The Duke And I

2 - Part 2

* * *

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 i***t 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," "heart stoppingly 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?"

As an audience of gossips watched with baited breath, Simon, who couldn't have cared less

about the specific arrangement of the Prince's cravat, simply turned his icy blue eyes on

Brummel, and answered, "No."

No explanation, no elaboration, just, "No."

And then he walked away.

By the next afternoon, Simon might as well have been the king of society. The irony was

unnerving. Simon didn't care for Brummel or his tone, and he would probably have delivered a

more loquacious set-down if he'd been sure he could do so without stumbling over his words.

And yet in this particular instance, less had most definitely proven to be more, and Simon's terse

sentence had turned out to be far more deadly than any long-winded speech he might have

uttered.

Word of the brilliant and devastatingly handsome Hastings heir naturally reached the duke's

ears. And although he did not immediately seek Simon out, Simon began to hear bits and pieces

of gossip that warned him that his relationship with his father might soon see a change. The duke

had laughed when he'd heard of the Brummel incident, and said, "Naturally. He's a Basset." An

acquaintance mentioned that the duke had been heard crowing about Simon's first at Oxford.

And then the two came face-to-face at a London ball.

The duke would not allow Simon to give him the cut direct.

Simon tried. Oh, how he tried. But no one had the ability to crush his confidence like his father,

and as he stared at the duke, who might as well have been a mirror image, albeit slightly older

version, of himself, he couldn't move, couldn't even try to speak. His tongue felt thick, his mouth

felt odd, and it almost seemed as if his stutters had spread from his mouth to his body, for he

suddenly didn't even feel right in his own skin. The duke had taken advantage of Simon's

momentary lapse of reason by embracing him with a heartfelt, "Son."

Simon had left the country the very next day.

He'd known that it would be impossible to avoid his father completely if he remained in

England. And he refused to act the part of his son after having been denied a father for so many

years.

Besides, lately he'd been growing bored of London's wild life. Rake's reputation aside, Simon

didn't really have the temperament of a true debauche. He had enjoyed his nights on the town as

much as any of his dissolute cronies, but after three years in Oxford and one in London, the

endless round of parties and prostitutes was growing, well, old.

And so he left.

Now, however, he was glad to be back. There was something soothing about being home,

something peaceful and serene about an English springtime. And after six years of solitary travel,

it was damned good to find his friends again.

He moved silently through the halls, making his way to the ballroom. He hadn't wanted to be

announced; the last thing he desired was a declaration of his presence. The afternoon's

conversation with Anthony Bridgerton had reaffirmed his decision not to take an active role in

London society. He had no plans to marry. Ever. And there wasn't much point in attending ton

parties if one wasn't looking for a wife.

Still, he felt he owed some loyalty to Lady Danbury after her many kindnesses during his

childhood, and truth be told, he held a great deal of affection for the forthright old lady. It would

have been the height of rudeness to spurn her invitation, especially since it had come

accompanied by a personal note welcoming him back to the country.

Since Simon knew his way around this house, he'd entered through a side door. If all went well,

he could slip unobtrusively into the ballroom, give his regards to Lady Danbury, and leave.

But as he turned a corner, he heard voices, and he froze.

Simon suppressed a groan. He'd interrupted a lovers' tryst. Bloody hell. How to extricate himself

without notice? If his presence was discovered, the ensuing scene was sure to be replete with

histrionics, embarrassment, and no end of tedious emotion. Better just to melt into the shadows

and let the lovers go on their merry way.

But as Simon started backing quietly up, he heard something that caught his attention.

"No."

No? Had some young lady been forced into the deserted hallway against her will? Simon had no

great desire to be anyone's hero, but even he could not let such an insult pass. He craned his neck

slightly, pressing his ear forward so that he might hear better. After all, he might have heard

incorrectly. If no one needed saving, he certainly wasn't going to charge forward like some

bullish fool.

"Nigel," the girl was saying, "you really shouldn't have followed me out here."

"But I love you!" the young man cried out in a passionate voice. "All I want is to make you my

wife."

Simon nearly groaned. Poor besotted fool. It was painful to listen to.

"Nigel," she said again, her voice surprisingly kind and patient, "my brother has already told you

that I cannot marry you. I hope that we may continue on as friends."

"But your brother doesn't understand!"

"Yes," she said firmly, "he does."

"Dash it all! If you don't marry me, who will?"

Simon blinked in surprise. As proposals went, this one was decidedly unromantic.

The girl apparently thought so, too. "Well," she said, sounding a bit disgruntled, "it's not as if

there aren't dozens of other young ladies in Lady Danbury's ballroom right now. I'm sure one of

them would be thrilled to marry you."

Simon leaned forward slightly so that he could get a glimpse of the scene. The girl was in

shadows, but he could see the man quite clearly. His face held a hangdog expression, and his

shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. Slowly, he shook his head. "No," he said forlornly,

"they don't. Don't you see? They...they...”

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?"