Bridgerton: The Duke and I (Bridgertons Book 1)

Many a woman has been ruined by a single kiss.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 May 1813

Simon wasn’t sure at what moment he knew he was going to kiss her. It was probably something he never knew, just something he felt.

Up until that very last minute he’d been able to convince himself that he was only pulling her behind the hedge to scold her, upbraid her for careless behavior that would only land both of them in serious trouble.

But then something had happened—or maybe it had been happening all along, and he’d just been trying too hard not to notice it. Her eyes changed; they almost glowed. And she opened her mouth—just the tiniest bit, barely enough for a breath, but it was enough that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

His hand snaked up her arm, over the pale satin fabric of her glove, across bare skin, and then finally past the wispy silk of her sleeve. It stole around to her back, pulling her closer, squeezing out the distance between them. He wanted her closer. He wanted her around him, atop him, beneath him. He wanted her so much it terrified him.

He molded her to him, his arms wrapping around her like a vise. He could feel the length of her now, every last inch. She was considerably shorter than he was, so her breasts flattened against the bottom of his ribs, and his thigh—

He shuddered with desire.

His thigh wedged between her legs, his firm muscles feeling the heat that was pouring from her skin.

Simon groaned, a primitive sound that mixed need with frustration. He wasn’t going to be able to have her this night—he wasn’t able to have her ever, and he needed to make this touch last him a lifetime.

The silk of her dress was soft and flimsy beneath his fingers, and as his hands roved along her back, he could feel every elegant line of her.

And then somehow—to his dying day he would never know how—he stepped away from her. Just an inch, but it was enough for the cool night air to slide between their bodies.

“No!” she cried out, and he wondered if she had any idea the invitation she made with that simple word.

His hands cupped her cheeks, holding her steady so that he might drink in the sight of her. It was too dark to see the exact colors that made her unforgettable face, but Simon knew that her lips were soft and pink, with just a tinge of peach at the corners. He knew that her eyes were made up of dozens of shades of brown, with that one enchanting circle of green constantly daring him to take a closer look, to see if it was really there or just a figment of his imagination.

But the rest—how she would feel, how she would taste—he could only imagine.

And Lord, how he’d been imagining it. Despite his composed demeanor, despite all of his promises to Anthony, he burned for her. When he saw her across a crowded room, his skin grew hot, and when he saw her in his dreams, he went up in flames.

Now—now that he had her in his arms, her breath fast and uneven with desire, her eyes glazed with need she couldn’t possibly comprehend—now he thought he might explode.

And so kissing her became a matter of self-preservation. It was simple. If he did not kiss her now, if he did not consume her, he would die. It sounded melodramatic, but at the moment he would have sworn it to be true. The hand of desire twisting around his gut would burst into flame and take him along with it.

He needed her that much.

When his lips finally covered hers, he was not gentle. He was not cruel, but the pulse of his blood was too ragged, too urgent, and his kiss was that of a starving lover, not that of a gentle suitor.

He would have forced her mouth open, but she, too, was caught up in the passion of the moment, and when his tongue sought entry, he found no resistance.

“Oh, my God, Daphne,” he moaned, his hands biting into the soft curve of her buttocks, pulling her closer, needing her to feel the pulse of desire that had pooled in his groin. “I never knew . . . I never dreamed . . .”

But that was a lie. He had dreamed. He’d dreamed in vivid detail. But it was nothing next to the real thing.

Every touch, every movement made him want her even more, and as each second passed, he felt his body wresting control from his mind. It no longer mattered what was right, what was proper. All that mattered was that she was here, in his arms, and he wanted her.

And, his body realized, she wanted him, too.

His hands clutched at her, his mouth devoured her. He couldn’t get enough.

He felt her gloved hand slide hesitantly over his upper back, lightly resting at the nape of his neck. His skin prickled where she touched him, then burned.

And it wasn’t enough. His lips left her mouth, trailing down her neck to the soft hollow above her collarbone. She moaned at each touch, the soft mewling sounds firing his passion even more.

With shaking hands, he reached for the delicately scalloped neckline of her gown. It was a gentle fit, and he knew it would take no more than the lightest push to ease the delicate silk down over the swell of her breast.

It was a sight he had no right to see, a kiss he did not deserve to make, but he couldn’t help himself.

He gave her the opportunity to stop him. He moved with agonizing slowness, stopping before he bared her to give her one last chance to say no. But instead of maidenly dismay, she arched her back and let out the softest, most arousing rush of breath.

Simon was undone.

He let the fabric of her dress fall away, and in a staggering, shuddering moment of desire, just gazed at her. And then, as his mouth descended to claim her as his prize, he heard—

“You bastard!”

Daphne, recognizing the voice before he did, shrieked and jerked away. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Anthony!”

Her brother was only ten feet away, and closing the distance fast. His brows were knit together into a mask of utter fury, and as he launched himself at Simon, he let out a primeval warrior cry unlike anything Daphne had ever heard in her life. It barely sounded human.

She just had time to cover herself before Anthony’s body crashed into Simon’s with such force that she, too, was knocked to the ground by someone’s flailing arm.

“I’ll kill you, you bloody—” The rest of Anthony’s rather violent curse was lost as Simon flipped him over, knocking the breath from him.

“Anthony, no! Stop!” Daphne cried, still clutching at the bodice of her gown, even though she’d already yanked it up and it was in no danger of falling down.

But Anthony was a man possessed. He pummeled Simon, his rage showing on his face, in his fists, in the primitive grunts of fury that emanated from his mouth.

And as for Simon—he was defending himself, but he wasn’t really fighting back.

Daphne, who had been standing aside, feeling like a helpless idiot, suddenly realized that she had to intervene. Otherwise, Anthony was going to kill Simon, right there in Lady Trowbridge’s garden. She reached down to try to wrest her brother away from the man she loved, but at that moment they suddenly rolled over in a quick flipping motion, clipping Daphne in the knees and sending her sprawling into the hedge.

“Yaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” she howled, pain stabbing her in more parts of her body than she would have thought possible.

Her cry must have contained a sharper note of agony than she’d thought she’d let slip, because both men immediately stilled.

“Oh, my God!” Simon, who had been at the top of the altercation when Daphne fell over, rushed to her aid. “Daphne! Are you all right?”

She just whimpered, trying not to move. The brambles were cutting into her skin, and every movement just elongated the scratches.

“I think she’s hurt,” Simon said to Anthony, his voice sharp with worry. “We need to lift her straight out. If we twist, she’s likely to become even more entangled.”

Anthony gave a curt, businesslike nod, his fury at Simon temporarily put aside. Daphne was in pain, and she had to come first.

“Just hold still, Daff,” Simon crooned, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m going to put my arms around you. Then I’m going to lift you forward and pull you out. Do you understand?”

She shook her head. “You’ll scratch yourself.”

“I have long sleeves. Don’t worry about me.”

“Let me do it,” Anthony said.

But Simon ignored him. While Anthony stood by helplessly, Simon reached into the tangled bramble of the hedge, and slowly pushed his gloved hands through the mess, trying to wedge his coat-covered arms between the prickly branches and Daphne’s bare, tortured skin. When he reached her sleeves, however, he had to stop to disentangle the razor-sharp points from the silk of her dress. Several branches had poked straight through the fabric and were biting her skin.

“I can’t get you completely loose,” he said. “Your dress will tear.”

She nodded, the movement jerky. “I don’t care,” she gasped. “It’s already ruined.”

“But—” Even though Simon had just been in the process of pulling that very same dress down to her waist, he still felt uncomfortable pointing out that the fabric was likely to fall right off her body once the branches were done tearing through the silk. Instead, he turned to Anthony, and said, “She’ll need your coat.”

Anthony was already shrugging out of it.

Simon turned back to Daphne and locked his eyes on hers. “Are you ready?” he asked softly.

She nodded, and maybe it was his imagination, but he thought she seemed a little calmer now that her eyes were focused on his face.

After making sure that no branches were still stuck to her skin, he pushed his arms farther back into the bramble, and then around her body until his hands met and locked together behind her back.

“On the count of three,” he murmured.

She nodded again. “One . . . Two . . .”

He yanked her up and out, the force sending them both sprawling.

“You said three!” Daphne yelled.

“I lied. I didn’t want you to tense up.”

Daphne might have wanted to pursue the argument, but it was at that moment that she realized that her dress was in tatters, and she squealed as her arms flew up to cover herself.

“Take this,” Anthony said, thrusting his coat at her. Daphne gratefully accepted and wrapped herself in Anthony’s superfine coat. It fit him to perfection, but on her it hung so loose that she could easily wrap herself up.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded.

“Good.” Anthony turned to Simon. “Thank you for pulling her out.”

Simon said nothing, but his chin dipped in acknowledgment of Anthony’s remark.

Anthony’s eyes darted back to Daphne. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“It stings a little,” she admitted, “and I’ll surely need to apply a salve when I get home, but it’s nothing I can’t bear.”

“Good,” Anthony said again. Then he drew back his fist and slammed it into Simon’s face, easily knocking his unsuspecting friend to the ground.

“That,” Anthony spat out, “is for defiling my sister.”

“Anthony!” Daphne shrieked. “Stop this nonsense right now! He didn’t defile me.”

Anthony swung around and glared at her, his eyes burning. “I saw your—”

Daphne’s stomach churned, and for a moment she feared she’d actually cast up her accounts. Good God, Anthony had seen her breast! Her brother! It was unnatural.

“Stand up,” Anthony grunted, “so I can hit you again.”

“Are you mad?” Daphne cried out, jumping between him and Simon, who was still on the ground, his hand clutching his injured eye. “Anthony, I swear if you hit him again, I shall not forgive you.”

Anthony pushed her aside, and not gently. “The next one,” he spit, “is for betraying our friendship.”

Slowly, and to Daphne’s horror, Simon rose to his feet.

“No!” she yelled, jumping back between them.

“Get out of the way, Daphne,” Simon ordered softly. “This is between us.”

“It most certainly is not! In case no one recalls, I’m the one who—” She stopped herself in mid-sentence. There was no point in speaking. Neither man was listening to her.

“Get out of the way, Daphne,” Anthony said, his voice frighteningly still. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze remained focused over her head, straight into Simon’s eyes.

“This is ridiculous! Can we not all discuss this like adults?” She looked from Simon to her brother, then whipped her head back to Simon. “Merciful heavens! Simon! Look at your eye!”

She hurried to him, reaching up to his eye, which was already swelling shut.

Simon remained impassive, not moving even a muscle under her concerned touch. Her fingers skimmed lightly over his swollen skin, oddly soothing. He ached for her still, although this time not with desire. She felt so good next to him, good and honorable and pure.

And he was about to do the most dishonorable thing he’d ever done in his life.

When Anthony finished with his violence, finished with his fury, and finally demanded that Simon marry his sister, Simon was going to say no.

“Move out of the way, Daphne,” he said, his voice strange in his own ears.

“No, I—”

“Move!” he roared.

She fled, pressing her back up against the very hedge in which she’d been caught, staring in horror at the two men.

Simon nodded grimly at Anthony. “Hit me.”

Anthony looked stunned by the request.

“Do it,” Simon said. “Get it over with.”

Anthony’s fist fell slack. He didn’t move his head, but his eyes flitted to Daphne. “I can’t,” he blurted out. “Not when he’s just standing there asking for it.”

Simon took a step forward, bringing his face mockingly close. “Do it now. Make me pay.”

“You’ll pay at the altar,” Anthony replied.

Daphne gasped, the sound drawing Simon’s attention. Why was she surprised? Surely she understood the consequences of, if not their actions, their stupidity in getting caught?

“I won’t force him,” Daphne said.

“I will,” Anthony bit out.

Simon shook his head. “By tomorrow I’ll be on the Continent.”

“You’re leaving?” Daphne asked. The stricken sound of her voice sliced a guilty knife through Simon’s heart.

“If I stay, you’ll forever be tainted by my presence. It’s best if I’m gone.”

Her lower lip was trembling. It killed him that it was trembling. A single word fell from her lips. It was his name, and it was filled with a longing that squeezed his heart in two.

It took Simon a moment to summon the words: “I can’t marry you, Daff.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Anthony demanded.

“Both.”

Anthony punched him again.

Simon hit the ground, stunned by the force of the blow to his chin. But he deserved every sting, every shot of pain. He didn’t want to look at Daphne, didn’t want to catch even the barest of glances at her face, but she knelt beside him, her gentle hand sliding behind his shoulder to help him right himself.

“I’m sorry, Daff,” he said, forcing himself to look at her. He felt odd and off-balance, and he could see out of only one eye, but she’d come to his aid, even after he’d rejected her, and he owed her that much. “I’m so sorry.”

“Save your pathetic words,” Anthony spat. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

“No!” Daphne cried out.

Simon looked up at Anthony and gave him the briefest of nods. Then he turned back to Daphne, and said, “If it c-could be anybody, Daff, it would be you. I p-promise you that.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, bewilderment turning her dark eyes to frantic orbs. “What do you mean?”

Simon just closed his eye and sighed. By this time tomorrow he’d be dead, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to raise a pistol at Anthony, and he rather doubted that Anthony’s temper would have cooled enough for him to shoot into the air.

And yet—in a bizarre, pathetic sort of way, he would be getting what he’d always wanted out of life. He’d have his final revenge against his father.

Strange, but even so, this wasn’t how he’d thought it would end. He’d thought—Well, he didn’t know what he’d thought—most men avoided trying to predict their own deaths—but it wasn’t this. Not with his best friend’s eyes burning with hatred. Not on a deserted field at dawn.

Not with dishonor.

Daphne’s hands, which had been stroking him so gently, wrapped around his shoulders and shook. The motion jolted his watery eye open, and he saw that her face was very close to his—close and furious.

“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. Her face was like he’d never seen it before, eyes flashing with anger, and anguish, and even a little desperation. “He’s going to kill you! He’s going to meet you on some godforsaken field tomorrow and shoot you dead. And you’re acting like you want him to.”

“I d-don’t w-w-want to d-die,” he said, too exhausted in mind and body to even care that he’d stammered. “B-but I can’t marry you.”

Her hands fell off his shoulders, and she lurched away. The look of pain and rejection in her eyes was almost impossible to bear. She looked so forlorn, wrapped up in her brother’s too-big coat, pieces of twigs and brambles still caught in her dark hair. When she opened her mouth to speak, it looked as if her words were ripped from her very soul. “I-I’ve always known that I wasn’t the sort of woman men dream of, but I never thought anyone would prefer death to marriage with me.”

“No!” Simon cried out, scrambling to his feet despite the dull aches and stinging pains that jolted his body. “Daphne, it’s not like that.”

“You’ve said enough,” Anthony said in a curt voice, stepping between them. He placed his hands on his sister’s shoulders, steering her away from the man who had broken her heart and possibly damaged her reputation for eternity.

“Just one more thing,” Simon said, hating the pleading, pathetic look he knew must be in his eyes. But he had to talk to Daphne. He had to make sure she understood.

But Anthony just shook his head.

“Wait.” Simon laid a hand on the sleeve of the man who had once been his closest friend. “I can’t fix this. I’ve made—” He let out a ragged breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “I’ve made vows, Anthony. I can’t marry her. I can’t fix this. But I can tell her—”

“Tell her what?” Anthony asked with a complete lack of emotion.

Simon lifted his hand from Anthony’s sleeve and raked it through his hair. He couldn’t tell Daphne. She wouldn’t understand. Or worse, she would, and then all he’d have was her pity. Finally, aware that Anthony was looking at him with an impatient expression, he said, “Maybe I can make it just a little bit better.”

Anthony didn’t move.

“Please.” And Simon wondered if he’d ever put such depth of meaning behind that word before.

Anthony was still for several seconds, and then he stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Simon said in a solemn voice, sparing Anthony the briefest of glances before focusing on Daphne.

He’d thought perhaps that she’d refuse to look at him, insulting him with her scorn, but instead he found her chin up, eyes defiant and daring. Never had he admired her more.

“Daff,” he began, not at all sure what to say but hoping that the words somehow came out right and in one piece. “It—it isn’t you. If it could be anyone it would be you. But marriage to me would destroy you. I could never give you what you want. You’d die a little every day, and it would kill me to watch.”

“You could never hurt me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You have to trust me.”

Her eyes were warm and true as she said softly, “I do trust you. But I wonder if you trust me.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut, and Simon felt impotent and hollow as he said, “Please know that I never meant to hurt you.”

She remained motionless for so long that Simon wondered if she’d stopped breathing. But then, without even looking at her brother, she said, “I’d like to go home now.”

Anthony put his arms around her and turned her away, as if he could protect her simply by shielding her from the sight of him. “We’ll get you home,” he said in soothing tones, “tuck you into bed, give you some brandy.”

“I don’t want brandy,” Daphne said sharply, “I want to think.”

Simon thought Anthony looked a bit bewildered by the statement, but to his credit, all he did was give her upper arm an affectionate squeeze, and say, “Very well, then.”

And Simon just stood there, battered and bloodied, until they disappeared into the night.