Chapter Text
Daphne was ten when Anthony came home from Eton for Christmas with Simon, the heir to the Dukedom of Hastings, at his side. She knew of Simon, absently, of course from the hastily written letters home that Daphne had poured over with Colin (making him promise, as the siblings giggled at news of Anthony’s pranks, especially the one involving the drawing master’s wig and a bassoon and frowned at his homesickness, that Colin would not leave her too. He did, of course. They all did). However, Anthony had of course failed to mention how very handsome his friend was.
Even at seventeen summers Simon was tall, not quite filled out, but in possession of a most devilish grin, and the afternoon of his arrival, as Daphne picked flowers to make a daisy chain for Gregory, newly born and still squalling pink, Simon’s gaze passed over her as though she were invisible. He even almost tripped over her in the field, though her dress was blindingly white, and sashed with a blue silk ribbon beneath the breast, that stood out prettily on the soft green grass. The young man apologised most sincerely of course, though Daphne was not sure his eyes truly connected with hers once, as though already thinking of the parties he had to race to.
Two weeks after Simon’s arrival he had barely been in the house at all - always out at some wild fête or another. “Filled with debauchery.” protested Lady Bridgerton to any listening ear - and Daphne, who had been unable to sleep, wracked by terrible dreams of cool darkness and faint screams, went to fetch some milk from the kitchen. A scullery maid, about to go meet the gardening boy for a midnight rendezvous, dutifully warmed some milk up for the young mistress, and Daphne was still sipping it slowly as it cooled, her legs prickling in the cool midnight air and swinging from the servants’ simple wooden chair, when a tall figure stumbled in, cloaked in darkness.
“Aahhh - “she started to scream, but her voice was muffled by a large hand that smothered the noise before she woke the whole house. “Shh.” hissed a voice in her earlobe, and Daphne crinkled her small nose at the smell that accompanied it, then relaxed at the familiar tone. Unwittingly, her brown orbs watered at the shock of it all. “Oh, for God’s sake, calm down. Anthony would kill me for upsetting his baby sister.” This was, of course, quite the worst thing to say, as Daphne’s eyes narrowed in outrage.
“You, sir,” she said in a way, that would have been most cutting were Daphne at least five years older. “are a guest in my father’s home. And c-cuvoting”
“Cavorting.” Simon offered with a slightly amused smirk.
“In this manner is most unbecoming of your rank.”
“My rank.” Simon laughed incredulously. “Oh, they’ve already infected you, haven’t they, those society mamas, with grand ideas about rank and duty. Well, let me tell you something Daphne.” and he leant his fresh face with its wild eyes right next to her own, small blanched one. “Titles say nothing for heart or manner, and you shall be groomed to be just as empty-headed as the next daughter of a Viscount, and twitter around a ballroom for your season of happiness, then spend the next forty years caged up with whatever unfortunate suitor catches your mama’s eye and the greater the title the unhappier you’re likely to be. This,” Simon, for she could hardly call him ‘my lord’ after that display, took a thirsty sip of her hot milk and it clung to his angry, sneering lips. “I promise you.”
“You’re perfectly beastly.” spat Daphne. “So, I’m certainly sure it shan’t be a Duke I marry.” Simon’s face twisted quite violently, and he made as though to slap her, but then thought better of it. Daphne scandalised, and shaking a little, having never truly been treated in such a way before as the unusually beloved daughter of a noble family, did quite the expected thing and burst into tears once again, rushing straight to her bedchamber. This was unfortunately right next to Gregory in the nursery, so Daphne closed her door as quietly as she could and leaned against it, breathing papery, watery breaths, and waiting for the slightest creek in the corridor or tap on the window, to signal Simon’s, whom Daphne was now quite sure to be every bit as bad as the spectre conjured by her dreams, arrival.
But no sound ever came, so eventually she hobbled tentatively to her bed, and shut her eyes for a little sleep just as watery daylight peaked through her blue, sash curtains.
Badly slept and as ill-tempered as so sweet a child could be, she almost fell asleep in her porridge the next morning and watched Simon closely for any sign of remorse or continued anger. But his gaze passed over her as though she were an ornament, and Daphne was filled with an unbelievable and previously inexperienced spite, at the realisation that he had either forgotten the events of the previous night, or else truly cared so little for the most terrifying episode of her short life.
Simon, Duke of Hastings, Daphne decided glumly, as Colin tried to covertly flick porridge on the cream frock she was wearing, as it was newly arrived in a small mountain of tailored boxes for the family portrait that morning, was a most terrible young man either way. Daphne was certain the Duke Basset would be so spiteful as to ensure the dreadful unhappiness of his future bride, though she had no doubt he would secure one with ease, for he was to be a Duke after all. She did swear, however, as the portrait artist dabbed her troubled face in peaches and creams to hang, serene, above the staircase, that the beastly boy’s bride would certainly not be her.
It would be an exaggeration to say this night marked a turning point in Daphne’s life, but perhaps more fitting to say it was one of a torrent of things (her continued dismissal as one of the almost unseemingly large Bridgerton broad seeing to poor Daphne being called Eloise or even Antonia or Collette more often than Daphne, for her chestnut hair; or perhaps the same, desperate desire as her siblings to prove herself to her mighty papa; and finally after she held his cold hand, as he lay dying - so strange that so mighty a man would be felled by a be a sting of all things - the fact that he whispered “Be good, my sweet.”). By some alchemy of the fates, all these things combined, to ensure that Daphne practised the fortepiano, and conjugated the French verbs that made her head spin so, and waltzed until her feet were sore, and had her beloved Rose brush and brush her hair until she practically shone with perfection. In short, Daphne polished herself into the perfect diamond, determined not to lose in this bloodthirsty war, for it was a battle for her life she now entered, however much men dismissed the matchmaking schemes of the fairer sex.
Thus, when a certain Miss Daphne Bridgerton made her debut, she was uniquely exquisite. Not for her chestnut hair or dark eyes or even her slight form, all perfectly fine but not what drew the eye in, so much as her utterly industrious and sweet-natured spirit, that practically glistened as she knelt in the deepest of curtseys at Queen Charlotte’s feet, this being the result of hours of practise while a bored Eloise read books and her mother, were she not running around after the little ones, cooed and clapped in delight: “Lovely dear. And again.”
Indeed, Daphne had never been quite so mad as when Anthony chucked out the fruits of her years’ labours, into the puddles of Grosvenor Square. He, of course, the first son whose life had been handed to him on the platter, had no idea the work that had gone into drawing in the fine, fluttering flock of suitors, and all squandered in so careless a manner, for as Miss Minchin’s etiquette book dictated, “While a little unavailability works well, so as to avoid the appearance and scandal of a gooseberry tart (rich yet liberous), too much shall surely drive any young man off, for why strive hard for what is so freely given in any dozen other, eager young ladies?”
Daphne chucked Miss Minchin across the library, and its pages crumpled to the floor - there was no one around to see, after all.
That night, picking at grapes delicately in case any of the hundred eligible bachelors who now scorned her should deign to look, Daphne cursed inside, with all the rarely employed force of a girl in some ways brought up by her four elder brothers, the commentary that might have squandered her last viable options (she simply refused to count Nigel Berbooke among that number). And all in a single attack of Lady Whistledown’s sharp quill nib! Daphne wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Whistledown and Miss Minchin were both the same person, spiteful old bats that they had to be.
And soon Daphne should be an embittered spinster just as they surely were.
Whoever would expect Daphne’s solution to come clothed in Simon Basset’s strapping form? He was so wonderfully handsome, and wickedly funny - “Beware the little bit of the devil in any handsome young man.” Lady Whistledown had written only last month of the new Duke of Hastings - that Daphne quite forgot when making their arrangement to play at love, that evening in the kitchen so many moons ago, when spite quite overtook Simon’s face. In fact, Daphne had come close to dismissing it all as a particularly vivid and awful dream.
And then, of course, Anthony just had to invite Simon to stay. Not in the same house as Daphne, of course, that would be simply improper given the town (or ‘ton’, as it was fondly or not so fondly called) believed the two to be courting. No, Simon stayed in lodgings owned by the Bridgerton family right off Grosvenor Square, and visited for evening meals, so he wasn’t quite so terribly lonely. Or at least, that was the excuse, but Daphne was quite convinced that Anthony simply beloved more prolonged exposure to a man such as Simon Basset would foul the blossoming young love.
In that instance Daphne’s elder brother was, for once, quite right, though not in the way he had expected. For it was no true act of debauchery that crushed underfoot Daphne’s innocent affection, but a small and odd event, that rippled into great doubt within her large heart.
Mere hours after Simon had punched Nigel Berbrooke quite savagely, going by his bloodied knuckles - and secretly the whole affair made Daphne feel perfectly giddy - she was wrapping his wounds in alcohol and muslin, which seemed terribly intimate although Rose and Benedict, muttering his disapproval at the “Wholly romantic defence of his sister’s honour”, chaperoned.
“I don’t say,” Daphne asked quietly, for there seemed no better time to silence the nagging remembrance of quite a different, less honourable Simon. “you remember much of your last visit?” He stiffened slightly beneath her small hands. “Nothing suitable for a lady’s ears - “
“Oh, Heaven’s no, I have no interest in wheresoever you and Anthony went off to play - ” Benedict positively snorted, and she shot him a glare. “But I do want to know what you remember of the house, and of us, I suppose I would have been about ten.”
“I’m afraid I have…no recollection.” His handsome brow twitched, at the right eyebrow, just as it had when he declined gooseberry tart last week, on the basis it disagreed with his palate, when Daphne knew it to be his favourite and Simon simply eager to escape the confining warmth of his hosts. “Right.” she said, perhaps a little colder, and yanking the bandages just a little tighter, and was rather more liberal with her sprinkling of spirits on bloodied knuckles. Simon winced and moaned his protests, and the topic was forgotten, except for in Daphne’s mind, where she mulled it over for much of the evening, while playing fortepiano a little cacophonically. At last, the young lady came to the sad, albeit likely truthful conclusion, that Simon Basset was an utter and unreformed scoundrel, a terrible liar to boot, and certainly had been terribly cruel and unnecessarily spiteful to a little girl when on the cusp of manhood.
If any other aspect of his character had proved reformed, then Daphne might have given him the benefit of the doubt and continued to love him privately and secretly, with the aching hope that though Duke had sworn fervently not to marry she alone might melt down his iron heart. As is, however, even a naïve debutante thought it unlikely that his spite had reformed separate of the rest of Simon’s character, and reasoned that as charming a husband as he might be at large parties, he was liable to be spiteful, and a terrible philanderer, behind closed - and not so closed - doors.
Thus, it was that on the 3rd of April 1813, Daphne Bridgerton came to a simple decision that was to have most rippling effects in Europe. She would shut off her heart to Simon Basset with immediacy and begin to seriously look into the other serious suitors that his presence had summoned, with Anthony greeting her decision with utter delight.
Indeed, such an act would not have been possible for most other young ladies – and all the mamas at court were most scandalised to see “the Bridgerton girl drop the handsome young Duke like he was simply a scratching kitten.” But Daphne’s family had always rallied around love marriages as warm as their parents’ own and seemed perfectly happy to let go of a Dukedom in return for their sister's happiness (even if mama were a little miffed, she still hugged just as warmly as before). Courtships, especially ones rooted in falsity, had been uprooted over pettier rots.
Simon, on the rare occasion he socialised that Season, looked at Daphne with slight confusion, and with a pained bearing, as she twirled around the room in a flurry of blue skirts and frothing petticoats, and Simon at last dragged her over to get a small glass of lemonade, but she refused to talk so intimately except when dancing. So, Simon, grumbling that “I do not dance, Miss Bridgerton.” took her hand for a waltz, and Daphne knew immediately at the heat of his palm through her glove, that it would be terribly easy to slip back into the thrums of loving Simon, like a repeating melody.
“Lovely night.”
“When is society ever lovely?”
“You see, I think that is where we differ Simon.” And here, Daphne lowered her voice, ‘lest she be the talk of the town or, far worse, Lady Whistledown. “I have the rare and mixed blessing of finding Society not something to be endured, but to be enjoyed. And I must ask your Grace, do you still think these young ladies here vacant, empty-headed birds, just desperate for a marriage that will make them unhappy?”
Simon almost stumbled out of their waltz in shock.
“Whatever do you mean, Daphne?’ His right brow throbbed, dangerously.
“You know exactly what I speak of, your Grace, and I beg you not to address me so informally.”
“For Heaven’s sake, that was angry child’s talk.”
“But have your opinions changed since, your Grace?”
His silence damned him enough.
“You know these girls, that you so condemn, I have loved and cherished since childhood and assuredly there are some pickled herrings among the lot - Cressida and Phillippa and Prudence - but the majority are lovely and sweet-natured people, whom you do a great disservice with your scathing tongue. Indeed, you dismiss and trivialise the very institution for which I have spent my life preparing.”
He dipped Daphne back, then she held up one small, gloved hand to halt the protests already beginning to form in his mouth, as they rotated around the embossed, glossy wooden floor. “I see now, Simon, more clearly than ever before, that it is a good thing our courtship was, indeed, only a ruse, for never have I seen so incompatible a match as us two. And so long as you can bring yourself not to talk so derisively of my want for children and a husband, desires no one else seems to dismiss and utterly of my own - not mama’s, or even society’s - making, I shall in turn be most accepting of your own lack of desire for such things. This acceptance, I’m sure, could be the basis for a continued friendship someday but as I see now our current relationship has gone far enough. I bid you a good night, Simon.”
Daphne left him on the ballroom floor for once looking quite flummoxed, and her own heart cracked a little by her actions, but Simon soon slipped out into the gardens with a giggling Cressida, and as the newly arrived Prince Friedrich whirled her softly, Daphne could not bring herself to doubt that she had made the right decision.
It is not, of course, so easy, to simply snuff out love like one would a candle. And, sure enough, even Prince Friedrich’s cornflower curls and smiling blue eyes, paled those next few weeks next to Simon’s dashing looks, and beautifully tailored velvet suits. So, if perhaps Daphne was a little colder to the Prince than proper, and snorted most unbecomingly, and even joked with him as she might one of her brothers or Simon gods-be-damned Basset, it was somewhat understandable, though some evenings she still expected her execution to be ordered. But, as a gloved hand wrapped around Daphne’s gloved elbow, she smiled warmly and softly at the man who, if not dashing and electrifying, was warm and always kind and honest and soothing to dance and talk with as hot milk on a cold winter’s night. Her Royal Highness, Princess Daphne of Prussia, had decided long ago that change was not always a bad thing.