Chapter 8

It has reached This Author's ears that the entire Bridgerton family (plus one duke!) embarked upon a
journey to Greenwich on Saturday.

It has also reached This Author's ears that the aforementioned duke, along with a certain member of
the Bridgerton family, returned to London very wet indeed.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 3 May 1813

If you apologize to me one more time," Simon said, leaning his head back against his hands, "I may have to kill you."

Daphne shot him an irritated look from her position in her deck chair on the small yacht her mother had commissioned to take the entire family—and the duke, of course—to Greenwich. "Pardon me," she said, "if I am polite enough to apologize for my mother's quite obvious manipulations. I thought that the purpose of our little charade was to shield you from the tender mercies of matchmaking mothers."

Simon waved off her comment, as he settled deeper into his own chair. "It would only be a problem if I were not
enjoying myself."

Daphne's chin lurched backward slightly in surprise.

"Oh," she said (stupidly, in her opinion). "That's nice."

He laughed. "I am inordinately fond of boat travel, even if it is just down to Greenwich, and besides, after spending so much time at sea, I rather fancy a visit to the Royal Observatory to see the Greenwich Meridian." He cocked his head in her direction. "Do you know much about navigation and longitude?"

She shook her head. "Very little, I'm afraid. I must confess I'm not even certain what this meridian here at Greenwich is."

"It's the point from which all longitude is measured. It used to be that sailors and navigators measured longitudinal distance from their point of departure, but in the last century, the astronomer royal decided to make Greenwich the starting point."

Daphne raised her brows. "That seems rather self-important of us, don't you think, positioning ourselves at the center of
the world?"

"Actually, it's quite convenient to have a universal reference point when one is attempting to navigate the high seas."

She still looked doubtful. "So everyone simply agreed on Greenwich? I find it difficult to believe that the French wouldn't have insisted upon Paris, and the Pope, I'm sure, would have preferred Rome..."

"Well, it wasn't an agreement, precisely," he allowed with a laugh. "There was no official treaty, if that is what you mean. But the Royal Observatory publishes an excellent set of charts and tables each year—it's called the Nautical Almanac. And a sailor would have to be insane to attempt to navigate the ocean without one on board. And since the Nautical Almanac measures longitude with Greenwich as zero ... well, everyone else has adopted it as well."

"You seem to know quite a bit about this."

He shrugged. "If you spend enough time on a ship, you learn."

"Well, I'm afraid it wasn't the sort of thing one learned in the Bridgerton nursery." She cocked her head to the side in a somewhat self-deprecating manner. "Most of my learning was restricted to what my governess knew."

"Pity," he murmured. Then he asked, "Only most?"

"If there was something that interested me, I could usually find several books to read on the topic in our library."

"I would wager then, that your interests did not lie in abstract mathematics."

Daphne laughed. "Like you, you mean? Hardly, I'm afraid. My mother always said that it was a wonder I could add high enough to put shoes on my feet."

Simon winced.

"I know, I know," she said, still smiling. "You sorts who excel at arithmetic simply don't understand how we lesser mortals can look at a page of numbers and not know the answer—or at least how to get to the answer— instantly. Colin is the same way."

He smiled, because she was exactly right. "What, then, were your favorite subjects?"

"Hmm? Oh, history and literature. Which was fortunate, since we had no end of books on those topics."

He took another sip of his lemonade. "I've never had any great passion for history."

"Really? Why not, do you think?"

Simon pondered that for a moment, wondering if perhaps his lack of enthusiasm for history was due to his distaste for his dukedom and all the tradition that wrapped around it. His father had been so passionate about the title...But of course all he said was, "Don't know, really. Just didn't like it, I suppose."

They fell into a few moments of companionable silence, the gentle river wind ruffling their hair. Then Daphne smiled, and said, "Well, I won't apologize again, since I'm too fond of my life to sacrifice it needlessly at your hands, but I am glad that you're not miserable after my mother browbeat you into accompanying us."

The look he gave her was vaguely sardonic. "If I hadn't wanted to join you, there is nothing your mother could have said that would have secured my presence."

She snorted. "And this from a man who is feigning a courtship to me, of all people, all because he's too polite to refuse invitations from his friends' new wives."

A rather irritable scowl immediately darkened his features. "What do you mean, you of all people?"

"Well, I..." She blinked in surprise. She had no idea what she meant. "I don't know," she finally said.

"Well, stop saying it," he grumbled, then settled back into his chair.

Daphne's eyes inexplicably focused on a wet spot on the railing as she fought to keep an absurd smile off her face. Simon was so sweet when he was grumpy.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

Her lips twitched. "Nothing."

"Then what are you smiling about?"

That she most certainly was not going to reveal. "I'm not smiling."

"If you're not smiling," he muttered, "then you're either about to suffer a seizure or sneeze."

"Neither," she said in a breezy voice. "Just enjoying the excellent weather."

Simon was leaning his head against the back of the chair, so he just rolled it to the side so he could look at her. "And the company's not that bad," he teased.

Daphne shot a pointed look at Anthony, who was leaning against the rail on the opposite side of the deck, glowering at
them both. "All of the company?" she asked.

"If you mean your belligerent brother," Simon replied, "I'm actually finding his distress most amusing."

Daphne fought a smile and didn't win. "That's not very kind-hearted of you."

"I never said I was kind. And look—" Simon tipped his head ever so slightly in Anthony's direction. Anthony's scowl had, unbelievably, turned even blacker. "He knows we're talking about him. It's killing him."

"I thought you were friends."

"We are friends. This is what friends do to one another."

"Men are mad."

"Generally speaking," he agreed.

She rolled her eyes. "I thought the primary rule of friendship was that one was not supposed to dally with one's friend's sister."

"Ah, but I'm not dallying. I'm merely pretending to dally."

Daphne nodded thoughtfully and glanced at Anthony. "And it's still killing him—even though he knows the truth of the matter."

"I know." Simon grinned. "Isn't it brilliant?"

Just then Violet came sailing across the deck. "Children!" she called out. "Children! Oh, pardon me, your grace," she added when she spied him. "It's certainly not fair for me to lump you with my children."

Simon just smiled and waved off her apology.

"The captain tells me we're nearly there," Violet explained. "We should gather up our things."

Simon rose to his feet and extended a helpful hand to Daphne, who took it gratefully, gobbling as she stood.

"I haven't my sea legs yet," she laughed, clutching his arm to steady herself.

"And here we're merely on the river," he murmured.

"Beast. You're not supposed to point out my lack of grace and balance."

As she spoke, she turned her face toward his, and in that instant, with the wind catching her hair and painting her cheeks pink, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Simon nearly forgot to breathe.

Her lush mouth was caught somewhere between a laugh and a smile, and the sun glinted almost red on her hair. Here on the water, away from stuffy ballrooms, with the fresh air swirling about them, she looked natural and beautiful and just being in her presence made Simon want to grin like an idiot.

If they hadn't been about to pull into dock, with her entire family running around them, he would have kissed her. He knew he couldn't dally with her, and he knew he would never marry her, and still he found himself leaning toward her. He didn't even realize what he was doing until he suddenly felt off-balance and lurched back upright.

Anthony, unfortunately, caught the entire episode, and he rather brusquely insinuated himself between Simon and Daphne, grasping her arm with far more strength than grace. "As your eldest brother," he growled, "I believe it is my honor to escort you ashore."

Simon just bowed and let Anthony have his way, too shaken and angered by his momentary loss of control to argue.

The boat settled next to the dock, and a gangplank was put into place. Simon watched as the entire Bridgerton family disembarked, then he brought up the rear, following them onto the grassy banks of the Thames.

At the top of the hill stood the Royal Observatory, a stately old building of rich red brick. Its towers were topped with gray domes, and Simon had the sense that he was, as Daphne had put it, at the very center of the world. Everything, he realized, was measured from this point.

After having crossed a good portion of the globe, the thought was rather humbling.

"Do we have everyone?" the viscountess called out. "Hold still, everyone, so I may be sure we are all present and accounted for." She started counting heads, finally ending on herself with a triumphant, 'Ten! Good, we're all here."

"Just be glad she doesn't make us line up by age any longer."

Simon looked to the left to see Colin grinning at him.

"As a method of keeping order, age worked when it still corresponded with height. But then Benedict gained an inch on Anthony, and then Gregory outgrew Francesca—" Colin shrugged. "Mother simply gave up."

Simon scanned the crowd and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm just trying to figure out where I'd fit in."

"Somewhere near Anthony, if I had to hazard a guess," Colin replied.

"God forbid," Simon muttered.

Colin glanced at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Anthony!" Violet called out. "Where's Anthony?"

Anthony indicated his location with a rather ill-tempered grunt.

'Oh, there you are, Anthony. Come and escort me in."

Anthony reluctantly let go of Daphne's arm and walked to his mother's side.

"She's shameless, isn't she?" Colin whispered.

Simon thought it best not to comment.

"Well, don't disappoint her," Colin said. "After all her machinations, the least you can do is go and take Daphne's arm."

Simon turned to Colin with a quirked eyebrow. "You might be just as bad as your mother."

Colin just laughed. "Yes, except that at least I don't pretend to be subtle."

Daphne chose that moment to walk over. "I find myself without an escort," she said.

"Imagine that," Colin returned. "Now, if the two of you will excuse me, I'm off to find Hyacinth. If I'm forced to escort Eloise, I may have to swim back to London. She's been a wretch ever since she attained the age of fourteen."

Simon blinked in confusion. "Didn't you just return from the Continent last week?"

Colin nodded. "Yes, but Eloise's fourteenth birthday was a year and a half ago."

Daphne swatted him on the elbow. "If you're lucky, I won't tell her you said that."

Colin just rolled his eyes and disappeared into the small crowd, bellowing Hyacinth's name.

Daphne laid her hand in the crook of Simon's elbow as he offered her his arm, then asked, "Have we scared you off yet?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She offered him a rueful smile. "There is nothing quite as exhausting as a Bridgerton family outing."

"Oh, that." Simon stepped quickly to the right to avoid Gregory, who was racing after Hyacinth, yelling something about mud and revenge. "It's, ah, a new experience."

"Very politely put, your grace," Daphne said admiringly. "I'm impressed."

"Yes, well—" He jumped back as Hyacinth barreled by, squealing at such a pitch that Simon was certain that dogs would start howling from there to London. "I have no siblings, after all."

Daphne let out a dreamy sigh. "No siblings," she mused. "Right now it sounds like heaven." The faraway look remained in her eyes for a few more seconds, then she straightened and shook off her reverie. "Be that as it may, however—" Her hand shot out just as Gregory ran past, catching the boy firmly by the upper arm. "Gregory Bridgerton," she scolded, "you should know better than to run thus through a crowd. You're liable to knock someone over."

"How did you do that?" Simon asked.

"What, catch him?"

"Yes."

She shrugged. "I have years of practice."

"Daphne!" Gregory whined. His arm, after all, was still attached to her hand.

She let go. "Now, slow down."

He took two exaggerated steps then broke into a trot.

"No scolding for Hyacinth?" Simon asked.

Daphne motioned over her shoulder. "It appears my mother has Hyacinth in hand."

Simon saw that Violet was shaking her finger quite vehemently at Hyacinth. He turned back to Daphne. "What were you about to say before Gregory appeared on the scene?"

She blinked. "I have no idea."

"I believe you were about to go into raptures at the thought of having no siblings."

"Oh, of course." She let out a little laugh as they followed the rest of the Bridgertons up the hill toward the observatory. "Actually, believe it or not, I was going to say that while the concept of eternal solitude is, at times, tempting, I think I would be quite lonely without family." Simon said nothing. "I cannot imagine having only one child myself," she added.

"Sometimes," Simon said in a dry voice, "one has little choice in the matter."

Daphne's cheeks turned an immediate red. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she stammered, her feet absolutely refusing to take a step. "I'd forgotten. Your mother..."

Simon paused beside her. "I didn't know her," he said with a shrug. "I didn't mourn her."

But his blue eyes were strangely hollow and shuttered, and Daphne somehow knew that his words were false.

And at the same time, she knew that he believed them one hundred percent.

And she wondered—what could have happened to this man to make him lie to himself for so many years?

She studied his face, her head tilting slightly as she took in his features. The wind had brought color to his cheeks and ruffled his dark hair. He looked rather uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and finally he just grunted, and said, "We're falling behind."

Daphne looked up the hill. Her family was a good distance ahead of them. "Yes, of course," she said, straightening her shoulders. "We should get going."

But as she trudged up the hill, she wasn't thinking of her family, or of the observatory, or even of longitude. Instead, she was wondering why she had the most bizarre urge to throw her arms around the duke and never let go.

* * *

Several hours later, they were all back on the grassy banks of the Thames, enjoying the last bites of an elegant yet simple luncheon that had been prepared by the Bridgertons' cook. As he had the night before, Simon spoke little, instead observing the often boisterous interactions of Daphne's family.

But Hyacinth apparently had other ideas.

"Good day, your grace," she said, seating herself next to him on the blanket one of the footmen had laid out for their picnic. "Did you enjoy your tour of the observatory?"

Simon couldn't quite suppress a smile as he answered, "Indeed I did, Miss Hyacinth. And you?"

"Oh, very much so. I especially appreciated your lecture on longitude and latitude."

"Well, I don't know that I'd call it a lecture," Simon said, the word making him feel just the slightest bit old and stodgy. Across the blanket, Daphne was grinning at his distress.

Hyacinth just smiled flirtatiously—flirtatiously?—and said, "Did you know that Greenwich also has a most romantic history?"

Daphne started to shake with laughter, the little traitor.

"Really?" Simon managed to get out.

"Indeed," Hyacinth replied, using such cultured tones that Simon briefly wondered if there were actually a forty-year-old matron inside her ten-year-old body. "It was here that Sir Walter Raleigh laid his cloak upon the ground so that Queen Elizabeth would not have to dirty her slippers in a puddle."

"Is that so?" Simon stood and scanned the area.

"Your grace!" Hyacinth's face reverted to ten-year-old impatience as she jumped to her feet. "What are you doing?"

"Examining the terrain," he replied. He cast a secret glance at Daphne. She was looking up at him with mirth and humor and something else that made him feel about ten feet tall.

"But what are you looking for?" Hyacinth persisted.

"Puddles."

"Puddles?" Her face slowly transformed into one of utter delight as she grasped his meaning. "Puddles?"

"Indeed. If I'm going to have to ruin a cloak to save your slippers, Miss Hyacinth, I'd like to know about it in advance."

"But you're not wearing a cloak."

"Heavens above," Simon replied, in such a voice that Daphne burst into laughter below him. "You do not mean that I will be forced to remove my shirt?"

"No!" Hyacinth squealed. "You don't have to remove anything! There aren't any puddles."

"Thank heavens," Simon breathed, clasping one hand to his chest for added effect. He was having far more fun with this than he would have ever dreamed possible. "You Bridgerton ladies are very demanding, did you know that?"

Hyacinth viewed him with a mixture of suspicion and glee. Suspicion finally won out. Her hands found their way to her little hips as she narrowed her eyes and asked, "Are you funning me?"

He smiled right at her. "What do you think?"

"I think you are."

"I think I'm lucky there aren't any puddles about."

Hyacinth pondered that for a moment. "If you decide to marry my sister—" she said. Daphne choked on a biscuit. "—then you have my approval."

Simon choked on air.

"But if you don't," Hyacinth continued, smiling shyly, "then I'd be much obliged if you'd wait for me."

Luckily for Simon, who had little experience with young girls and not a clue how to respond, Gregory came dashing by
and yanked on Hyacinth's hair. She immediately took off after him, her eyes narrowed with the single-minded determination to get even.

"I never thought I'd say this," Daphne said, laughter in her voice, "but I believe you have just been saved by my younger brother."

"How old is your sister?" Simon asked.

"Ten, why?"

He shook his head in bewilderment. "Because for a moment, I could have sworn she was forty."

Daphne smiled. "Sometimes she is so like my mother it's frightening."

At that moment, the woman in question stood and began to summon her children back to the boat. "Come along!" Violet called out. "It's growing late!"

Simon looked at his pocket watch. "It's three."

Daphne shrugged as she rose to her feet. "To her that's late. According to Mother, a lady should always be home at five o'clock."

"Why?"

She reached down to pick up the blanket. "I have no idea. To get ready for the evening, I suppose. It's one of those rules
I've grown up with and deemed best not to question." She straightened, holding the soft blue blanket to her chest, and smiled. "Are we ready to go?"

Simon held out his arm. ""Certainly."

They took a few steps toward the boat, and then Daphne said, "You were very good with Hyacinth. You must have spent a great deal of time with children."

"None," he said tersely.

"Oh," she said, a puzzled frown decorating her face. "I knew you had no siblings, but I had assumed you must have met
some children on your travels,"

"No."

Daphne held silent for a moment, wondering if she should pursue the conversation. Simon's voice had grown hard and forbidding, and his face...

He didn't look like the same man who had teased Hyacinth mere minutes earlier.

But for some reason—maybe because it had been such a lovely afternoon, maybe it was just because the weather was fine—she faked a sunny smile and said, "Well, experience or no, you clearly have the touch. Some adults don't know
how to talk to children, you know."

He said nothing.

She patted his arm. "You'll make some lucky child an excellent father someday."

His head whipped around to face her, and the look in his eyes nearly froze her heart. "I believe I told you I have no intention of marrying," he bit off. "Ever."

"But surely you—"

"Therefore it is unlikely that I shall ever have children."

"I...I see." Daphne swallowed and attempted a shaky smile, but she had a feeling she didn't manage anything more than a slight quivering of her lips. And even though she knew that their courtship was nothing more than a charade, she felt a vague sense of disappointment.

They reached the edge of the dock, where most of the rest of the Bridgertons were milling about. A few had already
boarded, and Gregory was dancing on the gangplank.

"Gregory!" Violet called out, her voice sharp. "Stop that at once!"

He stilled, but didn't move from his position.

"Either get on the boat or come back to the dock."

Simon slipped his arm from Daphne's, muttering,

"That gangplank looks wet." He started moving forward.

"You heard Mother!" Hyacinth called out.

"Oh, Hyacinth," Daphne sighed to herself. "Can't you just keep out of it?"

Gregory stuck out his tongue.

Daphne groaned, then noticed that Simon was still walking toward the gangplank. She hurried to his side, whispering,
"Simon, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Not if he slips and gets caught in the ropes." He motioned with his chin to a tangled mess of ropes that were hanging off the boat.

Simon reached the end of the gangplank, walking casually, as if he hadn't a worry in the world. "Are you going to get
moving?" he called out, stepping out onto the narrow piece of wood. "So that I might cross?"

Gregory blinked. "Don't you have to escort Daphne?"

Simon groaned and moved forward, but just then, Anthony, who had already boarded the small yacht, appeared at the top of the gangplank.

"Gregory!" he called out sharply. "Get on this boat at once!"

From down on the dock, Daphne watched with horror as Gregory spun around in surprise, losing his footing on the slippery wood. Anthony leapt forward, making a frantic grab with his arms, but Gregory had already slid to his bottom, and Anthony caught only air.

Anthony fought for balance as Gregory slid down the gangplank, clipping Simon rather neatly in the shins.

"Simon!" Daphne croaked, running forward.

Simon went tumbling into the murky water of the Thames, just as Gregory wailed a heartfelt, "I'm sorry!" He scooted up the gangplank backwards on his behind— rather like a crab, actually—not at all looking where he was going.

Which probably explained why he had no idea that Anthony—who had almost managed to regain his balance—was only a
few short feet behind him.

Gregory rammed into Anthony with a thud on his part and a grunt on Anthony's, and before anyone knew it, Anthony was sputtering in the water, right next to Simon.

Daphne clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.

Violet yanked on her arm. "I highly suggest you don't laugh."

Daphne pinched her lips together in an effort to comply, but it was difficult. "You're laughing," she pointed out.

"I'm not," Violet lied. Her entire neck was quivering with the exertion required to keep her laughter inside. "And besides, I'm a mother. They wouldn't dare do anything to me."

Anthony and Simon came stalking out of the water, dripping and glaring at each other.

Gregory crawled the rest of the way up the gangplank and disappeared over the edge.

"Maybe you should intercede," Violet suggested.

"Me?" Daphne squeaked.

"It looks as if they might come to blows."

"But why? It was all Gregory's fault."

"Of course," Violet said impatiently, "but they're men, and they're both furious and embarrassed, and they can't very well take it out on a boy of twelve."

Sure enough, Anthony was muttering, "I could have taken care of him," just as Simon growled, "If you hadn't surprised him..."

Violet rolled her eyes, and said to Daphne, "Any man, you'll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool."

Daphne rushed forward, fully intending to attempt to reason with the two men, but one close look at their faces told her that nothing she could possibly say could imbue them with as much intelligence and sensibility as a woman would have in such a situation, so she simply pasted on a bright smile, grabbed Simon's arm, and said, "Escort me up?"

Simon glared at Anthony.

Anthony glared at Simon.

Daphne yanked.

'This isn't over, Hastings," Anthony hissed.

"Far from it," Simon hissed back.

Daphne realized that they were simply looking for an excuse to come to blows. She yanked harder, prepared to dislocate Simon's shoulder if need be.

After one last burning glare, he acquiesced and followed her up into the boat.

It was a very long trip home.

* * *

Later that night, as Daphne prepared for bed, she found herself oddly restless. Sleep, she could already tell, would prove impossible, so she pulled on a robe and wandered downstairs in search of warm milk and some company. With so many siblings, she thought wryly, surely someone had to be up and about.

On her way to the kitchen, however, she heard rustlings in Anthony's study, so she poked her head in. Her eldest brother was hunched over his desk, ink spots on his fingers from the correspondence he was answering. It was uncommon to find him here so late into the evening. He'd preferred to keep his study at Bridgerton House even after he'd moved into his bachelor's lodgings, but he usually took care of his business matters during the day.

"Don't you have a secretary to do that?" Daphne asked with a smile.

Anthony looked up. "Damned fool got married and moved to Bristol," he muttered.

"Ah." She walked into the room and perched on a chair opposite the desk. "That would explain your presence here in the wee hours of the morning."

Anthony glanced up at the clock. "Midnight is hardly wee. And besides, it took me all afternoon just to get the Thames
out of my hair."

Daphne tried not to smile.

"But you're right," Anthony said with a sigh, setting down his quill. "It's late, and there's nothing here that won't keep until the morning." He leaned back and stretched out his neck. "What are you doing up and about?"

"Couldn't sleep," Daphne explained with a shrug. "I came downstairs for some hot milk and heard you cursing."

Anthony let out a grunt. "It's this bloody quill. I swear I—" He smiled sheepishly. "I suppose 'I swear' pretty much takes care of it, eh?"

Daphne smiled in return. Her brothers had never minded their language around her. "So you'll be heading home soon, then?"

He nodded. "Although that warm milk you mentioned sounds rather nice. Why don't you ring for it?"

Daphne stood. "I've a better idea. Why don't we get it ourselves? We're not complete idiots. We should be able to warm
some milk. And besides, the servants are probably in bed."

Anthony followed her out the door. "Very well, but you shall have to do all the work. I haven't the faintest idea how to
boil milk."

"I don't think one is supposed to let it boil," Daphne said with a frown. She rounded the last corner on the way to the kitchen and pushed open the door. The room was dark, save for moonlight glowing through the windows. "Find a lamp while I find some milk," she said to Anthony. Her face took on a slight smirk. "You can light a lamp, can't you?"

"Oh, I believe I can manage that," he said good-naturedly.

Daphne smiled to herself as she fumbled about in the dark, pulling a small pot from the hanging rack above her. She and Anthony usually had an easy, joking relationship, and it was nice to see him back to his normal self again. He'd been in such a beastly mood for the past week, with most of his sour temper directed squarely at her.

And Simon, of course, but Simon was rarely present to receive Anthony's scowls.

A light flickered to life behind her, and Daphne turned to see Anthony smiling triumphantly. "Have you found the milk," he asked, "or must I venture out in search of a cow?"

She laughed and held up a bottle. "Found it!" She wandered over to the enclosed range, a rather modern-looking contraption that Cook had purchased earlier in the year. "Do you know how to work this?" she asked.

"No idea. You?"

Daphne shook her head. "None." She reached forward and gingerly touched the surface of the stove top. "It's not hot."

"Not even a little bit?"

She shook her head. "It's rather cold, actually."

Brother and sister were silent for a few seconds.

"You know," Anthony finally said, "cold milk might be quite refreshing."

"I was just thinking that very thing!"

Anthony grinned and found two mugs. "Here, you pour."

Daphne did, and soon they were seated on stools, gulping down the fresh milk. Anthony drained his mug in short order,
and poured another. "You need some more?" he asked, wiping off his milk mustache.

"No, I'm barely halfway to the bottom," Daphne said, taking another sip. She licked at her lips, fidgeting in her chair. Now that she was alone with Anthony, and he seemed like he was back in his usual good humor, it seemed like a good time to...Well, the truth was...Oh, blast, she thought to herself, just go ahead and ask him.

"Anthony?" she said, a touch hesitantly. "Could I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"It's about the duke."

Anthony's mug hit the table with a loud thunk. "What about the duke?"

"I know you don't like him..." she began, her words trailing off.

"It's not that I don't like him," Anthony said with a weary sigh. "He's one of my closest friends."

Daphne's brows rose. "One would be hard-pressed to deduce that based on your recent behavior."

"I just don't trust him around women. Around you in particular."

"Anthony, you must know that that is one of the silliest things you have ever said. The duke might have been a rake—I
suppose he might still be a rake for all I know—but he would never seduce me, if only because I'm your sister."

Anthony looked unconvinced.

"Even if there weren't some male code of honor about such things," Daphne persisted, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, "he knows you'd kill him if he touched me. The man isn't stupid."

Anthony refrained from commenting, instead saying, "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Actually," Daphne said slowly, "I was wondering if you knew why the duke was so opposed to marriage."

Anthony spit his milk halfway across the table. "For Christ's sake, Daphne! I thought we agreed that this was just a charade! Why are you even thinking about marrying him?"

"I'm not!" she insisted, thinking that she might be lying but unwilling to examine her feelings closely enough to be sure. "I'm just curious," she muttered defensively.

"You had better not be thinking about trying to get him to marry you," Anthony said with a grunt, "because I'll tell you right now he'll never do it. Never. Do you understand me, Daphne? He won't marry you."

"I would have to be a half-wit not to understand you," she grumbled.

"Good. Then that's the end of it."

"No, it's not!" she returned. "You still haven't answered my question."

Anthony leveled a stony stare at her across the table.

"About why he won't get married," she prodded.

"Why are you so interested?" he asked wearily.

The truth, Daphne feared, lay a little too close to Anthony's accusations, but she just said, "I'm curious, and besides, I think I have a right to know, since, if I don't find an acceptable suitor soon, I may become a pariah after the duke drops me."

"I thought you were supposed to jilt him," Anthony said suspiciously.

Daphne snorted. "Who is going to believe that?"

Anthony didn't immediately jump to her defense, which Daphne found vaguely annoying. But he did say, "I don't know why Hastings refuses to marry. All I know is that he has maintained this opinion for as long as I've known him." Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but Anthony cut her off by adding, "And he's stated it in such a way so that I do not believe his is the weak vow of the beleaguered bachelor."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that unlike most men, when he says he will never marry, he means it."

"I see."

Anthony let out a long, tired breath, and Daphne noticed tiny lines of concern around his eyes that she'd never seen before. "Choose a man from your new crowd of suitors," he said, "and forget Hastings. He's a good man, but he's not for you."

Daphne latched on to the first part of his sentence. "But you think he's a good—"

"He's not for you," Anthony repeated.

But Daphne couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, Anthony might be wrong.

Chapter 9

The Duke of Hastings was espied yet again with Miss Bridgerton. (That is Miss Daphne Bridgerton, for those of you who, like This Author, find it difficult to differentiate between the multitudes of Bridgerton offspring.) It has been some time since This Author has seen a couple so obviously devoted to one another.

It does seem odd, however, that, with the exception of the Bridgerton family outing to Greenwich, which was reported in this newspaper ten days earlier, they are seen together only at evening functions. This Author has it
on the best authority that while the duke called upon Miss Bridgerton at her home a fortnight ago, this courtesy has not been repeated, and indeed, they have not been seen riding together in Hyde Park even once!

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 14 May 1813

Two weeks later, Daphne found herself in Hampstead Heath, standing on the fringes of Lady Trowbridge's ballroom, far away from the fashionable crowd. She was quite content with her position.

She didn't want to be at the center of the party. She didn't want to be found by the dozens of suitors now clamoring to
claim her in a dance. In all truth, she didn't want to be in Lady Trowbridge's ballroom at all.

Because Simon was not there.

This did not mean that she was destined to spend the evening as a wallflower. All of Simon's predictions in regard to her burgeoning popularity had proven correct, and Daphne, who had always been the girl everyone liked but no one adored, was suddenly proclaimed the season's Incomparable. Everyone who cared to air an opinion on the subject (and this being the ton, that meant everyone) declared that they always knew that Daphne was special and were just waiting for everyone else to notice. Lady Jersey told everyone who would listen that she had been predicting Daphne's success for months, and the only mystery was why no one had listened to her sooner.

Which was, of course, hogwash. While Daphne had certainly never been the object of Lady Jersey's scorn, not one
Bridgerton could recall ever hearing Lady Jersey refer to her (as she was presently doing) as 'Tomorrow's Treasure."

But even though Daphne's dance card was now full within minutes of her arrival at any ball, and even though men fought for the privilege of fetching her a glass of lemonade (Daphne had almost laughed out loud the first time that had happened), she found that no evening was truly memorable unless Simon was at her side.

It didn't matter that he seemed to find it necessary to mention at least once every evening that he was adamantly opposed to the institution of marriage. (Although, to his credit, he usually mentioned this in conjunction with his thankfulness to Daphne for saving him from the multitudes of Ambitious Mamas.) And it didn't matter that he occasionally fell silent and was even almost rude to certain members of society. All that seemed to matter were those moments when they were not quite alone (they were never alone), but still somehow left to their own devices. A laughing conversation in a corner, a waltz around a ballroom. Daphne could look into his pale blue eyes and almost forget that she was surrounded by five hundred onlookers, all of whom were inordinately interested in the state of her courtship.

And she could almost forget that her courtship was a complete sham.

Daphne hadn't tried to talk to Anthony about Simon again. Her brother's hostility was apparent every time the duke's name was brought up in conversation. And when he and Simon actually met—well, Anthony usually managed a certain level of cordiality, but that was all he seemed able to muster.

And yet even amidst all this anger, Daphne could see faint glimmers of the old friendship between them. She could only hope that when all this was over—and she was married off to some boring but affable earl who never quite managed to make her heart sing—that the two men would be friends again.

At Anthony's somewhat forceful request, Simon had elected not to attend every social event to which Violet and Daphne had RSVP'ed in the affirmative. Anthony said that the only reason he had agreed to this ridiculous scheme was so that Daphne might find a husband among all her new suitors. Unfortunately, in Anthony's opinion (and fortunately in Daphne's) none of these eager young gentlemen dared to approach her in Simon's presence.

"A fat lot of good this is doing," were Anthony's exact words.

Actually, those exact words had been appended a fair amount of cursing and invective, but Daphne had seen no reason
to dwell on this. Ever since the incident at—or rather in—the Thames, Anthony had spent a great deal of time applying
expletives to Simon's name.

But Simon had seen Anthony's point, and Simon had told Daphne that he wanted her to find a suitable husband.

And so Simon stayed away.

And Daphne was miserable.

She supposed she should have known that this was going to happen. She should have realized the dangers of being courted—even falsely—by the man society had recently dubbed The Devastating Duke.

The moniker had begun when Philipa Featherington had pronounced him "devastatingly handsome," and since Philipa didn't know the meaning of the word "whisper," all the ton bore witness to her statement Within minutes some droll young buck just down from Oxford had shortened and alliterated, and The Devastating Duke was born.

Daphne found the name woefully ironic. For The Devastating Duke was devastating her heart.

Not that he meant to. Simon treated her with nothing but respect and honor and good humor. Even Anthony was forced
to admit that he'd been given no cause to complain in that quarter. Simon never tried to get Daphne alone, never did
anything more than kiss her gloved hand (and much to Daphne's dismay, that had only happened twice).

They had become the best of companions, their conversations ranging from comfortable silences to the wittiest of repartee. At every party, they danced together twice—the maximum permitted without scandalizing society.

And Daphne knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was falling in love.

The irony was exquisite. She had, of course, begun spending so much time in Simon's company specifically so that she
might attract other men. For his part, Simon had begun spending time in her company so that he might avoid marriage.

Come to think of it, Daphne thought, sagging against the wall, the irony was exquisitely painful.

Although Simon was still quite vocal on the subject of marriage and his determination never to enter that blessed state, she did on occasion catch him looking at her in ways that made her think he might desire her. He never repeated any of the risqué comments he'd made before he'd learned she was a Bridgerton, but sometimes she caught him looking at her in the same hungry, feral way he'd done that first evening. He turned away, of course, as soon as she noticed, but it was always enough to set her skin tingling and shorten her breath with desire.

And his eyes! Everyone likened their color to ice, and when Daphne watched him converse with other members of society, she could see why. Simon wasn't as loquacious with others as he was with her. His words were more clipped, his tone more brusque, and his eyes echoed the hardness in his demeanor.

But when they were laughing together, just the two of them poking fun at some silly society rule, his eyes changed. They grew softer, gentler, more at ease. In her more fanciful moments, she almost thought they looked as if they were melting.

She sighed, leaning even more heavily against the wall. It seemed her fanciful moments were coming closer and closer
together these days.

"Ho, there, Daff, why are you skulking in the corner?"

Daphne looked up to see Colin approaching, his usual cocky smile firmly in place on his handsome face. Since his return to London, he had taken the town by storm, and Daphne could easily name a dozen young ladies who were positive they were in love with him and desperate for his attention. She wasn't worried about her brother's returning any of their affections, however; Colin obviously had many more wild oats to sow before he settled down.

"I'm not skulking," she corrected. "I'm avoiding."

"Avoiding whom? Hastings?"

"No, of course not. He's not here tonight, anyway."

"Yes, he is."

Since this was Colin, whose primary purpose in life (after chasing loose women and betting on horses, of course) was to torment his sister, Daphne meant to act blasé, but still she lurched to attention as she asked, "He is?"

Colin nodded slyly and motioned with his head toward the ballroom entrance. "I saw him enter not fifteen minutes ago."

Daphne narrowed her eyes. "Are you bamming me? He told me quite specifically that he wasn't planning to attend tonight."

"And you still came?" Colin laid both his hands on his cheeks and faked surprise.

"Of course I did," she retorted. "My life does not revolve around Hastings."

"Doesn't it?"

Daphne had the sinking feeling that he was not being facetious. "No, it doesn't," she replied, lying through her teeth. Her life might not revolve around Simon, but her thoughts certainly did.

Colin's emerald eyes grew uncharacteristically serious. "You've got it bad, don't you?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

He smiled knowingly. "You will."

"Colin!"

"In the meantime"—he motioned back toward the ballroom's entrance—"why don't you go and locate him? Clearly
my scintillating company pales in comparison. I can see that your feet are already inching away from me."

Horrified that her body would betray her in such a way, Daphne looked down.

"Ha! Made you look."

"Colin Bridgerton," Daphne ground out, "sometimes I swear I think you're no more than three years old."

"An interesting concept," he mused, "and one that would place you at the tender age of one and a half, little sister."

Lacking a suitably cutting retort, Daphne just fixed upon him her blackest scowl.

But Colin only laughed. "An attractive expression to be sure, sis, but one you might want to remove from your cheeks.
His Devastatingness is heading this way."

Daphne refused to fall for his bait this time. He wasn't going to Make Her Look.

Colin leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "This time I'm not kidding, Daff."

Daphne held her scowl.

Colin chuckled.

"Daphne!" Simon's voice. Right at her ear.

She whirled around.

Colin's chuckles grew more heartfelt. "You really ought to have more faith in your favorite brother, dear sis."

"He's your favorite brother?" Simon asked, one dark brow raised in disbelief.

"Only because Gregory put a toad in my bed last night," Daphne bit off, "and Benedict's standing has never recovered from the time he beheaded my favorite doll."

"Makes me wonder what Anthony's done to deny him even an honorable mention," Colin murmured.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Daphne asked pointedly.

Colin shrugged. "Not really."

"Didn't," she asked through clenched teeth, "you just tell me you promised a dance to Prudence Featherington?"

"Gads, no. You must have misheard."

"Perhaps Mother is looking for you, then. In fact, I'm certain I hear her calling your name."

Colin grinned at her discomfort. "You're not supposed to be so obvious," he said in a stage whisper, purposely loud enough for Simon to hear. "He'll figure out that you like him."

Simon's entire body jerked with barely contained mirth.

"It's not his company I'm trying to secure," Daphne said acidly. "It's yours I'm trying to avoid."

Colin clapped a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Daff." He turned to Simon. "Oh, how she wounds me."

"You missed your calling, Bridgerton," Simon said genially. "You should have been on the stage."

"An interesting idea," Colin replied, "but one that would surely give my mother the vapors." His eyes lit up. "Now that's an idea. And just when the party was growing tedious. Good eve to you both." He executed a smart bow and walked off.

Daphne and Simon remained silent as they watched Colin disappear into the crowd. "The next shriek you hear," Daphne said blandly, "will surely be my mother's."

"And the thud will be her body hitting the floor in a dead faint?"

Daphne nodded, a reluctant smile playing across her lips. "But of course." She waited a moment before saying, "I wasn't expecting you this evening."

He shrugged, the black cloth of his evening jacket wrinkling slightly with the movement. "I was bored."

"You were bored so you decided to come all the way out to Hampstead Heath to attend Lady Trowbridge's annual ball?" Her eyebrows arched up. Hampstead Heath was a good seven miles from Mayfair, at least an hour's drive in the best of conditions, more on nights like tonight, when all the ton was clogging the roads. "Forgive me if I start to question your sanity."

"I'm starting to question it myself," he muttered.

"Well, whatever the case," she said with a happy sigh, "I'm glad you're here. It's been a ghastly evening."

"Really?"

She nodded. "I have been plagued by questions about you."

"Well, now, this grows interesting."

"Think again. The first person to interrogate me was my mother. She wants to know why you never call upon me in the afternoon."

Simon frowned. "Do you think it's necessary? I rather thought my undivided attention at these evening affairs would be
enough to perpetrate the ruse."

Daphne surprised herself by managing not to growl in frustration. He didn't need to make this sound like such a chore.
"Your undivided attention," she said, "would have been enough to fool anyone but my mother. And she probably wouldn't have said anything except that your lack of calls was reported in Whistledown."

"Really?" Simon asked with great interest.

"Really. So now you'd better call tomorrow or everyone will start to wonder."

"I'd like to know who that woman's spies are," Simon murmured, "and then I'd like to hire them for myself."

"What do you need spies for?"

"Nothing. But it seems a shame to let such stellar talent go to waste."

Daphne rather doubted that the fictitious Lady Whistledown would agree that any talents were being wasted, but she didn't particularly want to get into a discussion of the merits and evils of that newspaper, so she just shrugged off his comment. "And then," she continued, "once my mother was through with me, everyone else set in, and they were even worse."

"Heaven forbid."

She turned an acerbic look on him. "All but one of the questioners were female, and although they all vehemently professed their happiness on my behalf, they were clearly trying to deduce the probability of our not becoming betrothed."

"You told them all I was desperately in love with you, I assume?"

Daphne felt something lurch in her chest. "Yes," she lied, offering him a too-sweet smile. "I have a reputation to maintain, after all."

Simon laughed. "So then, who was the lone male doing the questioning?"

Daphne pulled a face. "It was another duke, actually. A bizarre old man who claimed to have been friends with your father."

Simon's face went suddenly tight.

She just shrugged, not having seen the change in his expression. "He went on and on about what a good duke your father was." She let out a little laugh as she tried to imitate the old man's voice. "I had no idea you dukes had to look out for one another so much. We don't want an incompetent duke making the title look bad, after all."

Simon said nothing.

Daphne tapped her finger against her cheek in thought. "Do you know, I've never heard you mention your father, actually."

"That is because I don't choose to discuss him," Simon said curtly.

She blinked with concern. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," he said, his voice clipped.

"Oh." She caught herself chewing on her lower lip and forced herself to stop. "I won't mention it then."

"I said there is nothing wrong."

Daphne kept her expression impassive. "Of course."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Daphne picked awkwardly at the fabric of her skirts before finally saying,
"Lovely flowers Lady Trowbridge used for decoration, don't you think?"

Simon followed the motion of her hand toward a large arrangement of pink and white roses. "Yes."

"I wonder if she grew them."

"I haven't the faintest."

Another awkward silence.

"Roses are so difficult to grow."

This time his reply was just a grunt.

Daphne cleared her throat, and then, when he didn't even so much as look at her, asked, "Have you tried the lemonade?"

"I don't drink lemonade."

"Well, I do," she snapped, deciding she'd had enough. "And I'm thirsty. So if you will excuse me, I'm going to fetch myself a glass and leave you to your black mood. I'm certain you can find someone more entertaining than I."

She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, she felt a heavy hand on her arm. She looked down, momentarily mesmerized by the sight of his white-gloved hand resting against the peach silk of her gown. She stared at it, almost waiting for it to move, to travel down the length of her arm until it reached the bare skin of her elbow.

But of course he wouldn't do that. He only did such things in her dreams.

"Daphne, please," he said, "turn around."

His voice was low, and there was an intensity to it that made her shiver.

She turned, and as soon as her eyes met his, he said, "Please accept my apologies."

She nodded.

But he clearly felt the need to explain further. "I did not..." He stopped and coughed quietly into his hand. "I was not on
good terms with my father. I—I don't like to talk about him."

Daphne stared at him in fascination. She'd never seen him at such a loss for words.

Simon let out an irritated exhale. It was strange, Daphne thought, because it seemed as if he were irritated with himself.

"When you brought him up..." He shook his head, as if deciding to try a different avenue of conversation. "It grabs at my mind. I can't stop thinking about him. It—it—it makes me extremely angry."

"I'm sorry," she said, knowing her confusion must show on her face. She thought she should say more, but she didn't know what words to use.

"Not at you," he said quickly, and as his pale blue eyes focused on hers, something seemed to clear in them. His face seemed to relax as well, especially the tight lines that had formed around his mouth. He swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm angry at myself."

"And apparently at your father as well," she said softly.

He said nothing. She hadn't expected him to, she realized. His hand was still on her arm, and she covered it with her own. "Would you like to get a bit of air?" she asked gently. "You look as if you might need it."

He nodded. "You stay. Anthony will have my head if I take you out onto the terrace."

"Anthony can hang for all I care." Daphne's mouth tightened with irritation. "I'm sick of his constant hovering, anyway."

"He is only trying to be a good brother to you."

Her lips parted in consternation. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

Deftly ignoring her question, he said, "Very well. But just a short walk. Anthony I can take on, but if he enlists the aid of your brothers, I'm a dead man."

There was a door leading out to the terrace a few yards away. Daphne nodded toward it, and Simon's hand slid down her arm and around the crook of her elbow.

"There are probably dozens of couples out on the terrace, anyway," she said. "He'll have nothing about which to complain."

But before they could make their way outside, a loud male voice sounded from behind them. "Hastings!"

Simon halted and turned around, grimly realizing that he had grown used to the name. In no time, he'd be thinking of it as his own.

Somehow that concept made him ill.

An older man leaning on a cane hobbled his way toward them. "That's the duke I told you about," Daphne said.
"Of Middlethorpe, I believe."

Simon nodded curtly, having no desire to speak.

"Hastings!" the old man said, patting him on the arm. "I have wanted to make your acquaintance for so very long. I am Middlethorpe. Your father was a good friend of mine."

Simon just nodded again, the motion almost military in its precision.

"He missed you, you know. While you were off traveling."

A rage began to build in his mouth, a rage that rendered his tongue swollen and his cheeks tight and rigid. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he tried to speak, he would sound just as he'd done when he was a lad of eight.

And there was no way he'd shame himself in such a way in front of Daphne.

Somehow—he'd never know how, maybe it was because he'd never had much trouble with vowels aside from "I'—he managed to say, "Oh?" He was pleased that his voice came out sharp and condescending.

But if the old man heard the rancor in his tone, he made no reaction to it. "I was with him when he died," Middlethorpe said.

Simon said nothing.

Daphne—bless her—leapt into the fray with a sympathetic, "My goodness."

"He asked me to pass along some messages to you. I have several letters in my house."

"Burn them."

Daphne gasped and grabbed Middlethorpe by the arm. "Oh, no, don't do that. He might not want to see them now, but
surely he will change his mind in the future."

Simon blasted her with an icy glare before turning back to Middlethorpe. "I said burn them."

"I—ah—" Middlethorpe looked hopelessly confused. He must have been aware that the Basset father and son were not on good terms, but clearly the late duke had not revealed to him the true depth of the estrangement. He looked to Daphne, sensing a possible ally, and said to her, "In addition to the letters, there were things he asked me to tell him. I could tell them to him now."

But Simon had already dropped Daphne's arm and stalked outside.

"I'm so sorry," Daphne said to Middlethorpe, feeling the need to apologize for Simon's atrocious behavior. "I'm sure he
doesn't mean to be rude."

Middlethorpe's expression told her that he knew Simon meant to be rude.

But Daphne still said, "He's a bit sensitive about his father."

Middlethorpe nodded. "The duke warned me he'd react this way. But he laughed as he said it, then made a joke about the Basset pride. I must confess I didn't think he was completely serious."

Daphne looked nervously through the open door to the terrace. "Apparently he was," she murmured. "I had best see to him."

Middlethorpe nodded.

"Please don't burn those letters," she said.

"I would never dream of it. But—"

Daphne had already taken a step toward the terrace door and turned around at the halting tone of the old man's voice.
"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm not a well man," Middlethorpe said. "I—The doctor says it could be anytime now. May I trust the letters into your safekeeping?"

Daphne stared at the duke with a mix of shock and horror. Shock because she could not believe he would trust such
personal correspondence to a young woman he'd known for barely an hour. Horror because she knew that if she accepted them, Simon might never forgive her.

"I don't know," she said in a strained voice. "I'm not sure I'm the right person."

Middlethorpe's ancient eyes crinkled with wisdom. "I think you might be exactly the right person," he said softly. "And I believe you'll know when the time is right to give him the letters. May I have them delivered to you?" Mutely, she nodded. She didn't know what else to do.

Middlethorpe lifted his cane and pointed it out toward the terrace. "You'd best go to him."

Daphne caught his gaze, nodded, and scurried outside. The terrace was lit by only a few wall sconces, so the night air was dim, and it was only with the aid of the moon that she saw Simon off in the corner. His stance was wide and angry, and his arms were crossed across his chest. He was facing the endless la

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