few moments of coughing and sputtering, he finally managed to say, "Who, pray tell', are 'they'?"

 Anthony shuddered. "Mothers."