by Julia Quinn
“Your grace!” she said excitedly. “What a pleasure to see you. You honor us with your presence.”
“I could hardly imagine myself anywhere else,” Simon murmured as he took her gloved hand and kissed it. “Your daughter is an exceptional young lady.”
The viscountess sighed contentedly. “And such lovely, lovely flowers,” she said, once she was finished with her little revel of maternal pride. “Are they from Holland? They must have been terribly dear.”
“Mother!” Daphne said sharply. She extricated her hand from the grasp of a particularly energetic suitor and made her way over. “What can the duke possibly say to that?”
“I could tell her how much I paid for them,” he said with a devilish half-smile.
“You wouldn’t.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice so that only Daphne could hear. “Didn’t you remind me last night that I’m a duke?” he murmured. “I thought you told me I could do anything I wanted.”
“Yes, but not that,” Daphne said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You would never be so crass.”
“Of course the duke would not be crass!” her mother exclaimed, clearly horrified that Daphne would even mention the word in his presence. “What are you talking about? Why would he be crass?”
“The flowers,” Simon said. “The cost. Daphne thinks I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Tell me later,” the viscountess whispered out of the side of her mouth, “when she’s not listening.” Then she moved back over to the green damask sofa where Daphne had been sitting with her suitors and cleared it out in under three seconds. Simon had to admire the military precision with which she managed the maneuver.
“There now,” the viscountess said. “Isn’t that convenient? Daphne, why don’t you and the duke sit right there?”
“You mean where Lord Railmont and Mr. Crane were sitting just moments ago?” Daphne asked innocently.
“Precisely,” her mother replied, with what Simon considered to be an admirable lack of obvious sarcasm. “Besides, Mr. Crane said that he has to meet his mother at Gunter’s at three.”
Daphne glanced at the clock. “It’s only two, Mother.”
“The traffic,” Violet said with a sniff, “is nothing short of dreadful these days. Far too many horses on the road.”
“It ill becomes a man,” Simon said, getting into the spirit of the conversation, “to keep his mother waiting.”
“Well said, your grace.” Violet beamed. “You can be sure that I have expressed that very same sentiment to my own children.”
“And in case you’re not sure,” Daphne said with a smile, “I’d be happy to vouch for her.”
Violet merely smiled. “If anyone should know, it would be you, Daphne. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Oh, Mr. Crane! Mr. Crane! Your mother would never forgive me if I did not shoo you out in time.” She bustled off, taking the hapless Mr. Crane by the arm and leading him toward the door, barely giving him time to say farewell.
Daphne turned to Simon with an amused expression. “I can’t quite decide if she is being terribly polite or exquisitely rude.”
“Exquisitely polite, perhaps?” Simon asked mildly.
She shook her head. “Oh, definitely not that.”
“The alternative, of course, is—”
“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 good-bye, 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.