The Duke and I (5 page)

 "No doubt," Benedict agreed. "It's a wonder Colin—" His eyes snapped up. "Colin!"

 Yet another Bridgerton brother joined the crowd.

 "Oh, Colin!" Daphne exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. "It's so
good
to see you."

 "Note that we didn't receive similarly enthusiastic greetings," Anthony said to Benedict.

 "You I see all the time," Daphne retorted. "Colin's been away a full year." After giving him one last squeeze, she stepped back, and scolded, "We didn't expect you until next week."

 Colin's one-shoulder shrug matched his lopsided smile to perfection. "Paris grew dull."

 "Ah," Daphne said with a shrewd look in her eye. "Then you ran out of money."

 Colin laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged."

 Anthony hugged his brother, and said gruffly, "It's damned fine to have you home, brother. Although the funds I sent you should have lasted you at least until—"

 "Stop," Colin said helplessly, laughter still tingeing his voice. "I promise you may scold me all you want tomorrow. Tonight I merely wish to enjoy the company of my beloved family."

 Benedict let out a snort. "You must be completely broke if you're calling us 'beloved.' " But he leaned forward to give his brother a hearty hug all the same. "Welcome home."

 Colin, always the most devil-may-care of the family, grinned, his green eyes twinkling. "Good to be back. Although I must say the weather is not nearly so fine as on the Continent, and as for the women, well, England would be hard pressed to compete with the signorina I—"

 Daphne punched him in the arm. "Kindly recall that there is a lady present, churl." But there was little ire in her voice. Of all her siblings, Colin was the closest to her in age—only eighteen months her elder. As children, they had been inseparable—and always in trouble. Colin was a natural prankster, and Daphne had never needed much convincing to go along with his schemes. "Does Mother know you're home?" she asked.

 Colin shook his head. "I arrived to an empty house, and—"

 "Yes, Mother put the younger ones to bed early tonight," Daphne interrupted.

 "I didn't want to wait about and twiddle my thumbs, so Humboldt gave me your direction and I came here."

 Daphne beamed, her wide smile lending warmth to her dark eyes. "I'm glad you did."

 "Where
is
Mother?" Colin asked, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. Like all Bridgerton males, he was tall, so he

didn't have to stretch very far.

 "Over in the corner with Lady Jersey," Daphne replied.

 Colin shuddered. "I'll wait until she's extricated herself. I have no wish to be flayed alive by that dragon."

 "Speaking of dragons," Benedict said pointedly. His head didn't move, but his eyes flicked off to the left.

 Daphne followed his line of vision to see Lady Danbury marching slowly toward them. She carried a cane, but Daphne swallowed nervously and steeled her shoulders. Lady Danbury's often cutting wit was legendary among the
ton.
Daphne had always suspected that a sentimental heart beat under her acerbic exterior, but still, it was always terrifying when Lady Danbury pressed one into conversation.

 "No escape," Daphne heard one of her brothers groan.

 Daphne shushed him and offered the old lady a hesitant smile.

 Lady Danbury's brows rose, and when she was but four feet away from the group of Bridgertons, she stopped, and barked, "Don't pretend you don't see me!"

 This was followed by a thump of the cane so loud that Daphne jumped back just enough to trample Benedict's toe.

 "Euf," said Benedict.

 Since her brothers appeared to have gone temporarily mute (except for Benedict, of course, but Daphne didn't think that

grunts of pain counted as intelligible speech) Daphne swallowed, and said, "I hope I did not give that impression, Lady Danbury, for—"

 "Not you," Lady Danbury said imperiously. She jabbed her cane into the air, making a perfectly horizontal line that ended perilously close to Colin's stomach. "Them."

 A chorus of mumbled greetings emerged as a response.

 Lady Danbury flicked the men the briefest of glances before turning back to Daphne, and saying, "Mr. Berbrooke was

asking after you."

 Daphne actually felt her skin turn green. "He was?"

 Lady Danbury gave her a curt nod. "I'd nip that one in the bud, were I you, Miss Bridgerton."

 "Did you tell him where I was?"

 Lady Danbury's mouth slid into a sly, conspiratorial smile. "I always knew I liked you. And no, I did not tell him where

you were."

 "Thank you," Daphne said gratefully.

 "It'd be a waste of a good mind if you were shackled to that nitwit," Lady Danbury said, "and the good Lord knows that

the
ton
can't afford to waste the few good minds we've got."

 "Er, thank you," Daphne said.

 "As for you lot"—Lady Danbury waved her cane at Daphne's brothers—"I still reserve judgment. You"— she pointed the cane at Anthony—"I'm inclined to be favorable toward, since you refused Berbrooke's suit on your sister's behalf, but the rest of you ... Hmmph."

 And with that she walked away.

 "'Hmmph?'" Benedict echoed. "'Hmmph?' She purports to quantify my intelligence and all she comes up with is 'Hmmph?'"

 Daphne smirked. "She
likes
me."

 "You're welcome to her," Benedict grumbled.

 "Rather sporting of her to warn you about Berbrooke," Anthony admitted.

 Daphne nodded. "I believe that was my cue to take my leave." She turned to Anthony with a beseeching look. "If he comes looking for me—"

 "I'll take care of it," he said gently. "Don't worry."

 "Thank you." And then, with a smile to her brothers, she slipped out of the ballroom.

 *  *  *

 As Simon walked quietly through the halls of Lady Danbury's London home, it occurred to him that he was in a singularly good mood. This, he thought with a chuckle, was truly remarkable, considering the fact that he was about to attend a society ball and thus subject himself to all the horrors Anthony Bridgerton had laid out before him earlier that afternoon.

 But he could console himself with the knowledge that after today, he needn't bother with such functions again; as he had told Anthony earlier that afternoon, he was only attending this particular ball out of loyalty to Lady Danbury, who, despite her curmudgeonly ways, had always been quite nice to him as a child.

 His good mood, he was coming to realize, derived from the simple fact that he was pleased to be back in England.

 Not that he hadn't enjoyed his journeys across the globe. He'd traveled the length and breadth of Europe, sailed the

exquisitely blue seas of the Mediterranean,and delved into the mysteries of North Africa. From there he'd gone on to the Holy Land, and then, when inquiries revealed that it was not yet time to return home, he crossed the Atlantic and explored the West Indies. At that point he considered moving on to the United States of America, but the new nation had seen fit to enter into conflict with Britain, so Simon had stayed away.

 Besides, that was when he'd learned that his father, ill for several years, had finally died.

 It was ironic, really. Simon wouldn't have traded his years of exploration for anything. Six years gave a man a lot of time to think, a lot of time to learn what it meant to be a man. And yet the only reason the then-twenty-two-year-old Simon had left England was because his father had suddenly decided that he was finally willing to accept his son.

 Simon hadn't been willing to accept his father, though, and so he'd simply packed his bags and left the country, preferring exile to the old duke's hypocritical overtures of affection.

 It had all started when Simon had finished at Oxford. The duke hadn't originally wanted to pay for his son's schooling; Simon had once seen a letter written to a tutor stating that he refused to let his idiot son make a fool of the family at Eton. But Simon had had a hungry mind as well as a stubborn heart, and so he'd ordered a carriage to take him to Eton, knocked on the headmaster's door, and announced his presence.

 It had been the most terrifying thing he'd ever done, but he'd somehow managed to convince the headmaster that the mix-up was the school's fault, that somehow Eton must have lost his enrollment papers and fees. He'd copied all of his father's mannerisms, raising an arrogant brow, lifting his chin, and looking down his nose,and generally appearing as if he thought he owned the world.

 And the entire time, he'd been quaking in his shoes, terrified that at any moment his words would grow garbled and land on top of each other, that "I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am here to begin classes," would instead come out as, "I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am h-h-h-h-h-h—"

 But it hadn't, and the headmaster, who'd spent enough years educating England's elite to immediately recognize Simon as a member of the Basset family, had enrolled him posthaste and without question. It had taken several months for the duke (who was always quite busy with his own pursuits) to learn of his son's new status and change in residence. By that point, Simon was well ensconced at Eton, and it would have looked very bad if the duke had pulled the boy out of school for no reason.

 And the duke didn't like to look bad.

 Simon had often wondered why his father hadn't chosen to make an overture at that time. Clearly Simon wasn't tripping over his every word at Eton; the duke would have heard from the headmaster if his son weren't able to keep up with his studies. Simon's speech still occasionally slipped, but by then he'd grown remarkably proficient in covering up his mistakes with a cough or, if he was lucky enough to be taking a meal at the time, a well-timed sip of tea or milk.

 But the duke never even wrote him a letter. Simon supposed his father had grown so used to ignoring his son that it didn't even matter that he wasn't proving to be an embarrassment to the Basset name.

 After Eton, Simon followed the natural progression to Oxford, where he earned the reputations of both scholar and rake. Truth be told, he hadn't deserved the label of rake any more than most of the young bucks at university, but Simon's somewhat aloof demeanor somehow fed the persona.

 Simon wasn't exactly certain how it had happened, but gradually he became aware that his peers craved his approval. He was intelligent and athletic, but it seemed his elevated status had more to do with his manner than anything else. Because Simon didn't speak when words were not necessary, people judged him to be arrogant, just as a future duke should be. Because he preferred to surround himself with only those friends with whom he truly felt comfortable, people decided he was exceptionally discriminating in his choice of companions, just as a future duke should be.

 He wasn't very talkative, but when he did say something, he had a quick and often ironic wit—just the sort of humor that guaranteed that people would hang on his every word. And again, because he didn't constantly run off at the mouth, as did so many of the
ton,
people were even
more
obsessed with what he had to say.

 He was called "supremely confident," "heartstoppingly handsome," and "the perfect specimen of English manhood." Men wanted his opinion on any number of topics.

 The women swooned at his feet.

 Simon never could quite believe it all, but he enjoyed his status nonetheless, taking what was offered him, running wild with his friends, and enjoying the company of all the young widows and opera singers who sought his attention—and every escapade was all the more delicious for knowing that his father must disapprove.

 But, as it turned out, his father didn't
entirely
disapprove. Unbeknownst to Simon, the Duke of Hastings had already begun to grow interested in the progress of his only son. He requested academic reports from the university and hired a Bow Street Runner to keep him apprised of Simon's extracurricular activities. And eventually, the duke stopped expecting every missive to contain tales of his son's idiocy.

 It would have been impossible to pinpoint exactly when his change of heart occurred, but one day the duke realized that his son had turned out rather nicely, after all.

 The duke puffed out with pride. As always, good breeding had proven true in the end. He should have known that Basset blood could not produce an imbecile.

 Upon finishing Oxford with a first in mathematics, Simon came to London with his friends. He had, of course, taken bachelor's lodgings, having no wish to reside with his father. And as Simon went out in society, more and more people misinterpreted his pregnant pauses for arrogance and his small circle of friends for exclusivity.

 His reputation was sealed when Beau Brummel—the then recognized leader of society—had asked a rather involved question about some trivial new fashion. Brummel's tone had been condescending and he had clearly hoped to embarrass the young lord. As all London knew, Brummel loved nothing better than to reduce England's elite into blithering idiots. And so he had pretended to care about Simon's opinion, ending his question with a drawled, "Don't you think?"