The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(53)

"And obviously," Daphne interrupted with a self-deprecating smile, "neither am I."

He patted her hand, and smiled, and Daphne noticed with relief that his happiness reached his eyes. Then her relief turned into something a little more precious—joy. Because she had been the one to chase the shadows from his eyes. She wanted to banish them forever, she realized.

If only he would let her...

"You'd notice the difference anyway," he said. "That's what's so strange. I never cared to learn the constellations and yet when I was in Africa, I looked up into the sky—and the night was so clear. You've never seen a night like that."

Daphne stared at him, fascinated.

"I looked up into the sky," he said with a bewildered shake of his head, "and it looked wrong."

"How can a sky look wrong?"

He shrugged, lifting one of his hands in an unknowing gesture. "It just did. All the stars were in the wrong place."

"I suppose I should want to see the southern sky," Daphne mused. "If I were exotic and dashing, and the sort of female men write poetry about, I suppose I should want to travel."

"You are the sort of female men write poetry about," Simon reminded her with a slightly sarcastic tilt to his head. "It was just bad poetry."

Daphne laughed. "Oh, don't tease. It was exciting. My first day with six callers and Neville Binsby actually wrote poetry."

"Seven callers," Simon corrected, "including me."

"Seven including you. But you don't really count."

"You wound me," he teased, doing a fair imitation of Colin. "Oh, how you wound me."

"Perhaps you should consider a career in the theater as well."

"Perhaps not," he replied.

She smiled gently. "Perhaps not. But what I was going to say is that, boring English girl that I am, I have no desire to go anywhere else. I'm happy here."

Simon shook his head, a strange, almost electric light appearing in his eyes. "You're not boring.

And"—his voice dropped down to an emotional whisper—"I'm glad you're happy. I haven't



known many truly happy people."

Daphne looked up at him, and it slowly dawned on her that he had moved closer. Somehow she doubted he even realized it, but his body was swaying toward hers, and she was finding it nigh near impossible to pull her eyes from his.

"Simon?" she whispered.

"There are people here," he said, his voice oddly strangled.

Daphne turned her head to the corners of the terrace. The murmuring voices she'd heard earlier were gone, but that just might mean that their erstwhile neighbors were eavesdropping.

In front of her the garden beckoned. If this were a London ball, there would have been no place to go past the terrace, but Lady Trowbridge prided herself on being different, and thus always hosted her annual ball at her second residence in Hampstead Heath. It was less than ten miles from Mayfair, but it might as well have been in another world. Elegant homes dotted wide patches of green, and in Lady Trowbridge's garden, there were trees and flowers, shrubs and hedges—dark corners where a couple could lose themselves.

Daphne felt something wild and wicked take hold. "Let's walk in the garden," she said softly.

"We can't."

"We must."

"We can't."

The desperation in Simon's voice told her everything she needed to know. He wanted her. He desired her. He was mad for her.

Daphne felt as if her heart was singing the aria from The Magic Flute, somersaulting wildly as it tripped past high C.

And she thought—what if she kissed him? What if she pulled him into the garden and tilted her head up and felt his lips touch hers? Would he realize how much she loved him? How much he could grow to love her?

And maybe—just maybe he'd realize how happy she made him.

Then maybe he'd stop talking about how determined he was to avoid marriage.

"I'm going for a walk in the garden," she announced. "You may come if you wish."

As she walked away—slowly, so that he might catch up with her—she heard him mutter a

heartfelt curse, then she heard his footsteps shortening the distance between them.



"Daphne, this is insanity," Simon said, but the hoarseness in his voice told her he was trying harder to convince himself of that than he was her. She said nothing, just slipped farther into the depths of the garden.

"For the love of God, woman, will you listen to me?" His hand closed hard around her wrist, whirling her around. "I promised your brother," he said wildly. "I made a vow."

She smiled the smile of a woman who knows she is wanted. "Then leave."

"You know I can't. I can't leave you out in the garden unprotected. Someone could try to take advantage of you."

Daphne gave her shoulders a dainty little shrug and tried to wiggle her hand free of his grasp.

But his fingers only tightened.

And so, although she knew it was not his intention, she let herself be drawn to him, slowly moving closer until they were but a foot apart.

Simon's breathing grew shallow. "Don't do this, Daphne."

She tried to say something witty; she tried to say something seductive. But her bravado failed her at the last moment. She'd never been kissed before, and now that she had all but invited him to be the first, she didn't know what to do.