The Duke and I (41 page)

looked down.

 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
...

 Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. 2August 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 inresidence."

 "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 theblasted 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 washer 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. Sheclosed 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?"

 "Riding?" Daphne answered weakly.

 "Don't you even care about our child? Didn't you give even a moment's thought to its safety?"

 "Simon," Daphne said, her voice very small.

 "A pregnant woman shouldn't even get within ten feet of a horse! You should know better."