The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(14)

Simon winced as the man fought for words. He didn't appear to be stuttering so much as

emotionally overcome, but it was never pleasant when one couldn't get a sentence out.

"No one's as nice as you," the man finally said. "You're the only one who ever smiles at me."

"Oh, Nigel," the girl said, sighing deeply. "I'm sure that's not true."

But Simon could tell she was just trying to be kind. And as she sighed again, it became apparent to him that she would not need any rescuing. She seemed to have the situation well in hand, and while Simon felt vague pangs of sympathy for the hapless Nigel, there wasn't anything he could do to help.

Besides, he was beginning to feel like the worst sort of voyeur.

He started inching backward, keeping his eye focused on a door that he knew led to the library.

There was another door on the other side of that room, one that led to the conservatory. From there he could enter the main hall and make his way to the ballroom. It wouldn't be as discreet as cutting through the back corridors, but at least poor Nigel wouldn't know that his humiliation had had a witness. But then, just a footstep away from a clean getaway, he heard the girl squeal.

"You have to marry me!" Nigel cried out. "You have to! I'll never find anyone else—"

"Nigel, stop!"

Simon turned around, groaning. It looked like he was going to have to rescue the chit, after all.

He strode back into the hall, putting his sternest, most dukish expression on his face. The words,

"I believe the lady asked you to stop," rested on the tip of his tongue, but it seemed that he wasn't fated to play the hero tonight, after all, because before he could make a sound, the young lady pulled back her right arm and landed a surprisingly effective punch squarely on Nigel's jaw.





Nigel went down, his arms comically flailing in the air as his legs slid out from under him.

Simon just stood there, watching in disbelief as the girl dropped to her knees.

"Oh dear," she said, her voice squeaking slightly. "Nigel, are you all right? I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

Simon laughed. He couldn't help it. The girl looked up, startled.

Simon caught his breath. She had been in shadows until now, and all he'd been able to discern of her appearance was a wealth of thick, dark hair. But now, as she lifted her head to face him, he saw that she had large, equally dark eyes, and the widest, lushest mouth he'd ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn't beautiful by society standards, but something about her quite simply sucked the breath from his body.

Her brows, thick but delicately winged, drew together. "Who," she asked, not sounding at all pleased to see him, "are you?"





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 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 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