The Duke and I (9 page)

 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, "butit 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 4

 London is awash these days with Ambitious Mamas. At Lady Worth's ball last week This Author saw no fewer than eleven Determined Bachelors, cowering in comers and eventually fleeing the premises with those Ambitious Mamas hot on their heels .

 It is difficult to determine who, precisely, is the worst of the lot, although This Author suspects the contest may come down to a near draw between Lady Bridgerton and Mrs. Featherington, with Mrs. F
edging Lady B out by a nose. There are three Featherington misses on the market right now, after all, whereas Lady Bridgerton need only worry about one
.

 It is recommended, however, that all safety-minded people stay far, far away from the latest crop of unmarried men when Bridgerton daughters E, F, and H come of age. Lady B is not likely to look both ways when she barrels across a ballroom with three daughters in tow, and the Lord help us all should she decide to don metal-toed boots .

 Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 28 April 1813

 The night, Simon decided, couldn't possibly get much worse. He wouldn't have believed it at thetime, but his bizarre

encounter with Daphne Bridgerton was definitely turning out to be the evening's high point. Yes, he'd been horrified to

discover that he'd been lusting—even briefly—after his best friend's younger sister. Yes, Nigel Berbrooke's oafish attempts at seduction had offended every one of his rakish sensibilities. And yes, Daphne had finally exasperated him beyond endurance with her indecision over whether to treat Nigel like a criminal or care for him as she would her dearest friend. But none of that—not one bit—compared to the torture that he'd been about to endure.

 His oh-so-clever plan of slipping into the ballroom, giving his regards to Lady Danbury, and leaving unnoticed had fallen into instant ruin. He'd taken no more than two steps into the ballroom when he'd been recognized by an old friend from Oxford, who, much to Simon's dismay, had recently married. The wife was a perfectly charming young woman, but unfortunately one with rather high social aspirations, and she had quickly determined that her road to happiness lay in her position as the one to introduce the new duke to society. And Simon, even though he fancied himself a world-weary, cynical sort, discovered that he wasn't quite rude enough to directly insult the wife of his old university friend.

 And so, two hours later, he'd been introduced to every unmarried lady at the ball, every
mother
of every unmarried lady at the ball, and, of course, every older married sister of every unmarried lady at the ball. Simon couldn't decide which set of women was the worst. The unmarried ladies were decidedly boring, the mothers were annoyingly ambitious, and the
sisters—
well, the sisters were so forward Simon began to wonder if he'd stumbled into a brothel. Six of them had made extremely suggestive remarks, two had slipped him notesinviting him to their boudoirs, and one had actually run her hand down his thigh.

 In retrospect, Daphne Bridgerton was starting to look very good, indeed.

 And speaking of Daphne, where the hell was she? He'd thought he'd caught a glimpse of her about an hour earlier,

surrounded by her rather large and forbidding brothers. (Not that Simon found them individually forbidding, but he'd

quickly decided that any man would have to be an imbecile to provoke them asa group.)

 But since then she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, he thought she might have been the only unmarried female at the party to whom he
hadn't
been introduced.

 Simon wasn't particularly worried about her being bothered by Berbrooke after he'd left them in the hall. He'd delivered a solid punch to the man's jaw and had no doubt that he'd be out for several minutes. Probably longer, considering the vast quantities of alcohol Berbrooke had consumed earlier in the evening. And even if Daphne had been foolishly tender-hearted when it came to her clumsy suitor, she wasn't stupid enough to remain in the hallway with him until he woke up.

 Simon glanced back over to the corner where the Bridgerton brothers were gathered, looking as if they were having a grand old time. They had been accosted by almost as many young women and old mothers as Simon, but at least there seemed to be some safety in numbers. Simon noticed that the young debutantes, didn't seem to spend half as much time in the Bridgertons' company as they did in his.

 Simon sent an irritated scowl in their direction.

 Anthony, who was leaning lazily against a wall, caught the expression and smirked, raising a glass of red wine in his direction. Then he cocked his head slightly,motioning to Simon's left. Simon turned, just in time to be detained by yet another mother, this one with a trio of daughters, all of whom were dressed in monstrously fussy frocks, replete with tucks and flounces, and of course, heaps and heaps of lace.

 He thought of Daphne, with her simple sage green gown. Daphne, with her direct brown eyes and wide smile...

 "Your grace!" the mother shrilled. "Your grace!" Simon blinked to clear his vision. The lace-covered family had managed to surround him with such efficiency that he wasn't even able to shoot a glare in Anthony's direction.

 "Your grace," the mother repeated, "it is such an honor to make your acquaintance."

 Simon managed a frosty nod. Words were quite beyond him. The family of females had pressed in so close he feared he might suffocate.

 "Georgiana Huxley sent us over," the woman persisted. "She said I simply must introduce my daughters to you."

 Simon didn't remember who Georgiana Huxley was, but he thought he might like to strangle her.

 "Normally I should not be so bold," the woman went on, "but your dear, dear papa was such a friend of mine."Simon stiffened."He was truly a marvelous man," she continued, her voice like nails to Simon's skull, "so conscious of his duties to the title. He must have been a marvelous father."

 "I wouldn't know," Simon bit off.

 "Oh!" The woman had to clear her throat several times before managing to say, "I see. Well. My goodness."

 Simon said nothing, hoping an aloof demeanorwould prompt her to take her leave. Damn it, where was Anthony? It was bad enough having these women acting as if he were some prize horse to be bred, but to have to stand here and listen to this woman tell him what a
good
father the old duke had been...Simon couldn't possibly bear it.

 "Your grace! Your grace!"

 Simon forced his icy eyes back to the lady in front of him and told himself to be more patient with her. After all, she was probably only complimenting his father because she thought it was what he wanted to hear.

 "I merely wanted to remind you," she said, "that we were introduced several years ago, back when you were still Clyvedon."

 "Yes," Simon murmured, looking for any break in the barricade of ladies through which he might make his escape.

 "These are my daughters," the woman said, motioning to the three young ladies. Two were pleasant-looking, but the third was still cloaked in baby fat and an orangey gown which did nothing for her complexion. She didn't appear to be enjoying the evening.

 "Aren't they lovely?" the lady continued. "My pride and joy. And so even-tempered."

 Simon had the queasy feeling that he'd heard the same words once when shopping for a dog.

 "Your grace, may I present Prudence, Philipa, and Penelope."

 The girls made their curtsies, not a one of them daring to meet his eye.

 "I have another daughter at home," the lady continued. "Felicity. But she's a mere ten years of age, so I do not bring her to such events."

 Simon could not imagine why she felt the need to share this information with him, but he just kept histone carefully bored (this, he'd long since learned, was the best way not to show anger) and prompted, "And you are... ?"

 "Oh, beg pardon! I am Mrs. Featherington, of course. My husband passed on three years ago, but he was your papa's, er, dearest friend." Her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence, as she remembered Simon's last reaction to mention of his father.

 Simon nodded curtly.

 "Prudence is quite accomplished on the pianoforte," Mrs. Featherington said, with forced brightness.

 Simon noted the oldest girl's pained expression and quickly decided never to attend a musicale chez Featherington.

 "And my darling Philipa is an expert watercolorist." Philipa beamed.

 "And Penelope?" some devil inside Simon forced him to ask.

 Mrs. Featherington shot a panicked look at her youngest daughter, who looked quite miserable. Penelope was not terribly attractive, and her somewhat pudgy figure was not improved by her mother's choice of attire for her. But she seemed to have kind eyes.

 "Penelope?" Mrs. Featherington echoed, her voice a touch shrill. "Penelope is... ah... well, she's Penelope!" Her mouth wobbled into a patently false grin.

 Penelope looked as if she wanted to dive under a rug. Simon decided that if he was forced to dance, he'd ask Penelope.

 "Mrs. Featherington," came a sharp and imperious voice that could only belong to Lady Danbury, "are you pestering the duke?"

 Simon wanted to answer in the affirmative, but the memory of Penelope Featherington's mortified face led him to murmur, "Of course not."

 Lady Danbury raised a brow as she moved her head slowly toward him. "Liar."

 She turned back to Mrs. Featherington, who had gone quite green. Mrs. Featherington said nothing. Lady Danbury said nothing. Mrs. Featherington finally mumbled something about seeing her cousin, grabbed her three daughters, and scurried off.

 Simon crossed his arms, but he wasn't able to keep his face completely free of amusement. "That wasn't very well done of you," he said.

 "Bah. She's feathers for brains, and so do her girls, except maybe that unattractive young one." Lady Danbury shook her head. "If they'd only put her in a different color..."

 Simon fought a chuckle and lost. "You never did learn to mind your own business, did you?"

 "Never. And what fun would that be?" She smiled. Simon could tell she didn't want to, but she smiled. "And as for you," she continued. "You are a monstrous guest. One would have thought you'd possess the manners to greet your hostess by now."

 "You were always too well surrounded by your admirers for me to dare even approach."

 "So glib," she commented.

 Simon said nothing, not entirely certain how to interpret her words. He'd always had the suspicion that she knew his secret, but he'd never been quite sure.

 "Your friend Bridgerton approaches," she said.

 Simon's eyes followed the direction of her nod. Anthony ambled over, and was only half a second in their presence before Lady Danbury called him a coward.

 Anthony blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

 "You could have come over and saved your friend from the Featherington quartet ages ago."

 "But I was so enjoying his distress."

 "Hmmph." And without another word (or another grunt) she walked away.

 "Strangest old woman," Anthony said. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's that cursed Whistledown woman."

 "You mean the gossip columnist?" Anthony nodded as he led Simon around a potted plant to the corner where his brothers were waiting. As they walked, Anthony grinned, and said, "I noticed you speaking with a number of very proper young ladies." Simon muttered something rather obscene and unflattering under his breath.

 But Anthony only laughed. "You can't say I didn't warn you, can you?"

 "It is galling to admit that you might be right about anything, so please do not ask me to do so."

 Anthony laughed some more. "For that comment I shall start introducing you to the debutantes myself."

 "If you do," Simon warned, "you shall soon find yourself dying a very slow and painful death."

 Anthony grinned. "Swords or pistols?"

 "Oh, poison. Very definitely poison."

 "Ouch." Anthony stopped his stroll across the ballroom in front of two other Bridgerton men, both clearly marked by their chestnut hair, tall height, and excellent bone structure. Simon noted that one had green eyes and the other brown like Anthony, but other than that, the dim evening light made the three men practically interchangeable.