Simon said nothing. He was trying too hard to get his emotions under control. He had to. There was no way he’d be able to talk with his father while his blood was racing so.
The butler nodded. “He is upstairs. I’ll alert him immediately to your arrival.”
Nurse started pacing wildly, muttering under her breath and referring to his grace with every vile word in her surprisingly extensive vocabulary. Simon remained in the center of the room, his arms angry sticks at his sides as he took deep breaths.
You can do this, he shouted in his mind. You can do this.
Nurse turned to him, saw him trying to control his temper, and immediately gasped. “Yes, that’s it,” she said quickly, dropping to her knees and taking his hands in hers. She knew better than anyone what would happen if Simon tried to face his father before he calmed down. “Take deep breaths. And make sure to think about your words before you speak. If you can control—”
“I see you’re still mollycoddling the boy,” came an imperious voice from the doorway.
Nurse Hopkins straightened and turned slowly around. She tried to think of something respectful to say. She tried to think of anything that would smooth over this awful situation. But when she looked at the duke, she saw Simon in him, and her rage began anew. The duke might look just like his son, but he was certainly no father to him.
“You, sir,” she spat out, “are despicable.”
“And you, madam, are fired.”
Nurse lurched back.
“No one speaks to the Duke of Hastings that way,” he roared. “No one!”
“Not even the king?” Simon taunted.
Hastings whirled around, not even noticing that his son had spoken clearly. “You,” he said in a low voice.
Simon nodded curtly. He’d managed one sentence properly, but it had been a short one, and he didn’t want to push his luck. Not when he was this upset. Normally, he could go days without a stutter, but now . . .
The way his father stared at him made him feel like an infant. An idiot infant.
And his tongue suddenly felt awkward and thick.
The duke smiled cruelly. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy? Eh? What do you have to say?”
“It’s all right, Simon,” Nurse Hopkins whispered, throwing a furious glance at the duke. “Don’t let him upset you. You can do it, sweetling.”
And somehow her encouraging tone made it all the worse. Simon had come here to prove himself to his father, and now his nurse was treating him like a baby.
“What’s the matter?” the duke taunted. “Cat got your tongue?”
Simon’s muscles clenched so hard he started to shake.
Father and son stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, until finally the duke swore and stalked toward the door. “You are my worst failure,” he hissed at his son. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but God help me if I ever lay eyes on you again.”
“Your grace!” Nurse Hopkins said indignantly. This was no way to speak to a child.
“Get him out of my sight,” he spat at her. “You can keep your job just so long as you keep him away from me.”
“Wait!”
The duke turned slowly around at the sound of Simon’s voice. “Did you say something?” he drawled.
Simon took three long breaths in through his nose, his mouth still clamped together in anger. He forced his jaw to relax and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to remind himself of how it felt to speak properly. Finally, just as the duke was about to dismiss him again, he opened his mouth and said, “I am your son.”
Simon heard Nurse Hopkins breathe a sigh of relief, and something he’d never seen before blossomed in his father’s eyes. Pride. Not much of it, but there was something there, lurking in the depths; something that gave Simon a whisper of hope.
“I am your son,” he said again, this time a little louder, “and I am not d—”
Suddenly his throat closed up. And Simon panicked.
You can do this. You can do this.
But his throat felt tight, and his tongue felt thick, and his father’s eyes started to narrow . . .
“I am not d-d-d—”
“Go home,” the duke said in a low voice. “There is no place for you here.”
Simon felt the duke’s rejection in his very bones, felt a peculiar kind of pain enter his body and creep around his heart. And, as hatred flooded his body and poured from his eyes, he made a solemn vow.
If he couldn’t be the son his father wanted, then by God, he’d be the exact opposite . . .
Chapter 1
The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of society. Such industriousness on the part of the viscountess and the late viscount is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children. Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth—orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize their names.
Furthermore, the sight of the viscountess and all eight of her children in one room is enough to make one fear one is seeing double—or triple—or worse. Never has This Author seen a collection of siblings so ludicrously alike in their physical regard. Although This Author has never taken the time to record eye color, all eight possess similar bone structure and the same thick, chestnut hair. One must pity the viscountess as she seeks advantageous marriages for her brood that she did not produce a single child of more fashionable coloring. Still, there are advantages to a family of such consistent looks—there can be no doubt that all eight are of legitimate parentage.
Ah, Gentle Reader, your devoted Author wishes that that were the case amid all large families . . .
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 26 APRIL 1813
“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!” Violet Bridgerton crumpled the single-page newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the elegant drawing room.
Her daughter Daphne wisely made no comment and pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery.
“Did you read what she said?” Violet demanded. “Did you?”
Daphne eyed the ball of paper, which now rested under a mahogany end table. “I didn’t have the opportunity before you, er, finished with it.”
“Read it, then,” Violet wailed, her arm slicing dramatically through the air. “Read how that woman has maligned us.”
Daphne calmly set down her embroidery and reached under the end table. She smoothed the sheet of paper out on her lap and read the paragraph about her family. Blinking, she looked up. “This isn’t so bad, Mother. In fact, it’s a veritable benediction compared to what she wrote about the Featheringtons last week.”
“How am I supposed to find you a husband while that woman is slandering your name?”
Daphne forced herself to exhale. After nearly two seasons in London, the mere mention of the word husband was enough to set her temples pounding. She wanted to marry, truly she did, and she wasn’t even holding out for a true love match. But was it really too much to hope for a husband for whom one had at least some affection?
Thus far, four men had asked for her hand, but when Daphne had thought about living the rest of her days in the company of any of them, she just couldn’t do it. There were a number of men she thought might make reasonably good husbands, but the problem was—none of them was interested. Oh, they all liked her. Everyone liked her. Everyone thought she was funny and kind and a quick wit, and no one thought her the least bit unattractive, but at the same time, no one was dazzled by her beauty, stunned into speechlessness by her presence, or moved to write poetry in her honor.