Confused, she nodded.
“Then what,” he asked, pausing for dramatic effect, “do you think your mother would say about this little scenario?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, unless you count Nigel here”—he waved his hand toward the unconscious man on the floor—“no one has actually seen you in my presence. And yet . . .” He let his words trail off, having far too much fun watching the play of emotions on her face to do anything but drag this moment out to its lengthiest extreme.
Of course most of the emotions on her face were varying shades of irritation and dismay, but that made the moment all the sweeter.
“And yet?” she ground out.
He leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them to only a few inches. “And yet,” he said softly, knowing that she’d feel his breath on her face, “here we are, completely alone.”
“Except for Nigel,” she retorted.
Simon spared the man on the floor the briefest of glances before returning his wolfish gaze to Miss Bridgerton. “I’m not terribly concerned about Nigel,” he murmured. “Are you?”
Simon watched as she looked down at Nigel in dismay. It had to be clear to her that her spurned suitor wasn’t going to save her should Simon decide to make an amorous advance. Not that he would, of course. After all, this was Anthony’s younger sister. He might have to remind himself of this at frequent intervals, but it wasn’t a fact that was likely to slip his mind on a permanent basis.
Simon knew that it was past time to end this little game. Not that he thought she would report the interlude to Anthony; somehow he knew that she would prefer to keep this to herself, stewing over it in privately righteous fury, and, dare he hope it—just a touch of excitement?
But even as he knew it was time to stop this flirtation and get back to the business of hauling Daphne’s idiotic suitor out of the building, he couldn’t resist one last comment. Maybe it was the way her lips pursed when she was annoyed. Or maybe it was the way they parted when she was shocked. All he knew was that he was helpless against his own devilish nature when it came to this girl.
And so he leaned forward, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive as he said, “I think I know what your mother would say.”
She looked a little befuddled by his onslaught, but still she managed a rather defiant, “Oh?”
Simon nodded slowly, and he touched one finger to her chin. “She’d tell you to be very, very afraid.”
There was a moment of utter silence, and then Daphne’s eyes grew very wide. Her lips tightened, as if she were keeping something inside, and then her shoulders rose slightly, and then . . .
And then she laughed. Right in his face.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “Oh, that was funny.”
Simon was not amused.
“I’m sorry.” This was said between laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, but really, you shouldn’t be so melodramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”
Simon paused, rather irritated that this slip of a girl had shown such disrespect for his authority. There were advantages to being considered a dangerous man, and being able to cow young maidens was supposed to be one of them.
“Well, actually, it does suit you, I ought to admit,” she added, still grinning at his expense. “You looked quite dangerous. And very handsome, of course.” When he made no comment, her face took on a bemused expression, and she asked, “That was your intention, was it not?”
He still said nothing, so she said, “Of course it was. And I would be remiss if I did not tell you that you would have been successful with any other woman besides me.”
A comment he couldn’t resist. “And why is that?”
“Four brothers.” She shrugged as if that should explain everything. “I’m quite immune to your games.”
“Oh?”
She gave his arm a reassuring pat. “But yours was a most admirable attempt. And truly, I’m quite flattered you thought me worthy of such a magnificent display of dukish rakishness.” She grinned, her smile wide and unfeigned. “Or do you prefer rakish dukishness?”
Simon stroked his jaw thoughtfully, trying to regain his mood of menacing predator. “You’re a most annoying little chit, did you know that, Miss Bridgerton?”
She gave him her sickliest of smiles. “Most people find me the soul of kindness and amiability.”
“Most people,” Simon said bluntly, “are fools.”
Daphne cocked her head to the side, obviously pondering his words. Then she looked over at Nigel and sighed. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you, much as it pains me.”
Simon bit back a smile. “It pains you to agree with me, or that most people are fools?”
“Both.” She grinned again—a wide, enchanting smile that did odd things to his brain. “But mostly the former.”
Simon let out a loud laugh, then was startled to realize how foreign the sound was to his ears. He was a man who frequently smiled; occasionally chuckled, but it had been a very long time since he’d felt such a spontaneous burst of joy. “My dear Miss Bridgerton,” he said, wiping his eyes, “if you are the soul of kindness and amiability, then the world must be a very dangerous place.”
“Oh, for certain,” she replied. “At least to hear my mother tell it.”
“I can’t imagine why I do not recall your mother,” Simon murmured, “because she certainly sounds a memorable character.”
Daphne raised a brow. “You don’t remember her?”
He shook his head.
“Then you don’t know her.”
“Does she look like you?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“Not so very odd,” Simon replied, thinking that Daphne was exactly right. It was an odd question, and he had no idea why he’d voiced it. But since he had, and since she had questioned it, he added, “After all, I’m told that all of you Bridgertons look alike.”
A tiny, and to Simon mysterious, frown touched her face. “We do. Look alike, that is. Except for my mother. She’s rather fair, actually, with blue eyes. We all get our dark hair from our father. I’m told I have her smile, though.”
An awkward pause fell across the conversation. Daphne was shifting from foot to foot, not at all certain what to say to the duke, when Nigel exhibited stellar timing for the first time in his life, and sat up. “Daphne?” he said, blinking as if he couldn’t see straight. “Daphne, is that you?”
“Good God, Miss Bridgerton,” the duke swore, “how hard did you hit him?”
“Hard enough to knock him down, but no worse than that, I swear!” Her brow furrowed. “Maybe he is drunk.”
“Oh, Daphne,” Nigel moaned.
The duke crouched next to him, then reeled back, coughing.
“Is he drunk?” Daphne asked.
The duke staggered back. “He must have drunk an entire bottle of whiskey just to get up the nerve to propose.”
“Who would have thought I could be so terrifying?” Daphne murmured, thinking of all the men who thought of her as a jolly good friend and nothing more. “How wonderful.”
Simon stared at her as if she were insane, then muttered, “I’m not even going to question that statement.”