Chapter 8 7 страница

"Terribly rude?" Daphne grinned and watched as her mother looped her arm through Lord Railmont's, pointed him toward Daphne so that he could nod his goodbye, and led him from the room. And then, as if by magic, the remaining beaux murmured their hasty farewells and followed suit.

"Remarkably efficient, isn't she?" Daphne murmured.

"Your mother? She's a marvel."

"She'll be back, of course."

"Pity. And here I thought I had you well and truly in my clutches."

Daphne laughed. "I don't know how anyone considered you a rake. Your sense of humor is far too superb."

"And here we rakes thought we were so wickedly droll."

"A rake's humor," Daphne stated, "is essentially cruel."

Her comment surprised him. He stared at her intently, searching her brown eyes, and yet not really knowing what it was he was looking for. There was a narrow ring of green just outside her pupils, the color as deep and rich as moss. He'd never seen her in the daylight before, he realized.

"Your grace?" Daphne's quiet voice snapped him out of his daze.

Simon blinked. "I beg your pardon."

"You looked a thousand miles away," she said, her brow wrinkling.

"I've been a thousand miles away." He fought the urge to return his gaze to her eyes. "This is entirely different."

Daphne let out a little laugh, the sound positively musical. "You have, haven't you? And here I've never even been past Lancashire. What a provincial I must seem."

He brushed aside her remark. "You must forgive my woolgathering. We were discussing my lack of humor, I believe.”

"We were not, and you well know it." Her hands found their way to her hips. "I specifically told you that you were in possession of a sense of humor far superior to that of the average rake."

One of his brows lifted in a rather superior manner. "And you wouldn't classify your brothers as rakes?"

"They only think they are rakes," she corrected. "There is a considerable difference."

Simon snorted. "If Anthony isn't a rake, I pity the woman who meets the man who is."

"There is more to being a rake than seducing legions of women," Daphne said blithely. "If a man can't do more than poke his tongue into a woman's mouth and kiss—"

Simon felt his throat close up, but somehow he managed to sputter, "You should not be speaking of such things."

She shrugged.

"You shouldn't even know about them," he grunted.

"Four brothers," she said by way of an explanation. "Well, three, I suppose. Gregory is too young to count."

"Someone ought to tell them to hold their tongues around you."

She shrugged again, this time with only one shoulder. "Half the time they don't even notice I'm there."

Simon couldn't imagine that.

"But we seem to have veered away from the Original Subject," she said. "All I meant to say is that a rake's humor has its basis in cruelty. He needs a victim, for he cannot imagine ever laughing at himself. You, your grace, are rather clever with the self-deprecating remark."

"I just don't know whether to thank you or throttle you.

"Throttle me? Good heavens, why?" She laughed again, a rich, throaty sound that Simon felt deep in his gut.

He exhaled slowly, the long whoosh of air just barely steadying his pulse. If she continued laughing, he wasn't going to be able to answer to the consequences.

But she just kept looking at him, her wide mouth curved into one of those smiles that looked as if it were perpetually on the verge of laughter.

"I am going to throttle you," he growled, "on general principle."

"And what principle is that?"

"The general principle of man," he blustered.

Her brows lifted dubiously. "As opposed to the general principle of woman?"

Simon looked around. "Where is your brother? You're far too cheeky. Surely someone needs to take you in hand."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be seeing more of Anthony. In fact I'm rather surprised he hasn't made an appearance yet. He was
quite irate last night. I was forced to listen to a full hour's lecture on your many faults and sins."

"The sins are almost certainly exaggerated."

"And the faults?"

"Probably true," Simon admitted sheepishly.

That remark earned him another smile from Daphne. "Well, true or not," she said, "he thinks you're up to something."

"I am up to something."

Her head tilted sarcastically as her eyes rolled upward. "He thinks you're up to something nefarious."

"I'd like to be up to something nefarious," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

She frowned. "I think we should tell Anthony about our plan."

"And what could possibly be the benefit to that?"

Daphne remembered the full-hour grilling she'd endured the previous night, and just said, "Oh, I think I'll let you figure that out for yourself."

Simon merely raised his brows. "My dear Daphne..."

Her lips parted slightly in surprise.

"Surely you're not going to force me to call you Miss Bridgerton." He sighed dramatically. "After all that we've been through."

"We've been through nothing, you ridiculous man, but I suppose you may call me Daphne nonetheless."

"Excellent." He nodded in a condescending manner. "You may call me 'your grace.' "

She swatted him.

"Very well," he replied, his lips twitching at the corners. "Simon, if you must."

"Oh I must," Daphne said, rolling her eyes, "clearly, I must."

He leaned toward her, something odd and slightly hot sparking in the depths of his pale eyes. "Must you?" he murmured. "I should be very excited to hear it."

Daphne had the sudden sense that he was talking about something far more intimate than the mere mention of his given name. A strange, tingling sort of heat shot down her arms, and without thinking, she jumped back a step. "Those flowers are quite lovely," she blurted out.

He regarded them lazily, rotating the bouquet with his wrist. "Yes, they are, aren't they?"

"I adore them."

'They're not for you." Daphne choked on air. Simon grinned. "They're for your mother."

Her mouth slowly opened in surprise, a short little gasp of air passing through her lips before she said, "Oh, you clever clever man. She will positively melt at your feet. But this will come back to haunt you, you know."

He gave her an arch look. "Oh really?"

"Really. She will be more determined than ever to drag you to the altar. You shall be just as beleaguered at parties as if we hadn't concocted this scheme."

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "Before I would have had to endure the attentions of dozens of Ambitious Mamas. Now I must deal with only one."

"Her tenacity might surprise you," Daphne muttered. Then she twisted her head to look out the partially open door. "She must truly like you," she added. "She's left us alone far longer than is proper."

Simon pondered that and leaned forward to whisper, "Could she be listening at the door?"

Daphne shook her head. "No, we would have heard her shoes clicking down the hall."

Something about that statement made him smile, and Daphne found herself smiling right along with him. "I really should thank you, though," she said, "before she returns."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Your plan is a brilliant success. At least for me. Did you notice how many suitors came to call this morning?"

He crossed his arms, the tulips dangling upside down. "I noticed."

"It's brilliant, really. I've never had so many callers in a single afternoon before. Mother was beside herself with pride. Even Humboldt—he's our butler—was beaming, and I've never seen him so much as smile before. Ooops! Look, you're dripping." She leaned down and righted the flowers, her forearm grazing the front of his coat. She immediately jumped back, startled by both the heat and power of him.

Good God, if she could sense all that through his shirt and coat, what must he be like—

Daphne colored red. Deep, dark red.

"I should give my entire fortune for those thoughts," Simon said, his brows rising in question.

Thankfully, Violet chose that moment to sail into the room. "I'm terribly sorry for abandoning you for so long," she said, "but Mr. Crane's horse threw a shoe, so naturally I had to accompany him to the stables and find a groom to repair the damage."

In all their years together—which, Daphne thought acerbically, naturally constituted her entire life—Daphne had never known her mother to step foot in the stables.

"You are truly an exceptional hostess," Simon said, holding out the flowers. "Here, these are for you."

"For me?" Violet's mouth fell open in surprise, and a strange little breathy sound escaped her lips. "Are you certain? Because I—" She looked over at Daphne, and then at Simon, and then finally back at her daughter. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely."

Violet blinked rapidly, and Daphne noticed that there were actually tears in her mother's eyes. No one ever gave her flowers, she realized. At least not since her father had died ten years earlier. Violet was such a mother—Daphne had forgotten that she was a woman as well.

"I don't know what to say," Violet sniffled.

"Try 'thank you,' " Daphne whispered in her ear, her grin lending warmth to her voice.

"Oh, Daff, you are the worst." Violet swatted her in the arm, looking more like a young woman than Daphne had ever seen her. "But thank you, your grace. These are beautiful blooms, but more importantly, it was a most thoughtful gesture. I shall treasure this moment always."

Simon looked as if he were about to say something, but in the end he just smiled and inclined his head.

Daphne looked at her mother, saw the unmistakable joy in her cornflower blue eyes, and realized with a touch of shame
that none of her own children had ever acted in such a thoughtful manner as this man standing beside her.

The Duke of Hastings. Daphne decided then and there that she'd be a fool if she didn't fall in love with him. Of course it would be nice if he returned the sentiment.

"Mother," Daphne said, "would you like me to fetch you a vase?"

"What?" Violet was still too busy sniffing blissfully at her flowers to pay attention to her daughter's words. "Oh. Yes, of course. Ask Humboldt for the cut crystal from my grandmother."

Daphne flashed a grateful smile at Simon and headed for the door, but before she could take more than two steps, the large and forbidding form of her eldest brother materialized in the doorway.

"Daphne," Anthony growled. "Just the person I needed to see."

Daphne decided the best strategy was simply to ignore his churlish mood. "In just a moment, Anthony," she said sweetly. "Mother has asked me to fetch a vase. Hastings has brought her flowers."

"Hastings is here?" Anthony looked past her to the duo further in the room. "What are you doing here, Hastings?"

"Calling on your sister." Anthony pushed past Daphne and strode into the room, looking rather like a thundercloud on legs.

"I did not give you leave to court my sister," he bellowed.

"I did," Violet said. She shoved the flowers in Anthony's face, wiggling them so as to deposit the greatest amount of pollen on his nose. "Aren't these lovely?"

Anthony sneezed and pushed them aside. "Mother, I am trying to have a conversation with the duke."

Violet looked at Simon. "Do you want to have this conversation with my son?"

"Not particularly."

"Fine, then. Anthony, be quiet."

Daphne clapped her hand over her mouth, but a snuffly-giggly sound escaped nonetheless.

"You!" Anthony jabbed a finger in her direction. "Be quiet!"

"Perhaps I should fetch that vase," Daphne mused.

"And leave me to the tender mercies of your brother?" Simon said in a mild voice. "I think not."

Daphne raised a brow. "Do you imply that you are not man enough to deal with him?"

"Nothing of the sort. Merely that he ought to be your problem, not mine, and—"

"What the hell is going on here?" Anthony roared.

"Anthony!" Violet exclaimed. "I will not tolerate such unbecoming language in my drawing room."

Daphne smirked.

Simon did nothing more than cock his head, regarding Anthony with a curious stare.

Anthony threw a dark scowl at both of them before turning his attention to his mother. "He is not to be trusted. Do you
have any idea what is happening here?" he demanded.

"Of course I do," Violet replied. "The duke is paying a call upon your sister."

"And I brought flowers for your mother," Simon said helpfully.

Anthony gazed longingly at Simon's nose. Simon had the distinct impression that Anthony was imagining smashing it in.

Anthony whipped his head around to face his mother. "Do you understand the extent of his reputation?"

"Reformed rakes make the best husbands," Violet said.

"Rubbish and you know it."

"He's not a true rake, anyway," Daphne added.

The look Anthony shot at his sister was so comically malevolent Simon nearly laughed. He managed to restrain himself, but mostly just because he was fairly certain that any show of humor would cause Anthony's fist to lose its battle with his brain, with Simon's face emerging as the conflict's primary casualty.

"You don't know," Anthony said, his voice low and nearly shaking with rage. "You don't know what he has done."

"No more than what you have done, I'm sure," Violet said slyly.

"Precisely!" Anthony roared. "Good God, I know exactly what is going on in his brain right now, and it has nothing to do with poetry and roses."

Simon pictured laying Daphne down on a bed of rose petals. "Well, maybe roses," he murmured.

"I'm going to kill him," Anthony announced.

"These are tulips, anyway," Violet said primly, "from Holland. And Anthony, you really must summon control of your
emotions. This is most unseemly."

"He is not fit to lick Daphne's boots."

Simon's head filled with more erotic images, this time of himself licking her toes. He decided not to comment. Besides, he had already decided that he wasn't going to allow his thoughts to wander in such directions. Daphne was
Anthony's sister, for God's sake. He couldn't seduce her.

"I refuse to listen to another disparaging word about his grace," Violet stated emphatically, "and that is the end of the subject."

"But—"

"I don't like your tone, Anthony Bridgerton!"

Simon thought he heard Daphne choke on a chuckle, and he wondered what that was all about.

"If it would please Your Motherhood," Anthony said in excruciatingly even tones, "I would like a private word with his grace."

"This time I'm really going to get that vase," Daphne announced, and dashed from the room.

Violet crossed her arms, and said to Anthony, "I will not have you mistreat a guest in my home."

"I shan't lay so much as a hand on him," Anthony replied. "I give you my word."

Having never had a mother, Simon was finding this exchange fascinating. Bridgerton House was, after all, technically
Anthony's house, not his mother's, and Simon was impressed that Anthony had refrained from pointing this out. "It's
quite all right, Lady Bridgerton," he interjected. "I'm sure Anthony and I have much to discuss."

Anthony's eyes narrowed. "Much."

"Very well," Violet said. "You're going to do what you want no matter what I say, anyway. But I'm not leaving." She
plopped down onto the sofa. "This is my drawing room, and I'm comfortable here. If the two of you want to engage in
that asinine interchange that passes for conversation among the males of our species, you may do so elsewhere."

Simon blinked in surprise. Clearly there was more to Daphne's mother than met the eye.

Anthony jerked his head toward the door, and Simon followed him into the hall.

"My study is this way," Anthony said.

"You have a study here?"

"I am the head of the family."

"Of course," Simon allowed, "but you do reside elsewhere."

Anthony paused and turned an assessing stare on Simon. "It cannot have escaped your notice that my position as head
of the Bridgerton family carries with it serious responsibilities."

Simon looked him evenly in the eye. "Meaning Daphne?"

"Precisely."

"If I recall," Simon said, "earlier this week you told me you wanted to introduce us."

"That was before I thought you'd be interested in her!"

Simon held his tongue as he preceded Anthony into his study, remaining silent until Anthony shut the door. "Why," he asked softly, "would you assume I would not be interested in your sister?"

"Besides the fact that you have sworn to me that you will never marry?" Anthony drawled.

He had a good point. Simon hated that he had such a good point. "Besides that," he snapped.

Anthony blinked a couple of times, then said, "No one is interested in Daphne. At least no one we'd have her marry."

Simon crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. "You don't hold her in terribly high regard, do y—?"

Before he could even finish the query, Anthony had him by throat. "Don't you dare insult my sister."

But Simon had learned quite a bit about self-defense on his travels, and it took him only two seconds to reverse their
positions. "I wasn't insulting your sister," he said in a malevolent voice. "I was insulting you."

Strange gurgling sounds were coming from Anthony's throat, so Simon let him go. "As it happens," he said, brushing his hands against each other, "Daphne explained to me why she has not attracted any suitable suitors."

"Oh?" Anthony asked derisively.

"Personally, I think it has everything to do with your and your brothers' apelike ways, but she tells me it is because all
London views her as a friend, and none sees her as a romantic heroine."

Anthony was silent for a long moment before saying, "I see." Then, after another pause, he added thoughtfully,
"She's probably right."

Simon said nothing, just watched his friend as he sorted all of this out. Finally, Anthony said, "I still don't like your sniffing about her."

"Good God, you make me sound positively canine."

Anthony crossed his arms, "Don't forget, we ran in the same pack after we left Oxford. I know exactly what you've done."

"Oh, for the love of Christ, Bridgerton, we were twenty! All men are idiots at that age. Besides, you know damn well that h—h—"

Simon felt his tongue grow awkward, and faked a coughing fit to cover his stammer. Damn. This happened so infrequently these days, but when it did, it was always when he was upset or angry. If he lost control over his emotions, he lost control over his speech. It was as simple as that.

And unfortunately, episodes such as this only served to make him upset and angry with himself, which in turn exacerbated the stammer. It was the worst sort of vicious circle.

Anthony looked at him quizzically. "Are you all right?"

Simon nodded. "Just a bit of dust in my throat," he lied.

"Shall I ring for tea?'

Simon nodded again. He didn't particularly want tea, but it seemed the sort of thing one would ask for if one truly did have dust in one's throat.

Anthony tugged at the bellpull, then turned back to Simon and asked, "You were saying?"

Simon swallowed, hoping the gesture would help him to regain control over his ire. "I merely meant to point out that you know better than, anyone that at least half of my reputation is undeserved."

"Yes, but I was there for the half that was deserved, and while I don't mind your occasionally socializing with Daphne,
I don't want you courting her."

Simon stared at his friend—or at least the man he thought was his friend—in disbelief. "Do you really think I'd seduce
your sister?"

"I don't know what to think. I know you plan never to marry. I know that Daphne does." Anthony shrugged. "Frankly,
that's enough for me to keep you two on opposite sides of the dance floor."

Simon let out a long breath. While Anthony's attitude was irritating as hell, he supposed it was understandable, and in fact even laudable. After all, the man was only acting in the best interests of his sister. Simon had difficulty imagining being responsible for anyone save himself, but he supposed that if he had a sister, he'd be damned picky about who courted her as well.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

"Enter!" Anthony called out.

Instead of the maid with tea, Daphne slipped into the room. "Mother told me that the two of you are in beastly moods, and I should leave you alone, but I thought I ought to make certain neither of you had killed the other."

"No," Anthony said with a grim smile, "just a light strangle."

To Daphne's credit, she didn't bat an eyelash. "Who strangled whom?"

"I strangled him," her brother replied, "then he returned the favor."

"I see," she said slowly. "I'm sorry to have missed the entertainment."

Simon couldn't suppress a smile at her remark. "Daff," he began.

Anthony whirled around. "You call her Daff?" His head snapped back to Daphne. "Did you give him permission to use
your given name?"

"Of course."

"But—"

"I think," Simon interrupted, "that we are going to have to come clean."

Daphne nodded somberly. "I think you're right. If you recall, I told you so."

"How genteel of you to mention it," Simon murmured.

She smiled gamely. "I could not resist. With four brothers, after all, one must always seize the moment when one may say, 'I told you so.' "

Simon looked from sibling to sibling. "I don't know which one of you I pity more."

"What the devil is going on?" Anthony demanded, and then added as an aside, "And as for your remark, pity me. I am a
far more amiable brother than she is a sister."

"Not true!"

Simon ignored the squabble and focused his attention on Anthony. "You want to know what the devil is going on? It's like this..."

Chapter 7

Men are sheep. Where one goes, the rest will soon follow.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 30 April 1813

All in all, Daphne thought, Anthony was taking this rather well. By the time Simon had finished explaining their little plan (with, she had to admit, frequent interruptions on her part), Anthony had raised his voice only seven times. That was about seven fewer than Daphne would have predicted.

Finally, after Daphne begged him to hold his tongue until she and Simon were done with their story, Anthony gave a curt nod, crossed his arms, and clamped his mouth shut for the duration of the explanation. His frown was enough to shake the plaster off the walls, but true to his word, he remained utterly silent.

Until Simon finished with, "And that's that."

There was silence. Dead silence. For a full ten seconds, nothing but silence, although Daphne would have sworn she could hear her eyes moving in their sockets as they darted back from Anthony to Simon.

And then finally, from Anthony: "Are you mad?'"

"I thought this might be his reaction," Daphne murmured.

"Are you both completely, irrevocably, abominably insane?" Anthony's voice rose to a roar. "I don't know which of you is more clearly the idiot."

"Will you hush!" Daphne hissed. "Mother will hear you."

"Mother would perish of heart failure if she knew what you were about," Anthony retorted, but he did use a softer tone.

"But Mother is not going to hear of it, is she?" Daphne shot back.

"No, she's not," Anthony replied, his chin jutting forward, "because your little scheme is finished as of this very moment."

Daphne crossed her arms. "You can't do anything to stop me."

Anthony jerked his head toward Simon. "I can kill him."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Duels have been fought for less."

"By idiots!"

"I'm not disputing the title as regards to him."

"If I might interrupt," Simon said quietly.

"He's your best friend!" Daphne protested.

"Not," Anthony said, the single syllable brimming with barely contained violence, "anymore."

Daphne turned to Simon with a huff. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

His lips quirked into an amused half-smile. "And when would I have had the chance?"

Anthony turned to Simon. "I want you out of this house."

"Before I may defend myself?"

"It's my house, too," Daphne said hotly, "and I want him to stay."

Anthony glared at his sister, exasperation evident in every inch of his posture. "Very well," he said, "I'll give you two minutes to state your case. No more."

Daphne glanced hesitantly at Simon, wondering if he'd want to use the two minutes himself. But all he did was shrug, and say, "Go right ahead. He's your brother."

She took a fortifying breath, planted her hands on her hips without even realizing it, and said, "First of all, I must point out that I have far more to gain from this alliance than his grace. He says he wishes to use me to keep the other women—"

"And their mothers," Simon interrupted.

"—and their mothers at bay. But frankly"—Daphne glanced at Simon as she said this—"I think he's wrong. The women
aren't going to stop pursuing him just because they think he might have formed an attachment with another young lady—especially when that young lady is me."

"And what is wrong with you?" Anthony demanded.

Daphne started to explain, but then she caught a strange glance pass between the two men. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," Anthony muttered, looking a trifle sheepish.

"I explained to your brother your theory on why you have not had more suitors," Simon said gently.

"I see." Daphne pursed her lips as she tried to decide whether that was something she ought to be irritated about. "Hmmph. Well, he should have figured that out on his own."

Simon made an odd snorting sound that might have been a laugh.

Daphne leveled a sharp look at both men. "I do hope my two minutes do not include all of these interruptions."

Simon shrugged. "He's the timekeeper."

Anthony clutched at the edge of the desk, probably, Daphne thought, to keep himself from going for Simon's throat.
"And he" he said menacingly, "is going to find himself headfirst through the goddamned window if he doesn't shut up."

"Did you know I have always suspected that men were idiots," Daphne ground out, "but I was never positive until today."

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