by Julia Quinn
“Simon,” she pleaded, “save me.”
And he was lost.
Chapter 12
A duel, a duel, a duel. Is there anything more exciting, more romantic . . . or more utterly moronic?
It has reached This Author’s ears that a duel took place earlier this week in Regent’s Park. Because dueling is illegal, This Author shall not reveal the names of the perpetrators, but let it be known that This Author frowns heavily upon such violence.
Of course, as this issue goes to press, it appears that the two dueling idiots (I am loath to call them gentlemen; that would imply a certain degree of intelligence, a quality which, if they ever possessed it, clearly eluded them that morning) are both unharmed.
One wonders if perhaps an angel of sensibility and rationality smiled down upon them that fateful morn.
If so, it is the belief of This Author that This Angel ought to shed her influence on a great many more men of the ton. Such an action could only make for a more peaceful and amiable environment, leading to a vast improvement of our world.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 19 May 1813
Simon raised ravaged eyes to meet hers. “I’ll marry you,” he said in a low voice, “but you need to know—”
His sentence was rendered incomplete by her exultant shout and fierce hug. “Oh, Simon, you won’t be sorry,” she said, her words coming out in a relieved rush. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, but they glowed with joy. “I’ll make you happy. I promise you. I’ll make you so happy. You won’t regret this.”
“Stop!” Simon ground out, pushing her away. Her unfeigned joy was too much to bear. “You have to listen to me.”
She stilled, and her face grew apprehensive.
“You listen to what I have to say,” he said in a harsh voice, “and then decide if you want to marry me.”
Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and she gave the barest of nods.
Simon took in a shaky breath. How to tell her? What to tell her? He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not all of it, at least. But she had to understand . . . If she married him . . .
She’d be giving up more than she’d ever dreamed.
He had to give her the opportunity to refuse him. She deserved that much. Simon swallowed, guilt sliding uncomfortably down his throat. She deserved much more than that, but that was all he could give her.
“Daphne,” he said, her name as always soothing his frazzled mouth, “if you marry me . . .”
She stepped toward him and reached out her hand, only to pull it back at his burning glare of caution. “What is it?” she whispered. “Surely nothing could be so awful that—”
“I can’t have children.”
There. He’d done it. And it was almost the truth.
Daphne’s lips parted, but other than that, there was no indication that she’d even heard him.
He knew his words would be brutal, but he saw no other way to force her understanding. “If you marry me, you will never have children. You will never hold a baby in your arms and know it is yours, that you created it in love. You will never—”
“How do you know?” she interrupted, her voice flat and unnaturally loud.
“I just do.”
“But—”
“I cannot have children,” he repeated cruelly. “You need to understand that.”
“I see.” Her mouth was quivering slightly, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she had anything to say, and her eyelids seemed to be blinking a bit more than normal.
Simon searched her face, but he couldn’t read her emotions the way he usually could. Normally her expressions were so open, her eyes startlingly honest—it was as if he could see to her very soul and back. But right now she looked shuttered and frozen.
She was upset—that much was clear. But he had no idea what she was going to say. No idea how she would react.
And Simon had the strangest feeling that Daphne didn’t know, either.
He became aware of a presence to his right, and he turned to see Anthony, his face torn between anger and concern.
“Is there a problem?” Anthony asked softly, his eyes straying to his sister’s tortured face.
Before Simon could reply, Daphne said, “No.”
All eyes turned to her.
“There will be no duel,” she said. “His grace and I will be getting married.”
“I see.” Anthony looked as if he wanted to react with considerably more relief, but his sister’s solemn face forced a strange quietude on the scene. “I’ll tell the others,” he said, and walked off.
Simon felt a rush of something utterly foreign fill his lungs. It was air, he realized dumbly. He’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.
And something else filled him as well. Something hot and terrible, something triumphant and wonderful. It was emotion, pure and undiluted, a bizarre mix of relief and joy and desire and dread. And Simon, who’d spent most of his life avoiding such messy feelings, had no idea what to do about it.
His eyes found Daphne’s. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice whisper soft.
She nodded, her face strangely devoid of emotion. “You’re worth it.” Then she walked slowly back to her horse.
And Simon was left wondering if he had just been snatched up into heaven—or perhaps led to the darkest corner of hell.
Daphne spent the rest of the day surrounded by her family. Everyone was, of course, thrilled by the news of her engagement. Everyone, that was, except her older brothers, who while happy for her, were somewhat subdued. Daphne didn’t blame them. She felt rather subdued herself. The events of the day had left them all exhausted.
It was decided that the wedding must take place with all possible haste. (Violet had been informed that Daphne might have been seen kissing Simon in Lady Trowbridge’s garden, and that was enough for her to immediately send a request to the archbishop for a special license.) Violet had then immersed herself in a whirlwind of party details; just because the wedding was to be small, she’d announced, it didn’t have to be shabby.
Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth, all vastly excited at the prospect of dressing up as bridesmaids, kept up a steady stream of questions. How had Simon proposed? Did he get down on one knee? What color would Daphne wear and when would he give her a ring?
Daphne did her best to answer their questions, but she could barely concentrate on her sisters, and by the time afternoon slipped into the eve, she was reduced to monosyllables. Finally, after Hyacinth asked her what color roses she wanted for her bouquet, and Daphne answered, “Three,” her sisters gave up talking to her and left her alone.
The enormity of her actions had left Daphne nearly speechless. She had saved a man’s life. She had secured a promise of marriage from the man she adored. And she had committed herself to a life without children.
All in one day.
She laughed, somewhat desperately. It made one wonder what she could do tomorrow as an encore.
She wished she knew what had gone through her head in those last moments before she’d turned to Anthony, and said, “There will be no duel,” but in all truth, she wasn’t sure it was anything she could possibly remember. Whatever had been racing through her mind—it hadn’t been made up of words or sentences or conscious thought. It had been as if she was enveloped by color. Reds and yellows, and a swirling mishmash of orange where they met. Pure feeling and instinct. That’s all there had been. No reason, no logic, nothing even remotely rational or sane.
And somehow, as all of that churned violently within her, she’d known what she had to do. She might be able to live without the children she hadn’t yet borne, but she couldn’t live without Simon. The children were amorphous, unknown beings she couldn’t picture or touch.
But Simon—Simon was real and he was here. She knew how it felt to touch his cheek, to laugh in his presence. She knew the sweet taste of his kiss, and the wry quirk of his smile.
And she loved him.
&nbs
p; And although she barely dared think it, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he could have children. Maybe he’d been misled by an incompetent surgeon, or maybe God was just waiting for the right time to bestow a miracle. She’d be unlikely to mother a brood the size of the Bridgertons, but if she could have even one child she knew she’d feel complete.
She wouldn’t mention these thoughts to Simon, though. If he thought she was holding out even the tiniest hope for a child, he wouldn’t marry her. She was sure of it. He’d gone to such lengths to be brutally honest. He wouldn’t allow her to make a decision if he didn’t think she had the facts absolutely straight.
“Daphne?”
Daphne, who had been sitting listlessly on the sofa in the Bridgertons’ drawing room, looked up to see her mother gazing at her with an expression of deep concern.
“Are you all right?” Violet asked.
Daphne forced a weary smile. “I’m just tired,” she replied. And she was. It hadn’t even occurred to her until that very moment that she hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours.
Violet sat beside her. “I thought you’d be more excited. I know how much you love Simon.”
Daphne turned surprised eyes to her mother’s face.
“It’s not hard to see,” Violet said gently. She patted her on the hand. “He’s a good man. You’ve chosen well.”
Daphne felt a wobbly smile coming on. She had chosen well. And she would make the best of her marriage. If they weren’t blessed with children—well, she reasoned, she might have turned out to be barren, anyway. She knew of several couples who had never had children, and she doubted any of them had known of their deficiencies prior to their marriage vows. And with seven brothers and sisters, she was sure to have plenty of nieces and nephews to hug and spoil.
Better to live with the man she loved than to have children with one she didn’t.
“Why don’t you take a nap?” Violet suggested. “You look terribly tired. I hate seeing such dark smudges below your eyes.”
Daphne nodded and stumbled to her feet. Her mother knew best. Sleep was what she needed. “I’m sure I’ll feel much better in an hour or two,” she said, a wide yawn escaping her mouth.
Violet stood and offered her daughter her arm. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to make it up the stairs on your own,” she said, smiling as she led Daphne out of the room and up the stairs. “And I sincerely doubt we’ll see you in an hour or two. I shall give everyone explicit instructions that you are not to be disturbed until morning.”
Daphne nodded sleepily. “Thaz good,” she mumbled, stumbling into her room. “Morningsh good.”
Violet steered Daphne to the bed and helped her into it. The shoes she pulled off, but that was all. “You might as well sleep in your clothes,” she said softly, then bent to kiss her daughter on the forehead. “I can’t imagine I’ll be able to move you enough to get you out of them.”
Daphne’s only reply was a snore.
Simon, too, was exhausted. It wasn’t every day that a man resigned himself to death. And then to be saved by—and betrothed to!—the woman who had occupied his every dream for the past two weeks.
If he weren’t sporting two black eyes and a sizable bruise on his chin, he’d have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing.
Did Daphne realize what she’d done? What she was denying herself? She was a levelheaded girl, not given to foolish dreams and flights of fancy; he didn’t think she would have agreed to marry him without sorting through all the consequences.
But then again, she’d reached her decision in under a minute. How could she have thought everything through in under a minute?
Unless she fancied herself in love with him. Would she give up her dream of a family because she loved him?
Or maybe she did it out of guilt. If he’d died in that duel, he was sure Daphne could come up with some line of reasoning that would make it seem her fault. Hell, he liked Daphne. She was one of the finest people he knew. He didn’t think he could live with her death on his conscience. Perhaps she felt the same way about him.
But whatever her motives, the simple truth was that come this Saturday (Lady Bridgerton had already sent him a note informing him that the engagement would not be an extended one) he would be bound to Daphne for life.
And she to him.
There was no stopping it now, he realized. Daphne would never back out of the marriage at this point, and neither would he. And to his utter surprise, this almost fatalistic certainty felt . . .
Good.
Daphne would be his. She knew of his shortcomings, she knew what he could not give her, and she had still chosen him.
It warmed his heart more than he would ever have thought possible.
“Your grace?”
Simon looked up from his slouchy position in his study’s leather chair. Not that he needed to; the low, even voice was obviously that of his butler. “Yes, Jeffries?”
“Lord Bridgerton is here to see you. Shall I inform him that you are not at home?”
Simon pulled himself to his feet. Damn, but he was tired. “He won’t believe you.”
Jeffries nodded. “Very well, sir.” He took three steps, then turned around. “Are you certain you wish to receive a guest? You do seem to be a trifle, er, indisposed.”
Simon let out a single humorless chuckle. “If you are referring to my eyes, Lord Bridgerton would be the one responsible for the larger of the two bruises.”
Jeffries blinked like an owl. “The larger, your grace?”
Simon managed a half-smile. It wasn’t easy. His entire face hurt. “I realize it’s difficult to discern, but my right eye is actually a touch worse off than the left.”
Jeffries swayed closer, clearly intrigued.
“Trust me.”
The butler straightened. “Of course. Shall I show Lord Bridgerton to the drawing room?”
“No, bring him here.” At Jeffries’s nervous swallow, Simon added, “And you needn’t worry for my safety. Lord Bridgerton isn’t likely to add to my injuries at this juncture. Not,” he added in a mutter, “that he’d find it easy to find a spot he hasn’t already injured.”
Jeffries’s eyes widened, and he scurried out of the room.
A moment later Anthony Bridgerton strode in. He took one look at Simon, and said, “You look like hell.”
Simon stood and raised a brow—not an easy feat in his current condition. “This surprises you?”
Anthony laughed. The sound was a little mirthless, a little hollow, but Simon heard a shadow of his old friend. A shadow of their old friendship. He was surprised by how grateful he was for that.
Anthony motioned to Simon’s eyes. “Which one is mine?”
“The right,” Simon replied, gingerly touching his abused skin. “Daphne packs quite a punch for a girl, but she lacks your size and strength.”
“Still,” Anthony said, leaning forward to inspect his sister’s handiwork, “she did quite a nice job.”
“You should be proud of her,” Simon grunted. “Hurts like the devil.”
“Good.”
And then they were silent, with so much to say and no idea how to say it.
“I never wanted it to be like this,” Anthony finally said.
“Nor I.”
Anthony leaned against the edge of Simon’s desk, but he shifted uncomfortably, looking oddly ill at ease in his own body. “It wasn’t easy for me to let you court her.”
“You knew it wasn’t real.”
“You made it real last night.”
What was he to say? That Daphne had been the seducer, not he? That she’d been the one to lead him off the terrace and dance into the darkness of the night? None of that mattered. He was far more experienced than Daphne. He should have been able to stop.
He said nothing.
“I hope we may put this behind us,” Anthony said.
“I’m certain that would be Daphne’s fondest wish.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “And is it now your aim
in life to grant her fondest wishes?”
All but one, Simon thought. All but the one that really matters. “You know that I will do everything in my capabilities to keep her happy,” he said quietly.
Anthony nodded. “If you hurt her—”
“I will never hurt her,” Simon vowed, his eyes blazing.
Anthony regarded him with a long and even stare. “I was prepared to kill you for dishonoring her. If you damage her soul, I guarantee you will never find peace as long as you live. Which,” he added, his eyes turning slightly harder, “would not be long.”
“Just long enough to put me in excruciating pain?” Simon asked mildly.
“Exactly.”
Simon nodded. Even though Anthony was threatening torture and death, Simon could not help but respect him for it. Devotion to one’s sister was an honorable thing.
Simon wondered if Anthony perhaps saw something in him that no one else did. They had known each other for over half of their lives. Did Anthony somehow see the darkest corners of his soul? The anguish and fury he tried so hard to keep hidden?
And if so, was that why he worried for his sister’s happiness?
“I give you my word,” Simon said. “I will do everything in my power to keep Daphne safe and content.”
Anthony nodded curtly. “See that you do.” He pushed himself away from the desk and walked to the door. “Or you’ll be seeing me.”
He left.
Simon groaned and sank back into the leather chair. When had his life grown so damned complicated? When had friends become enemies and flirtations grown to lust?
And what the hell was he going to do with Daphne? He didn’t want to hurt her, couldn’t bear to hurt her, actually, and yet he was doomed to do so simply by marrying her. He burned for her, ached for the day when he could lay her down and cover her body with his, slowly entering her until she moaned his name—
He shuddered. Such thoughts could not possibly be advantageous to his health.
“Your grace?”
Jeffries again. Simon was too tired to look up, so he just made an acknowledging motion with his hand.