Bridgerton: The Duke and I (Bridgertons Book 1)
Bridgerton: The Duke and I: Chapter 3

It has been whispered to This Author that Nigel Berbrooke was seen at Moreton’s Jewelry Shop purchasing a diamond solitaire ring. Can a new Mrs. Berbrooke be very far behind?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 April 1813

The night, Daphne decided, couldn’t possibly get much worse. First she’d been forced to spend the evening in the darkest corner of the ballroom (which wasn’t such an easy task, since Lady Danbury clearly appreciated both the aesthetic and illuminating qualities of candles), then she’d managed to trip over Philipa Featherington’s foot as she tried to make her escape, which had led Philipa, never the quietest girl in the room, to squeal, “Daphne Bridgerton! Are you hurt?” Which must have captured Nigel’s attention, for his head had snapped up like a startled bird, and he’d immediately started hurrying across the ballroom. Daphne had hoped, no prayed that she could outrun him and make it to the ladies’ retiring room before he caught up with her, but no, Nigel had cornered her in the hall and started wailing out his love for her.

It was all embarrassing enough, but now it appeared this man—this shockingly handsome and almost disturbingly poised stranger—had witnessed the entire thing. And worse, he was laughing!

Daphne glared at him as he chuckled at her expense. She’d never seen him before, so he had to be new to London. Her mother had made certain that Daphne had been introduced to, or at least been made aware of, all eligible gentlemen. Of course, this man could be married and therefore not on Violet’s list of potential victims, but Daphne instinctively knew that he could not have been long in London without all the world whispering about it.

His face was quite simply perfection. It took only a moment to realize that he put all of Michelangelo’s statues to shame. His eyes were oddly intense—so blue they practically glowed. His hair was thick and dark, and he was tall—as tall as her brothers, which was a rare thing.

This was a man, Daphne thought wryly, who could quite possibly steal the gaggle of twittering young ladies away from the Bridgerton men for good.

Why that annoyed her so much, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because she knew a man like him would never be interested in a woman like her. Maybe it was because she felt like the veriest frump sitting there on the floor in his splendid presence. Maybe it was simply because he was standing there laughing as if she were some sort of circus amusement.

But whatever the case, an uncharacteristic peevishness rose within her, and her brows drew together as she asked, “Who are you?”

Simon didn’t know why he didn’t answer her question in a straightforward manner, but some devil within caused him to reply, “My intention had been to be your rescuer, but you clearly had no need of my services.”

“Oh,” the girl said, sounding slightly mollified. She clamped her lips together, twisting them slightly as she considered his words. “Well, thank you, then, I suppose. Pity you didn’t reveal yourself ten seconds earlier. I’d rather not have had to hit him.”

Simon looked down at the man on the ground. A bruise was already darkening on his chin, and he was moaning, “Laffy, oh Laffy. I love you, Laffy.”

“You’re Laffy, I presume?” Simon murmured, sliding his gaze up to her face. Really, she was quite an attractive little thing, and from this angle the bodice of her gown seemed almost decadently low.

She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating his attempt at subtle humor—and also clearly not realizing that his heavy-lidded gaze had rested on portions of her anatomy that were not her face. “What are we to do with him?” she asked.

“‘We?’” Simon echoed.

Her scowl deepened. “You did say you aspired to be my rescuer, didn’t you?”

“So I did.” Simon planted his hands on his hips and assessed the situation. “Shall I drag him out into the street?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “For goodness’ sake, isn’t it still raining outside?”

“My dear Miss Laffy,” Simon said, not particularly concerned about the condescending tone of his voice, “don’t you think your concern is slightly misplaced? This man tried to attack you.”

“He didn’t try to attack me,” she replied. “He just . . . He just . . . Oh, very well, he tried to attack me. But he would never have done me any real harm.”

Simon raised a brow. Truly, women were the most contrary creatures. “And you can be sure of that?”

He watched as she carefully chose her words. “Nigel isn’t capable of malice,” she said slowly. “All he is guilty of is misjudgment.”

“You’re a more generous soul than I, then,” Simon said quietly.

The girl let out another sigh, a soft, breathy sound that Simon somehow felt across his entire body. “Nigel’s not a bad person,” she said with quiet dignity. “It’s just that he isn’t always terribly bright, and perhaps he mistook kindness on my part for something more.”

Simon felt a strange sort of admiration for this girl. Most women of his acquaintance would have been in hysterics at this point, but she—whoever she was—had taken the situation firmly in hand, and was now displaying a generosity of spirit that was astounding. That she could even think to defend this Nigel person was quite beyond him.

She rose to her feet, dusting her hands off on the sage green silk of her skirts. Her hair had been styled so that one thick lock fell over her shoulder, curling seductively at the top of her breast. Simon knew he should be listening to her—she was prattling on about something, as women were wont to do—but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off that single dark lock of hair. It fell like a silky ribbon across her swanlike neck, and Simon had the most appalling urge to close the distance between them and trace the line of her hair with his lips.

He’d never dallied with an innocent before, but all the world had already painted him a rake. What could be the harm? It wasn’t as if he were going to ravish her. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss.

It was tempting, so deliciously, maddeningly tempting.

“Sir! Sir!”

With great reluctance, he dragged his eyes up to her face. Which was, of course, delightful in and of itself, but it was difficult to picture her seduction when she was scowling at him.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Of course,” he lied.

“You weren’t.”

“No,” he admitted.

A sound came from the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “Then why,” she ground out, “did you say you were?”

He shrugged. “I thought it was what you wanted to hear.”

Simon watched with fascinated interest as she took a deep breath and muttered something to herself. He couldn’t hear her words, but he doubted any of them could be construed as complimentary. Finally, her voice almost comically even, she said, “If you don’t wish to aid me, I’d prefer it if you would just leave.”

Simon decided it was time to stop acting like such a boor, so he said, “My apologies. Of course I’ll help you.”

She exhaled, and then looked back to Nigel, who was still lying on the floor, moaning incoherently. Simon looked down, too, and for several seconds they just stood there, staring at the unconscious man, until the girl said, “I really didn’t hit him very hard.”

“Maybe he’s drunk.”

She looked dubious. “Do you think? I smelled spirits on his breath, but I’ve never seen him drunk before.”

Simon had nothing to add to that line of thought, so he just asked, “Well, what do you want to do?”

“I suppose we could just leave him here,” she said, the expression in her dark eyes hesitant.

Simon thought that was an excellent idea, but it was obvious she wanted the idiot cared for in a more tender manner. And heaven help him, but he felt the strangest compulsion to make her happy. “Here is what we’re going to do,” he said crisply, glad that his tone belied any of the odd tenderness he was feeling. “I am going to summon my carriage—”

“Oh, good,” she interrupted. “I really didn’t want to leave him here. It seemed rather cruel.”

Simon thought it seemed rather generous considering the big oaf had nearly attacked her, but he kept that opinion to himself and instead continued on with his plan. “You will wait in the library while I’m gone.”

“In the library? But—”

“In the library,” he repeated firmly. “With the door shut. Do you really want to be discovered with Nigel’s body should anyone happen to wander down this hallway?”

“His body? Good gracious, sir, you needn’t make it sound as if he were dead.”

“As I was saying,” he continued, ignoring her comment completely, “you will remain in the library. When I return, we will relocate Nigel here to my carriage.”

“And how will we do that?”

He gave her a disarmingly lopsided grin. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

For a moment Daphne forgot to breathe. Just when she’d decided that her would-be rescuer was irredeemingly arrogant, he had to go and smile at her like that. It was one of those boyish grins, the kind that melted female hearts within a ten-mile radius.

And, much to Daphne’s dismay, it was awfully hard to remain thoroughly irritated with a man under the influence of such a smile. After growing up with four brothers, all of whom had seemed to know how to charm ladies from birth, Daphne had thought she was immune.

But apparently not. Her chest was tingling, her stomach was turning cartwheels, and her knees felt like melted butter.

“Nigel,” she muttered, desperately trying to force her attention away from the nameless man standing across from her, “I must see to Nigel.” She crouched down and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. “Nigel? Nigel? You have to wake up now, Nigel.”

“Daphne,” Nigel moaned. “Oh, Daphne.”

The dark-haired stranger’s head snapped around. “Daphne? Did he say Daphne?”

She drew back, unnerved by his direct question and the rather intense look in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Your name is Daphne?”

Now she was beginning to wonder if he was an idiot. “Yes.”

He groaned. “Not Daphne Bridgerton.”

Her face slid into a puzzled frown. “The very one.”

Simon staggered back a step. He suddenly felt physically ill, as his brain finally processed the fact that she had thick, chestnut hair. The famous Bridgerton hair. Not to mention the Bridgerton nose, and cheekbones, and—Bugger it all, this was Anthony’s sister!

Bloody hell.

There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.

While he stood there, probably staring at her like a complete idiot, she planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “And who are you?”

“Simon Basset,” he muttered.

“The duke?” she squeaked.

He nodded grimly.

“Oh, dear.”

Simon watched with growing horror as the blood drained from her face. “Good God, woman, you’re not going to swoon, are you?” He couldn’t imagine why she would, but Anthony—her brother, he reminded himself—had spent half the afternoon warning him about the effects of a young, unmarried duke on the young, unmarried female population. Anthony had specifically singled out Daphne as the exception to the rule, but still, she looked deucedly pale. “Are you?” he demanded, when she said nothing. “Going to swoon?”

She looked offended that he’d even considered the notion. “Of course not!”

“Good.”

“It’s just that—”

“What?” Simon asked suspiciously.

“Well,” she said with a rather dainty shrug of her shoulders, “I’ve been warned about you.”

This was really too much. “By whom?” he demanded.

She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. “By everyone.”

“That, my d—” He felt something suspiciously like a stammer coming on, and so he took a deep breath to steady his tongue. He’d become a master at this kind of control. All she would see was a man who looked as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. And considering the direction of their conversation, that image could not seem terribly far-fetched.

“My dear Miss Bridgerton,” Simon said, starting anew in a more even and controlled tone, “I replace that difficult to believe.”

She shrugged again, and he had the most irritating sensation that she was enjoying his distress. “Believe what you will,” she said blithely, “but it was in the paper today.”

“What?”

“In Whistledown,” she replied, as if that explained anything.

“Whistle-which?”

Daphne stared at him blankly for a moment until she remembered that he was newly returned to London. “Oh, you must not know about it,” she said softly, a wicked little smile crossing her lips. “Fancy that.”

The duke took a step forward, his stance positively menacing. “Miss Bridgerton, I feel I should warn you that I am within an inch of strangling the information out of you.”

“It’s a gossip sheet,” she said, hastily backing up a step. “That’s all. It’s rather silly, actually, but everyone reads it.”

He said nothing, just arched one arrogant brow.

Daphne quickly added, “There was a report of your return in Monday’s edition.”

“And what”—his eyes narrowed dangerously—“precisely”—now they turned to ice—“did it say?”

“Not very much, ah, precisely,” Daphne hedged. She tried to back up a step, but her heels were already pressing against the wall. Any further and she’d be up on her tiptoes. The duke looked beyond furious, and she was beginning to think that she should try for a quick escape and just leave him here with Nigel. The two were perfect for each other—madmen, the both of them!

“Miss Bridgerton.” There was a wealth of warning in his voice.

Daphne decided to take pity on him since, after all, he was new to town and hadn’t had time to adjust to the new world according to Whistledown. She supposed she couldn’t really blame him for being so upset that he’d been written about in the paper. It had been rather startling for Daphne the first time as well, and she’d at least had the warning of a month’s previous Whistledown columns. By the time Lady Whistledown got around to writing about Daphne, it had been almost anticlimactic.

“You needn’t upset yourself over it,” Daphne said, attempting to lend a little compassion to her voice but probably not succeeding. “She merely wrote that you were a terrible rake, a fact which I’m sure you won’t deny, since I have long since learned that men positively yearn to be considered rakes.”

She paused and gave him the opportunity to prove her wrong and deny it. He didn’t.

She continued, “And then my mother, whose acquaintance I gather you must have made at some point or another before you left to travel the world, confirmed it all.”

“Did she?”

Daphne nodded. “She then forbade me ever to be seen in your company.”

“Really?” he drawled.

Something about the tone of his voice—and the way his eyes seemed to have grown almost smoky as they focused on her face—made her extremely uneasy, and it was all she could do not to shut her eyes.

She refused—absolutely refused—to let him see how he’d affected her.

His lips curved into a slow smile. “Let me make certain I have this correctly. Your mother told you I am a very bad man and that you are under no circumstances to be seen with me.”

Confused, she nodded.

“Then what,” he asked, pausing for dramatic effect, “do you think your mother would say about this little scenario?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, unless you count Nigel here”—he waved his hand toward the unconscious man on the floor—“no one has actually seen you in my presence. And yet . . .” He let his words trail off, having far too much fun watching the play of emotions on her face to do anything but drag this moment out to its lengthiest extreme.

Of course most of the emotions on her face were varying shades of irritation and dismay, but that made the moment all the sweeter.

“And yet?” she ground out.

He leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them to only a few inches. “And yet,” he said softly, knowing that she’d feel his breath on her face, “here we are, completely alone.”

“Except for Nigel,” she retorted.

Simon spared the man on the floor the briefest of glances before returning his wolfish gaze to Miss Bridgerton. “I’m not terribly concerned about Nigel,” he murmured. “Are you?”

Simon watched as she looked down at Nigel in dismay. It had to be clear to her that her spurned suitor wasn’t going to save her should Simon decide to make an amorous advance. Not that he would, of course. After all, this was Anthony’s younger sister. He might have to remind himself of this at frequent intervals, but it wasn’t a fact that was likely to slip his mind on a permanent basis.

Simon knew that it was past time to end this little game. Not that he thought she would report the interlude to Anthony; somehow he knew that she would prefer to keep this to herself, stewing over it in privately righteous fury, and, dare he hope it—just a touch of excitement?

But even as he knew it was time to stop this flirtation and get back to the business of hauling Daphne’s idiotic suitor out of the building, he couldn’t resist one last comment. Maybe it was the way her lips pursed when she was annoyed. Or maybe it was the way they parted when she was shocked. All he knew was that he was helpless against his own devilish nature when it came to this girl.

And so he leaned forward, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive as he said, “I think I know what your mother would say.”

She looked a little befuddled by his onslaught, but still she managed a rather defiant, “Oh?”

Simon nodded slowly, and he touched one finger to her chin. “She’d tell you to be very, very afraid.”

There was a moment of utter silence, and then Daphne’s eyes grew very wide. Her lips tightened, as if she were keeping something inside, and then her shoulders rose slightly, and then . . .

And then she laughed. Right in his face.

“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “Oh, that was funny.”

Simon was not amused.

“I’m sorry.” This was said between laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, but really, you shouldn’t be so melodramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”

Simon paused, rather irritated that this slip of a girl had shown such disrespect for his authority. There were advantages to being considered a dangerous man, and being able to cow young maidens was supposed to be one of them.

“Well, actually, it does suit you, I ought to admit,” she added, still grinning at his expense. “You looked quite dangerous. And very handsome, of course.” When he made no comment, her face took on a bemused expression, and she asked, “That was your intention, was it not?”

He still said nothing, so she said, “Of course it was. And I would be remiss if I did not tell you that you would have been successful with any other woman besides me.”

A comment he couldn’t resist. “And why is that?”

“Four brothers.” She shrugged as if that should explain everything. “I’m quite immune to your games.”

“Oh?”

She gave his arm a reassuring pat. “But yours was a most admirable attempt. And truly, I’m quite flattered you thought me worthy of such a magnificent display of dukish rakishness.” She grinned, her smile wide and unfeigned. “Or do you prefer rakish dukishness?”

Simon stroked his jaw thoughtfully, trying to regain his mood of menacing predator. “You’re a most annoying little chit, did you know that, Miss Bridgerton?”

She gave him her sickliest of smiles. “Most people replace me the soul of kindness and amiability.”

“Most people,” Simon said bluntly, “are fools.”

Daphne cocked her head to the side, obviously pondering his words. Then she looked over at Nigel and sighed. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you, much as it pains me.”

Simon bit back a smile. “It pains you to agree with me, or that most people are fools?”

“Both.” She grinned again—a wide, enchanting smile that did odd things to his brain. “But mostly the former.”

Simon let out a loud laugh, then was startled to realize how foreign the sound was to his ears. He was a man who frequently smiled; occasionally chuckled, but it had been a very long time since he’d felt such a spontaneous burst of joy. “My dear Miss Bridgerton,” he said, wiping his eyes, “if you are the soul of kindness and amiability, then the world must be a very dangerous place.”

“Oh, for certain,” she replied. “At least to hear my mother tell it.”

“I can’t imagine why I do not recall your mother,” Simon murmured, “because she certainly sounds a memorable character.”

Daphne raised a brow. “You don’t remember her?”

He shook his head.

“Then you don’t know her.”

“Does she look like you?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“Not so very odd,” Simon replied, thinking that Daphne was exactly right. It was an odd question, and he had no idea why he’d voiced it. But since he had, and since she had questioned it, he added, “After all, I’m told that all of you Bridgertons look alike.”

A tiny, and to Simon mysterious, frown touched her face. “We do. Look alike, that is. Except for my mother. She’s rather fair, actually, with blue eyes. We all get our dark hair from our father. I’m told I have her smile, though.”

An awkward pause fell across the conversation. Daphne was shifting from foot to foot, not at all certain what to say to the duke, when Nigel exhibited stellar timing for the first time in his life, and sat up. “Daphne?” he said, blinking as if he couldn’t see straight. “Daphne, is that you?”

“Good God, Miss Bridgerton,” the duke swore, “how hard did you hit him?”

“Hard enough to knock him down, but no worse than that, I swear!” Her brow furrowed. “Maybe he is drunk.”

“Oh, Daphne,” Nigel moaned.

The duke crouched next to him, then reeled back, coughing.

“Is he drunk?” Daphne asked.

The duke staggered back. “He must have drunk an entire bottle of whiskey just to get up the nerve to propose.”

“Who would have thought I could be so terrifying?” Daphne murmured, thinking of all the men who thought of her as a jolly good friend and nothing more. “How wonderful.”

Simon stared at her as if she were insane, then muttered, “I’m not even going to question that statement.”

Daphne ignored his comment. “Should we set our plan into action?”

Simon planted his hands on his hips and reassessed the scene. Nigel was trying to rise to his feet, but it didn’t appear, to Simon’s eye at least, that he was going to replace success anytime in the near future. Still, he was probably lucid enough to make trouble, and certainly lucid enough to make noise, which he was doing. Quite well, actually.

“Oh, Daphne. I luff you so much, Daffery.” Nigel managed to raise himself to his knees, weaving around as he shuffled toward Daphne, looking rather like a sotted churchgoer attempting to pray. “Please marry me, Duffne. You have to.”

“Buck up, man,” Simon grunted, grabbing him by the collar. “This is getting embarrassing.” He turned to Daphne. “I’m going to have to take him outside now. We can’t leave him here in the hall. He’s liable to start moaning like a sickened cow—”

“I rather thought he’d already started,” Daphne said.

Simon felt one corner of his mouth twist up in a reluctant smile. Daphne Bridgerton might be a marriageable female and thus a disaster waiting to happen for any man in his position, but she was certainly a good sport.

She was, it occurred to him in a rather bizarre moment of clarity, the sort of person he’d probably call friend if she were a man.

But since it was abundantly obvious—to both his eyes and his body—that she wasn’t a man, Simon decided it was in both of their best interests to wrap up this “situation” as soon as possible. Aside from the fact that Daphne’s reputation would suffer a deadly blow if they were discovered, Simon wasn’t positive that he could trust himself to keep his hands off of her for very much longer.

It was an unsettling feeling, that. Especially for a man who so valued his self-control. Control was everything. Without it he’d never have stood up to his father or taken a first at university. Without it, he’d—

Without it, he thought grimly, he’d still be speaking like an idiot.

“I’ll haul him out of here,” he said suddenly. “You go back to the ballroom.”

Daphne frowned, glancing over her shoulder to the hall that led back to the party. “Are you certain? I thought you wanted me to go to the library.”

“That was when we were going to leave him here while I summoned the carriage. But we can’t do that if he’s awake.”

She nodded her agreement, and asked, “Are you sure you can do it? Nigel’s a rather large man.”

“I’m larger.”

She cocked her head. The duke, although lean, was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and firmly muscled thighs. (Daphne knew she wasn’t supposed to notice such things, but, really, was it her fault that current fashions dictated such snug breeches?) More to the point, he had a certain air about him, something almost predatory, something that hinted of tightly controlled strength and power.

Daphne decided she had no doubt that he’d be able to move Nigel.

“Very well,” she said, giving him a nod. “And thank you. It’s very kind of you to help me in this way.”

“I’m rarely kind,” he muttered.

“Really?” she murmured, allowing herself a tiny smile. “How odd. I couldn’t possibly think of anything else to call it. But then again, I’ve learned that men—”

“You do seem to be the expert on men,” he said, somewhat acerbically, then grunted as he hauled Nigel to his feet.

Nigel promptly reached for Daphne, practically sobbing her name. Simon had to brace his legs to keep him from lunging at her.

Daphne darted back a step. “Yes, well, I do have four brothers. A better education I cannot imagine.”

There was no way of knowing if the duke had intended to answer her, because Nigel chose that moment to regain his energy (although clearly not his equilibrium) and yanked himself free of Simon’s grip. He threw himself onto Daphne, making incoherent, drunken noises all the way.

If Daphne hadn’t had her back to the wall, she would have been knocked to the ground. As it was, she hit the wall with a bone-jarring thud, knocking all the breath from her body.

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” the duke swore, sounding supremely disgusted. He hauled Nigel off Daphne, then turned to her, and asked, “Can I hit him?”

“Oh, please do go ahead,” she replied, still gasping for breath. She’d tried to be kind and generous toward her erstwhile suitor, but really, enough was enough.

The duke muttered something that sounded like “good” and landed a stunningly powerful blow on Nigel’s chin.

Nigel went down like a stone.

Daphne regarded the man on the floor with equanimity. “I don’t think he’s going to wake up this time.”

Simon shook out his fist. “No.”

Daphne blinked and looked back up. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, scowling at Nigel.

“What shall we do now?” Her gaze joined his on the man on the floor—now well and truly unconscious.

“Back to the original plan,” he said crisply. “We leave him here while you wait in the library. I’d rather not have to drag him out until I’ve a carriage waiting.”

Daphne gave him a sensible nod. “Do you need help righting him, or should I proceed directly to the library?”

The duke was silent for a moment. His head tilted this way and that as he analyzed Nigel’s position on the floor. “Actually, a bit of help would be greatly appreciated.”

“Really?” Daphne asked, surprised. “I was sure you’d say no.”

That earned her a faintly amused and superior look from the duke. “And is that why you asked?”

“No, of course not,” Daphne replied, slightly offended. “I’m not so stupid as to offer help if I have no intention of giving it. I was merely going to point out that men, in my experience—”

“You have too much experience,” the duke muttered under his breath.

“What?!”

“I beg your pardon,” he amended. “You think you have too much experience.”

Daphne glared at him, her dark eyes smoldering nearly to black. “That is not true, and who are you to say, anyway?”

“No, that’s not quite right, either,” the duke mused, completely ignoring her furious question. “I think it’s more that I think you think you have too much experience.”

“Why you—You—” As retorts went, it wasn’t especially effective, but it was all Daphne could manage to get out. Her powers of speech tended to fail her when she was angry.

And she was really angry.

Simon shrugged, apparently unmoved by her furious visage. “My dear Miss Bridgerton—”

“If you call me that one more time, I swear I shall scream.”

“No, you won’t,” he said with a rakish smile. “That would draw a crowd, and if you recall, you don’t want to be seen with me.”

“I am considering risking it,” Daphne said, each word squeezed out between her teeth.

Simon crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the wall. “Really?” he drawled. “This I should like to see.”

Daphne nearly threw up her arms in frustration. “Forget it. Forget me. Forget this entire evening. I’m leaving.”

She turned around, but before she could even take a step, her movement was arrested by the sound of the duke’s voice.

“I thought you were going to help me.”

Drat. He had her there. She turned slowly around. “Why, yes,” she said, her voice patently false, “I’d be delighted.”

“You know,” he said innocently, “if you didn’t want to help you shouldn’t have—”

“I said I’d help,” she snapped.

Simon smiled to himself. She was such an easy mark. “Here is what we are going to do,” he said. “I’m going to haul him to his feet and drape his right arm over my shoulders. You will go around to the other side and shore him up.”

Daphne did as she was bid, grumbling to herself about his autocratic attitude. But she didn’t voice a single complaint. After all, for all his annoying ways, the Duke of Hastings was helping her out of a possibly embarrassing scandal.

Of course if anyone found her in this position, she’d replace herself in even worse straits.

“I have a better idea,” she said suddenly. “Let’s just leave him here.”

The duke’s head swung around to face her, and he looked as if he’d dearly like to toss her through a window—preferably one that was still closed. “I thought,” he said, clearly working hard to keep his voice even, “that you didn’t want to leave him on the floor.”

“That was before he knocked me into the wall.”

“Could you possibly have notified me of your change of heart before I expended my energy to lift him?”

Daphne blushed. She hated that men thought that women were fickle, changeable creatures, and she hated even more that she was living up to that image right then.

“Very well,” he said simply, and dropped Nigel.

The sudden weight of him nearly took Daphne down to the floor as well. She let out a surprised squeal as she ducked out of the way.

“Now may we leave?” the duke asked, sounding insufferably patient.

She nodded hesitantly, glancing down at Nigel. “He looks rather uncomfortable, don’t you think?”

Simon stared at her. Just stared at her. “You’re concerned for his comfort?” he finally asked.

She gave her head a nervous shake, then a nod, then went back to the shake. “Maybe I should—That is to say—Here, just wait a moment.” She crouched and untwisted Nigel’s legs so he lay flat on his back. “I didn’t think he deserved a trip home in your carriage,” she explained as she rearranged his coat, “but it seemed rather cruel to leave him here in this position. There, now I’m done.” She stood and looked up.

And just managed to catch sight of the duke as he walked away, muttering something about Daphne and something about women in general and something else entirely that Daphne didn’t quite catch.

But maybe that was for the best. She rather doubted it had been a compliment.