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“Please turn away, Your Grace,” Miss Bridgerton said in a tight voice.
Simon rolled his eyes. “I assure you, this is not a grand plan for entrapment. All I was doing—”
“I meant turn around,” the lady interrupted with an eye roll. Simon felt his eyes widen. Even among his rakish school friends, it was hard to find someone willing to flout the rules of propriety and interrupt a future duke. Bridgerton—Anthony that was—had been the only one. Until now. Until his doe-eyed, debutante sister.
“...Why, per say, must I?” Simon asked slowly.
“Plausible deniability.”
It was mere curiosity that had him obeying. He slowly turned around, staring at the moonlit bushes as it registered just how tangled this situation would become. If anyone caught them, there would be no explanation. Only a quick trip down the aisle and a special license. But the lady’s honor or not, Simon could not marry. He would have to refuse, and with it, he would ruin her and his friendship with Anthony Bridgerton in one—
“EEEHH.”
Simon whirled around, just in time to see Miss Bridgerton bring her pretty, slippered foot (oh dear lord, he could see her ankles) down on—oh god.
The Nigel Berbrooke, a man Simon suddenly felt very sorry for, squeaked and withered on the ground. Still unconscious, but Simon supposed that pain could penetrate even the sleeping mind. Bridgerton pressed her foot deeper, twisted it, and Smion watched in horrified fascination as the Lord Berbrooke jerked like bait on a fishing hook. Suddenly, that black eye gained a horrifying new light.
Dear lord, what manner of woman did the former Lord Bridgerton raise?
“You shouldn’t have looked,” The lady said, but she didn’t remove her foot. Just looked up from her placement, dainty little fingers holding her dress aloof. Ensuring that even the fabric didn’t touch the unconscious man. He could see her ankle bone, the tiniest bit of her shin, the muscles flexing.
Her ankle was much paler than her face, but he supposed that made sense. It would have never seen the sunlight, after all. Unless it had. Unless this was somehow a common occurrence, and Daphne Bridgerton hiked up her skirts often.
Simon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Why was it suddenly so hot?
Wait—
“I apologize for any offense, but how did you… know, t-that was particularly… d-delicate place for a man?”
“My brothers scream if I kick them there,” the lady said blasely.
“Y-you do this often?” Simon squeaked, then quickly cleared his throat. His eyes widened with horror. His voice had stuttered. For the first time in decades, the infernal stutter that plagued his childhood appeared once more. Because of fear. And shock, he supposed. Because of this woman, whom he must certainly stay away from.
The lady stepped over Lord Berbrooke, using her foot as leverage—pushing it deeper, treating him as a pebble in her path—“Only in childhood, do not fret.” Her dark eyes seemed to glitter. They were beautiful eyes. Doe-like and large, and somehow sad, even curled in amusement at his reaction. “Your virtue is safe.”
Simon let out a sharp breath that could have been described as a laugh, but more aptly named a squeak. He had heard prostitutes say much more vulgar things. But somehow the words seemed much more…curious, to say the least, coming out of her rosebud lips and innocent face. She was so… forward. So bold.
“Thank you for rushing over,” she said, her voice growing softer. “It was like a fairytale.”
Simon cleared his throat, somewhat taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “I would not go so far as to describe Berbrooke as a dragon. A pest, perhaps.”
The lady’s eyes lit up in humor. “An ogre—no, a toad. A particularly large one. Just call me Thumbelina.”
“Who?” Simon asked.
The lady tilted her head. “You know? The fairytale? About the girl who was the size of a mouse, who is almost forced to marry a toad?”
Simon stared on blankly. “She marries the fairy prince at the end,” the lady tries to prompt. “And she lived in a flower. A buttercup, I think.”
“I never heard of that story,” Simon admitted. “Which, I have to admit, is odd, because I’ve read nearly all the books in my manor. Clyvedon has a huge library.” He flushed as soon as the words exited his mouth. Why would he brag? What purpose did it hold to make him appeal all the more desirable to a debutante, even one so odd?
“No,” the lady sighed. She practically wilted like the flowers around her. “If a duke hasn’t read it, it’s probably not out yet.”
“...I must admit, I am very confused.”
She continued as if his words—the words of a duke, of the most desirable bachelor in the ton—were meaningless. As if she did not hear him. As if he were so forgettable, just a sounding board to her innermost thoughts. “The movie was one of my favorites when I was younger. I still watched it whenever I was sick. And now I will never see it again.” Her voice was steadily growing louder, loud enough for his confusion to give way to panic.
“Shh!” He said urgently. “Your reputation will be ruined if we are caught.”
Her voice darkened. Her pretty lips pressed together. “And I gather it will be ruined if Lord Berbrooke exits right after me?”
“...Yes,” Simon said. And then—before he could think, his mouth said: “Good on you for knocking him out.” His gaze darted to her knuckles, bruised and darkening.
“Hah.” She tilted her head back, staring at the stars. “Of course. Even though it was not my fault. Even if he forced himself onto me. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
Simon felt his curiosity rouse as his anger darkened. How could an unmarried lady know the unspeakable violence she was just describing? Did—did Berbrooke’s odiousness extend to unspeakable territories?
“Did you know,” Daphne Bridgerton said, staring straight in his eyes, “that before this, I desired motherhood? I wanted to be a wife. I wanted to be loved.”
Simon felt his heart surge in his throat. He might not believe in marriage, yes, but that was no excuse for one simple man destroying all dreams of the innocent. One man, destroying everything. Simon wanted to protect her. Her dark eyes resembled his. She was with him when he was a child. He was helpless then because his father stripped his claws and scales. She is helpless now because society never permitted her to grow some.
“Now it is a chore,” Daphne Bridgerton continued. “Nay, not a chore, a job. A job that requires complete trust for a stranger. Courting isn’t enough time. I cannot trust my life, my safety, my rights, into the hands of someone who brings me flowers in front of chaperones. But I will be forced to! Forced by Nigel Berbrooke!”
She spat out the name with such cold fury, such derision and disgust. It nearly took his breath away. Her tone was hatred personified. It gave wings to the dark resentment in his heart, lurking with no place to go now that its intended was gone. Whenever Simon thought of his father’s last breaths, the way he choked - the horror in his eyes, the spittle on his lips, his ashen skin, his weak grip—every time, he still felt a viscous glee that no gentleman should feel. But the hatred still ran deep within him. Unspoken, but not unacknowledged. Hatred Miss Bridgerton unintentionally mirrored.
“You cannot possibly be thinking of marrying him,” Simone snorted derisively.
The lady’s eyes flashed. “If I am unable to secure another offer, there may be no alternative. Unlike you, I cannot simply declare I do not wish to marry. I do not have such a privilege.”
“Yes, I was quite surprised to learn you no longer have a line of suitors around every last square in London.”
She exhaled, frustrated. “I am in no need of your derision, sir.”
“I do not mock you,” Simon said. “I am being sincere.” And he was. She came from a popular, well-off family, she had the favor of the queen, and she was beautiful. An innocent sort of beauty that many men coveted. That Simon himself enjoyed. And even with her… unsuitable personality, she was… intriguing. The gumption she displayed, the casual violence she doled out, the impeccable manners even as she spat at Lord Berbrooke—yes, Daphne Bridgerton was fascinating.
“I know of what this Lady Whistledown has written. Trust I possess as much contempt for the author as you. She has all but issued a challenge to London's most ambitious mamas -- encouraging, provoking them to—”
“Claim you as their prize?” The lady asked with a quirked brow. “Do not worry, Your Grace. I believe such a win would be promptly forfeited, indeed. Now, I must go this way. You, through those trees—”
“Perhaps there is an answer,” Simon said, the idea flying into his head at startling speed. “To our collective Lady Whistledown issue.”
Daphne Bridgerton slowed, turning back. Simon stepped closer, her questioning gaze piercing. “We could pretend to form an attachment,” Simon whispered. The words felt sacrilegious to say in the same mouth that swore to never marry. Daphne stepped closer, her breath hitching. Her eyes widened.
“With you on my arm,” Simon continued. “The world will believe I have finally found my Duchess. Every presumptuous mother in town will leave me alone. And every suitor will be looking at you.”
Simon could almost see the question forming on her lips. In the moonlight, he could see a mole, right at the corner of her mouth. “You must know men are always interested in a woman if they believe another, particularly a Duke, to be interested as well.”
“You presume Lady Whistledown shall–”
“—I presume she shall deem us precisely what we are: Me, unavailable. You... desirable.”
“It is an absurd plan,” she said, disbelieving.
But his thoughts were flowing in quicker and quicker, the plan suddenly building in his head, the puzzle pieces dropping into place. “I find it quite brilliant,” Simon said quickly, almost scrambling over his words in an effort to get his thoughts out. “Provided you do not wish to marry me, and I do not wish to marry you—what ever should you have to lose?”
Her lips parted. The whistle of a firework, a sign he should have already found his way back, whistled in his ears. “I have one condition,” the lady says, stepping closer. Close enough, he can feel her heat. Close enough for him to count her eyelashes.
“Name it,” he whispered.
The lady tilted her head with a smile unfurling on her lips, bringing their faces closer, bringing their bodies close enough that if he closed his eyes, he could feel her heart through the thin dress. Her mouth moved towards his ear, sending tingles down his spine. “What,” she breathed, “do you like to do?”
The question broke the stillness. Simon pulled back, enough to see her large eyes and questioning brow. In this angle, she no longer looked quite innocent. She looked like a vixen, with a wicked smile and piercing eyes and her swan-like neck.
“What?”
“If we are to do this charade,” she whispered, “then we shall be friends. And friendship is always easier with common ground.”
He needed to pull back. How her voice was affecting him so, he couldn’t understand. He had been with plenty of women. Why was Daphne Bridgerton, with her smirks and her sad eyes and her whispers, so different? Why was he so curious? Simon swallowed, finding his mouth suddenly dry. “W-w-we can deride Lady Whistledown together.”
The lady smiled. It was soft and full of mirth. “I suppose that’s enough,” she acquiesced. “Very well then. Call me Daphne.”
“I-I could not dare,” he spoke quickly, cursing the stutter.
“Your Grace, we are two steps away from the dark walk,” Simon felt his brows raise to his hairline—how did she know about that? “You just saw me knocking another man out, and now we are trying to fool the entire ton. Proprietary, I’m afraid, has left us. More aptly, it ran away screaming. Call me Daphne.”
Simon swallowed. “S-Simon, then.”
“Simon,” Daphne said softly, rolling the word on her tongue, testing it on the spring air. His name in her voice, said so preciously, was like kerosene to his heart. His veins lit with fire. “Shall we?”
She lifted her arm up, almost like she was going to escort him. He huffed softly, holding his own arm up. She blinked, almost like she was confused, but that didn’t make sense—before her hands wrapped around his arm. Even through his blazer, he could feel their softness. Their heat.
“We shall.”
They exited to fireworks. In the bushes, it was like the world had stood still. Like they were the only two people alive. But the sky was alight with glitter and flames. The whispers would soon carry on the wind. And their ruse started.
Whispers abounded. Discerning eyes turned toward them. The music seemed to swell, like they were the main players and they were taking the stage.
They took their place on the dance floor, right in the center, surrounded by couples and their peaking eyes. Men elbowed their pals. Mamas whisper furiously. Daphne peered up at him fearlessly, staring into his eyes. “Move closer,” she whispered. “If this is to work, we must appear madly in love.”
Simon stepped closer, and it felt like his soul gave a sigh of relief. They breathed together. Her hand lifted, his hand lips. Her foot stepped out, his stepped out. He had danced a hundred times with hundreds of women, and it had never felt like this. He had never been this close. They had never moved together quite so well.
“Just so your Grace is aware,” Daphne whispered, her breath fanning across his face, her warmth on his lips, “now that we are courting, you must bring me books from that large library in Clyvedon.”
Simon very nearly flushed, embarrassed that she seemed to remember his ill-timed brag. “Very well,” he replied back in a soft murmur. “And you must continue telling me the story of that Thumb girl. I admit, I was intrigued.”
For those not in attendance at the Vauxhall celebration, you missed the most remarkable coup of the season. It appears Miss Daphne Bridgerton has captured the interest of the newly returned Duke of Hastings. Perhaps she is the season's most precious gem — incomparable and unbreakable — after all. Of course, how Miss Bridgerton secured her newfound suitor is yet to be determined. Yet if anyone shall reveal the circumstances of this match, dear reader, it is I.
Yours truly.
Lady Whistledown.