The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(66)

Lady Whistledowns Society Papers,21 May 1813



The rest of the week flew by in a rush. Daphne didn't see Simon for several days. She might have thought he'd left town, except that Anthony told her he'd been over to Hastings House to settle the details of the marriage contract.

Much to Anthony's surprise, Simon had refused to accept even a penny as dowry. Finally, the two men had decided that Anthony would put the money his father had put aside for Daphne's marriage in a separate estate with himself as the trustee. It would be hers to spend or save as she liked.

"You can pass it along to your children," Anthony suggested.

Daphne only smiled. It was either that or cry.

A few days after that, Simon called upon Bridgerton House in the afternoon. It was two days before the wedding.

Daphne waited in the drawing room after Humboldt announced his arrival. She sat primly on the edge of the damask sofa, her back straight and her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked, she was sure, the very model of genteel English womanhood.

She felt a bundle of nerves.

Correction, she thought, as her stomach turned itself inside out, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges.

She looked down at her hands and realized that her fingernails were leaving red, crescent-shaped indentations on her palms.

Second correction, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges with an arrow stuck through them.

Maybe a flaming arrow at that.



The urge to laugh was almost as overwhelming as it was inappropriate. She had never felt nervous at seeing Simon before. In fact, that had been possibly the most remarkable aspect of their friendship. Even when she caught him gazing at her with smoldering heat, and she was sure that her eyes reflected the same need, she had felt utterly comfortable with him. Yes, her stomach flipped and her skin tingled, but those were symptoms of desire, not of unease. First and foremost, Simon had been her friend, and Daphne knew that the easy, happy feeling she'd

experienced whenever he was near was not something to be taken for granted.

She was confident that they would find their way back to that sense of comfort and

companionship, but after the scene in Regent's Park, she very much feared that this would occur later rather than sooner.

"Good day, Daphne."

Simon appeared in the doorway, filling it with his marvelous presence. Well, perhaps his presence wasn't quite as marvelous as usual. His eyes still sported matching purple bruises, and the one on his chin was starting to turn an impressive shade of green.

Still, it was better than a bullet in the heart.

"Simon," Daphne replied. "How nice to see you. What brings you to Bridgerton House?"

He gave her a surprised look. "Aren't we betrothed?"

She blushed. "Yes, of course."

"It was my impression that men were supposed to visit their betrothed." He sat down across from her. "Didn't Lady Whistledown say something to that effect?"

"I don't think so," Daphne murmured, "but I'm certain my mother must have done."

They both smiled, and for a moment Daphne thought that all would be well again, but as soon as the smiles faded, an uncomfortable silence fell across the room.

"Are your eyes feeling any better?" she finally asked. "They don't look quite as swollen."

"Do you think?" Simon turned so that he was facing a large gilt mirror. "I rather think the bruises have turned a spectacular shade of blue."

"Purple."

He leaned forward, not that that brought him appreciably closer to the mirror. "Purple then, but I suppose it might be a debatable fact."

"Do they hurt?"



He smiled humorlessly. "Only when someone pokes at them."

"I shall refrain from doing so, then," she murmured, her lips quirking in a telltale twitch. "It shall be difficult, of course, but I shall persevere."

"Yes," he said, with a perfectly deadpan expression, "I've often been told I make women want to poke me in the eye."

Daphne's smile was one of relief. Surely if they could joke about such things, everything would go back to the way it was.

Simon cleared his throat. "I did have a specific reason for coming to see you."

Daphne gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

He held out a jewelers' box. "This is for you."

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached for the small, velvet-covered box. "Are you certain?" she asked.

"I believe betrothal rings are considered quite de rigueur," he said quietly.

"Oh. How stupid of me. I didn't realize..."

'That it was a betrothal ring? What did you think it was?"

"I wasn't thinking," she admitted sheepishly. He'd never given her a gift before. She'd been so taken aback by the gesture she'd completely forgotten that he owed her a betrothal ring.

"Owed." She didn't like that word, didn't like that she'd even thought it. But she was fairly certain that that was what Simon must have been thinking when he'd picked out the ring.

This depressed her.

Daphne forced a smile. "Is this a family heirloom?"

"No!" he said, with enough vehemence to make her blink.

"Oh."