Bridgerton: The Duke and I (Bridgertons Book 1)

London seems terribly quiet this week, now that society’s favorite duke and that duke’s favorite duchess have departed for the country. This Author could report that Mr. Nigel Berbrooke was seen asking Miss Penelope Featherington to dance, or that Miss Penelope, despite her mother’s gleeful urging and her eventual acceptance of his offer, did not seem terribly enamored with the notion.

But really, who wants to read about Mr. Berbrooke or Miss Penelope? Let us not fool ourselves. We are all still ravenously curious about the duke and duchess.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 May 1813

It was like being in Lady Trowbridge’s garden all over again, Daphne thought wildly, except that this time there would be no interruptions—no furious older brothers, no fear of discovery, nothing but a husband, a wife, and the promise of passion.

Simon’s lips found hers, gentle but demanding. With each touch, each flick of his tongue, she felt flutterings within her, tiny spasms of need that were building in pitch and frequency.

“Have I told you,” he whispered, “how enamored I am of the corner of your mouth?”

“N-no,” Daphne said tremulously, amazed that he’d ever even once examined it.

“I adore it,” he murmured, and then went to show her how. His teeth scraped along her lower lip until his tongue darted out and traced the curve of the corner of her mouth.

It tickled, and Daphne felt her lips spreading into a wide, openmouthed smile. “Stop,” she giggled.

“Never,” he vowed. He pulled back, cradling her face in his hands. “You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

Daphne’s initial reaction was to say, “Don’t be silly,” but then she thought—Why ruin such a moment?—and so she just said, “Really?”

“Really.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “When you smile it takes up half your face.”

“Simon!” she exclaimed. “That sounds horrible.”

“It’s enchanting.”

“Distorted.”

“Desirable.”

She grimaced, but somehow she laughed at the same time. “Clearly, you have no knowledge of the standards of female beauty.”

He arched a brow. “As pertains to you, my standards are the only ones that count any longer.”

For a moment she was speechless, then she collapsed against him, a torrent of laughter shaking both of their bodies. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped, “you sounded so fierce. So wonderfully, perfectly, absurdly fierce.”

“Absurd?” he echoed. “Are you calling me absurd?”

Her lips tightened to prevent another giggle, but they weren’t entirely successful.

“It’s almost as bad as being called impotent,” he grumbled.

Daphne was instantly serious. “Oh, Simon. You know I didn’t . . .” She gave up trying to explain, and instead just said, “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.” He waved off her apology. “Your mother I may have to kill, but you have nothing to apologize for.”

A horrified giggle escaped her lips. “Mother did try her best, and if I hadn’t been confused because you said—”

“Oh, so now it’s all my fault?” he said with mock outrage. But then his expression grew sly, seductive. He moved closer, angling his body so that she had to arch backwards. “I suppose I’ll just have to work doubly hard to prove my capabilities.”

One of his hands slid to the small of her back, supporting her as he lowered her onto the bed. Daphne felt the breath leave her body as she looked up into his intensely blue eyes. The world seemed somehow different when one was lying down. Darker, more dangerous. And all the more thrilling because Simon was looming above her, filling her vision.

And in that moment, as he slowly closed the distance between them, he became her entire world.

This time his kiss wasn’t light. He didn’t tickle; he devoured. He didn’t tease; he possessed.

His hands slipped under her, cradling her derrière, pressing it up against his arousal. “Tonight,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and hot in her ear, “I will make you mine.”

Daphne’s breath started coming faster and faster, each little gasp of air impossibly loud to her ears. Simon was so close, every inch of him covering her intimately. She’d imagined this night a thousand times since that moment in Regent’s Park when he’d said he would marry her, but it had never occurred to her that the sheer weight of his body on hers would be so thrilling. He was large and hard and exquisitely muscled; there was no way she could escape his seductive onslaught, even if she’d wanted to.

How strange it was to feel such titillating joy at being so powerless. He could do with her whatever he desired—and she wanted to let him.

But when his body shuddered, and his lips tried to say her name but didn’t get beyond “D-D-Daph—” she realized that she possessed her own kind of control. He wanted her so much he couldn’t breathe, needed her so badly he couldn’t speak.

And somehow, as she reveled in her newfound strength, she found that her body seemed to know what to do. Her hips arched up to meet his, and as his hands pushed her skirts up over her waist, her legs snaked around his, pulling him ever closer to the cradle of her femininity.

“My God, Daphne,” Simon gasped, hauling his shaking body up on his elbows. “I want to—I can’t—”

Daphne grabbed at his back, trying to pull him back down to her. The air felt cool where his body had just been.

“I can’t go slow,” he grunted.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” His eyes burned with wicked intention. “We seem to be getting ahead of ourselves.”

Daphne just stared at him, trying to catch her breath. He’d sat up, and his eyes were raking across her body as one of his hands slid up the length of her leg to her knee.

“First of all,” he murmured, “we need to do something about all of your clothes.”

Daphne gasped with shock as he stood, pulling her to her feet along with him. Her legs were weak, her balance nonexistent, but he held her upright, his hands bunching her skirts around her waist. He whispered in her ear, “It’s difficult to strip you naked when you’re lying down.”

One of his hands found the curve of her buttocks, and started massaging her in a circular motion. “The question,” he mused, “is do I push the dress up, or pull it down?”

Daphne prayed that he wasn’t expecting her to actually answer his question, because she couldn’t make a sound.

“Or,” he said slowly, one finger slipping under the ribboned bodice of her dress, “both?”

And then, before she had even a moment to react, he’d pushed her dress down so that the entire garment encircled her waist. Her legs were bare, and were it not for her thin silk chemise, she would have been completely naked.

“Now this is a surprise,” Simon murmured, palming one of her breasts through the silk. “Not an entirely unwelcome one, of course. Silk is never as soft as skin, but it does have its advantages.”

Daphne’s breath fled as she watched him slide the silk slowly from side to side, the sweet friction causing her nipples to pucker and harden.

“I had no idea,” Daphne whispered, her every breath sliding hot and moist across her lips.

Simon went to work on her other breast. “No idea of what?”

“That you were so wicked.”

He smiled, slow and full of the devil. His lips moved to her ear, whispering, “You were my best friend’s sister. Utterly forbidden. What was I to do?”

Daphne shivered with desire. His breath touched only her ear, but her skin prickled across her entire body.

“I could do nothing,” he continued, edging one strap of her chemise off her shoulder, “except imagine.”

“You thought about me?” Daphne whispered, her body thrilling at the notion. “You thought about this?”

His hand at her hip grew tight. “Every night. Every moment before I fell asleep, until my skin burned and my body begged for release.”

Daphne felt her legs wobble, but he held her up.

“And then when I was asleep . . .” He moved to her neck, his hot breath as much of a kiss as the touch of his lips. “That’s when I was truly naughty.”

A moan escaped her lips, strangled and incoherent and full of desire.

The second chemise strap fell off her shoulder just as Simon’s lips found the tantalizing hollow between her breasts. “But tonight—” he whispered, pushing the silk down until one breast was bared, and then the other. “Tonight all of my dreams come true.”

Daphne had time only to gasp before his mouth found her breast and fastened on her hardened nipple.

“This is what I wanted to do in Lady Trowbridge’s garden,” he said. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head wildly, grabbing on to his shoulders for support. She was swaying from side to side, barely able to hold her head straight. Spasms of pure feeling were shooting through her body, robbing her of breath, of balance, even of thought.

“Of course you didn’t,” he murmured. “You’re such an innocent.”

With deft and knowing fingers, Simon slid the rest of her clothes from her body, until she was nude in his arms. Gently, because he knew she had to be almost as nervous as she was excited, he lowered her onto the bed.

His motions were uncontrolled and jerky as he yanked at his own clothing. His skin was on fire, his entire body burning with need. Never once, however, did he take his eyes off of her. She lay sprawled on the bed, a temptation like none he’d ever seen. Her skin glowed peachy smooth in the flickering candlelight, and her hair, long since released from its coiffure, fell around her face in wild abandon.

His fingers, which had removed her clothing with such finesse and speed, now felt awkward and clumsy as he tried to make sense of his own buttons and knots.

As his hands moved to his trousers, he saw that she was pulling the bedsheets over her. “Don’t,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice.

Her eyes met his, and he said, “I’ll be your blanket.”

He peeled the rest of his clothing off, and before she could utter a word, he moved to the bed, covering her body with his. He felt her gasp with surprise at the feel of him, and then her body stiffened slightly.

“Shhh,” he crooned, nuzzling her neck while one of his hands made soothing circles on the side of her thigh. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she said in a shaky voice. “It’s just that—”

His hand moved up to her hip. “Just that what?”

He could hear the grimace in her voice as she said, “Just that I wish I weren’t so utterly ignorant.”

A low rumble of a laugh shook his chest.

“Stop that,” she griped, swatting him on the shoulder.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Simon insisted.

“You’re certainly laughing,” she muttered, “and don’t tell me you’re laughing with me, because that excuse never works.”

“I was laughing,” he said softly, lifting himself up on his elbows so that he could look into her face, “because I was thinking how very glad I am of your ignorance.” He lowered his face down until his lips brushed hers in a feather-light caress. “I am honored to be the only man to touch you thus.”

Her eyes shone with such purity of feeling that Simon was nearly undone. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Truly,” he said, surprised by how gruff his voice sounded. “Although honor is most likely only the half of it.”

She said nothing, but her eyes were enchantingly curious.

“I might have to kill the next man who so much as looks at you sideways,” he grumbled.

To his great surprise, she burst out laughing. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped, “it is so perfectly splendidly wonderful to be the object of such irrational jealousy. Thank you.”

“You’ll thank me later,” he vowed.

“And perhaps,” she murmured, her dark eyes suddenly far more seductive than they had any right to be, “you’ll thank me as well.”

Simon felt her thighs slide apart as he settled his body against hers, his manhood hot against her belly. “I already do,” he said, his words melting into her skin as he kissed the hollow of her shoulder. “Believe me, I already do.”

Never had he been so thankful for the hard-won control he had learned to exert over himself. His entire body ached to plunge into her and finally make her his in truth, but he knew that this night—their wedding night—was for Daphne, not for him.

This was her first time. He was her first lover—her only lover, he thought with uncharacteristic savagery—and it was his responsibility to make certain that this night brought her nothing but exquisite pleasure.

He knew she wanted him. Her breath was erratic, her eyes glazed with need. He could hardly bear to look at her face, for every time he saw her lips, half-open and panting with desire, the urge to slam into her nearly overwhelmed him.

So instead he kissed her. He kissed her everywhere, and ignored the fierce pounding of his blood every time he heard her gasp or mewl with desire. And then finally, when she was writhing and moaning beneath him, and he knew she was mad for him, he slipped his hand between her legs and touched her.

The only sound he could make was her name, and even that came out as a half-groan. She was more than ready for him, hotter and wetter than he’d ever dreamed. But still, just to be sure—or maybe it was because he couldn’t resist the perverse impulse to torture himself—he slid one long finger inside her, testing her warmth, tickling her sheath.

“Simon!” she gasped, bucking beneath him. Already her muscles were tightening, and he knew that she was nearly to completion. Abruptly, he removed his hand, ignoring her whimper of protest.

He used his thighs to nudge hers further apart, and with a shuddering groan, positioned himself to enter her. “This m-may hurt a little,” he whispered hoarsely, “but I p-promise you—”

“Just do it,” she groaned, her head tossing wildly from side to side.

And so he did. With one powerful thrust, he entered her fully. He felt her maidenhead give way, but she didn’t seem to flinch from pain. “Are you all right?” he groaned, his every muscle tensing just to keep himself from moving within her.

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “It feels very odd,” she admitted.

“But not bad?” he asked, almost ashamed by the desperate note in his voice.

She shook her head, a tiny, feminine smile touching her lips. “Not bad at all,” she whispered. “But before . . . when you . . . with your fingers . . .”

Even in the dull candlelight he could see that her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Is this what you want?” he whispered, pulling out until he was only halfway within her.

“No!” she cried out.

“Then perhaps this is what you want.” He plunged back in.

She gasped. “Yes. No. Both.”

He began to move within her, his rhythm deliberately slow and even. With each thrust, he pushed a gasp from her lips, each little moan the perfect pitch to drive him wild.

And then her moans grew into squeals and her gasps into pants, and he knew that she was near her peak. He moved ever faster, his teeth gritted as he fought to maintain his control as she spiralled toward completion.

She moaned his name, and then she screamed it, and then her entire body went rigid beneath him. She clutched at his shoulders, her hips rising off the bed with a strength he could barely believe. Finally, with one last, powerful shudder, she collapsed beneath him, oblivious to everything but the power of her own release.

Against his better judgment, Simon allowed himself one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt, savoring the sweet warmth of her body.

Then, taking her mouth in a searingly passionate kiss, he pulled out and spent himself on the sheets next to her.

It was to be only the first of many nights of passion. The newlyweds traveled down to Clyvedon, and then, much to Daphne’s extreme embarrassment, sequestered themselves in the master suite for more than a week.

(Of course Daphne was not so embarrassed that she made anything more than a halfhearted attempt to actually leave the suite.)

Once they emerged from their honeymoonish seclusion, Daphne was given a tour of Clyvedon—which was much needed, since all she’d seen upon arrival was the route from the front door to the duke’s bedroom. She then spent several hours introducing herself to the upper servants. She had, of course, been formally introduced to the staff upon her arrival, but Daphne thought it best to meet the more important members of the staff in a more individual manner.

Since Simon had not resided at Clyvedon for so many years, many of the newer servants did not know him, but those who had been at Clyvedon during his childhood seemed—to Daphne—to be almost ferociously devoted to her husband. She laughed about it to Simon as they privately toured the garden, and had been startled to find herself on the receiving end of a decidedly shuttered stare.

“I lived here until I went to Eton,” was all he said, as if that ought to be explanation enough.

Daphne was made instantly uncomfortable by the flatness in his voice. “Did you never travel to London? When we were small, we often—”

“I lived here exclusively.”

His tone signaled that he desired—no, required—an end to the conversation, but Daphne threw caution to the winds, and decided to pursue the topic, anyway. “You must have been a darling child,” she said in a deliberately blithe voice, “or perhaps an extremely mischievous one, to have inspired such long-standing devotion.”

He said nothing.

Daphne plodded on. “My brother—Colin, you know—is much the same way. He was the very devil when he was small, but so insufferably charming that all servants adored him. Why, one time—”

Her mouth froze, half-open. There didn’t seem much point in continuing. Simon had turned on his heel and walked away.

He wasn’t interested in roses. And he’d never pondered the existence of violets one way or another, but now Simon found himself leaning on a wooden fence, gazing out over Clyvedon’s famed flower garden as if he were seriously considering a career in horticulture.

All because he couldn’t face Daphne’s questions about his childhood.

But the truth was, he hated the memories. He despised the reminders. Even staying here at Clyvedon was uncomfortable. The only reason he’d brought Daphne down to his childhood home was because it was the only one of his residences within a two-day drive from London that was ready for immediate occupancy.

The memories brought back the feelings. And Simon didn’t want to feel like that young boy again. He didn’t want to remember the number of times he’d sent letters to his father, only to wait in vain for a response. He didn’t want to remember the kind smiles of the servants—kind smiles that were always accompanied by pitying eyes. They’d loved him, yes, but they’d also felt sorry for him.

And the fact that they’d hated his father on his behalf—well, somehow that had never made him feel better. He hadn’t been—and, to be honest, still wasn’t—so noble-minded that he didn’t take a certain satisfaction in his father’s lack of popularity, but that never took away the embarrassment or the discomfort.

Or the shame.

He’d wanted to be admired, not pitied. And it hadn’t been until he’d struck out on his own by traveling unheralded to Eton that he’d had his first taste of success.

He’d come so far; he’d travel to hell before he went back to the way he’d been.

None of this, of course, was Daphne’s fault. He knew she had no ulterior motives when she asked about his childhood. How could she? She knew nothing of his occasional difficulties with speech. He’d worked damned hard to hide it from her.

No, he thought with a weary sigh, he’d rarely had to work hard at all to hide it from Daphne. She’d always set him at ease, made him feel free. His stammer rarely surfaced these days, but when it did it was always during times of stress and anger.

And whatever life was about when he was with Daphne, it wasn’t stress and anger.

He leaned more heavily against the fence, guilt forcing his posture into a slouch. He’d treated her abominably. It seemed he was fated to do that time and again.

“Simon?”

He’d felt her presence before she’d spoken. She’d approached from behind, her booted feet soft and silent on the grass. But he knew she was there. He could smell her gentle fragrance and hear the wind whispering through her hair.

“These are beautiful roses,” she said. It was, he knew, her way of soothing his peevish mood. He knew she was dying to ask more. But she was wise beyond her years, and much as he liked to tease her about it, she did know a lot about men and their idiot tempers. She wouldn’t say anything more. At least not today.

“I’m told my mother planted them,” he replied. His words came out more gruffly than he would have liked, but he hoped she saw them as the olive branch he’d meant them to be. When she didn’t say anything, he added by way of an explanation, “She died at my birth.”

Daphne nodded. “I’d heard. I’m sorry.”

Simon shrugged. “I didn’t know her.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a loss.”

Simon considered his childhood. He had no way of knowing if his mother would have been more sympathetic to his difficulties than his father had been, but he figured there was no way she could have made it worse. “Yes,” he murmured, “I suppose it was.”

Later that day, while Simon was going over some estate accounts, Daphne decided it was as good a time as any to get to know Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper. Although she and Simon had not yet discussed where they would reside, Daphne couldn’t imagine that they wouldn’t spend some time there at Clyvedon, Simon’s ancestral home, and if there was one thing she’d learned from her mother, it was that a lady simply had to have a good working relationship with her housekeeper.

Not that Daphne was terribly worried about getting along with Mrs. Colson. She had met the housekeeper briefly when Simon had introduced her to the staff, and it had been quickly apparent that she was a friendly, talkative sort.

She stopped by Mrs. Colson’s office—a tiny little room just off the kitchen—a bit before teatime. The housekeeper, a handsome woman in her fifties, was bent over her small desk, working on the week’s menus.

Daphne gave the open door a knock. “Mrs. Colson?”

The housekeeper looked up and immediately stood. “Your grace,” she said, bobbing into a small curtsy. “You should have called for me.”

Daphne smiled awkwardly, still unused to her elevation from the ranks of mere misses. “I was already up and about,” she said, explaining her unorthodox appearance in the servants’ domain. “But if you have a moment, Mrs. Colson, I was hoping we might get to know one another better, since you have lived here for many years, and I hope to do so for many to come.”

Mrs. Colson smiled at Daphne’s warm tone. “Of course, your grace. Was there anything in particular about which you cared to inquire?”

“Not at all. But I still have much to learn about Clyvedon if I am to manage it properly. Perhaps we could take tea in the yellow room? I do so enjoy the décor. It’s so warm and sunny. I had been hoping to make that my personal parlor.”

Mrs. Colson gave her an odd look. “The last duchess felt the same way.”

“Oh,” Daphne replied, not certain whether that ought to make her feel uncomfortable.

“I’ve given special care to that room over the years,” Mrs. Colson continued. “It does get quite a bit of sun, being on the south side. I had all of the furniture reupholstered three years ago.” Her chin rose in a slightly proud manner. “Went all the way to London to get the same fabric.”

“I see,” Daphne replied, leading the way out of the office. “The late duke must have loved his wife very much, to order such a painstaking conservation of her favorite room.”

Mrs. Colson didn’t quite meet her eyes. “It was my decision,” she said quietly. “The duke always gave me a certain budget for the upkeep of the house. I thought it the most fitting use of the money.”

Daphne waited while the housekeeper summoned a maid and gave her instructions for the tea. “It’s a lovely room,” she announced once they had exited the kitchen, “and although the current duke never had the opportunity to know his mother, I’m sure he’ll be quite touched that you have seen fit to preserve her favorite room.”

“It was the least I could do,” Mrs. Colson said as they strolled across the hall. “I have not always served the Basset family, after all.”

“Oh?” Daphne asked curiously. Upper servants were notoriously loyal, often serving a single family for generations.

“Yes, I was the duchess’s personal maid.” Mrs. Colson waited outside the doorway of the yellow room to allow Daphne to precede her. “And before that her companion. My mother was her nurse. Her grace’s family was kind enough to allow me to share her lessons.”

“You must have been quite close,” Daphne murmured.

Mrs. Colson nodded. “After she died I occupied a number of different positions here at Clyvedon until I finally became housekeeper.”

“I see.” Daphne smiled at her and then took a seat on the sofa. “Please sit,” she said, motioning to the chair across from her.

Mrs. Colson seemed hesitant with such familiarity, but eventually sat. “It broke my heart when she died,” she said. She gave Daphne a slightly apprehensive look. “I hope you don’t mind my telling you so.”

“Of course not,” Daphne said quickly. She was ravenously curious about Simon’s childhood. He said so little, and yet she sensed that it all meant so much. “Please, tell me more. I would love to hear about her.”

Mrs. Colson’s eyes grew misty. “She was the kindest, gentlest soul this earth has ever known. She and the duke—well, it wasn’t a love match, but they got on well enough. They were friends in their own way.” She looked up. “They were both very much aware of their duties as duke and duchess. Took their responsibilities quite seriously.”

Daphne nodded understandingly.

“She was so determined to give him a son. She kept trying even after the doctors all told her she mustn’t. She used to cry in my arms every month when her courses came.”

Daphne nodded again, hoping the motion would hide her suddenly strained expression. It was difficult to listen to stories about not being able to have children. But she supposed she was going to have to get used to it. It was going to be even more strenuous to answer questions about it.

And there would be questions. Painfully tactful and hideously pitying questions.

But Mrs. Colson thankfully didn’t notice Daphne’s distress. She sniffled as she continued her story. “She was always saying things like how was she to be a proper duchess if she couldn’t give him a son. It broke my heart. Every month it broke my heart.”

Daphne wondered if her own heart would shatter every month. Probably not. She, at least, knew for a fact that she wouldn’t have children. Simon’s mother had her hopes crushed every four weeks.

“And of course,” the housekeeper continued, “everyone talked as if it were her fault there was no baby. How could they know that, I ask you? It’s not always the woman who is barren. Sometimes it’s the man’s fault, you know.”

Daphne said nothing.

“I told her this time and again, but still she felt guilty. I said to her—” The housekeeper’s face turned pink. “Do you mind if I speak frankly?”

“Please do.”

She nodded. “Well, I said to her what my mother said to me. A womb won’t quicken without strong, healthy seed.”

Daphne held her face in an expressionless mask. It was all she could manage.

“But then she finally had Master Simon.” Mrs. Colson let out a maternal sigh, then looked to Daphne with an apprehensive expression. “I beg your pardon,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t be calling him that. He’s the duke now.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Daphne said, happy to have something to smile about.

“It’s hard to change one’s ways at my age,” Mrs. Colson said with a sigh. “And I’m afraid a part of me will always remember him as that poor little boy.” She looked up at Daphne and shook her head. “He would have had a much easier time of it if the duchess had lived.”

“An easier time of it?” Daphne murmured, hoping that would be all the encouragement Mrs. Colson would need to explain further.

“The duke just never understood that poor boy,” the housekeeper said forcefully. “He stormed about and called him stupid, and—”

Daphne’s head snapped up. “The duke thought Simon was stupid?” she interrupted. That was preposterous. Simon was one of the smartest people she knew. She’d once asked him a bit about his studies at Oxford and had been stunned to learn that his brand of mathematics didn’t even use numbers.

“The duke never could see the world beyond his own nose,” Mrs. Colson said with a snort. “He never gave that boy a chance.”

Daphne felt her body leaning forward, her ears straining for the housekeeper’s words. What had the duke done to Simon? And was this the reason he turned to ice every time his father’s name was mentioned?

Mrs. Colson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You should have seen the way that boy worked to improve himself. It broke my heart. It simply broke my heart.”

Daphne’s hands clawed at the sofa. Mrs. Colson was never going to get to the point.

“But nothing he ever did was good enough for the duke. This is just my opinion of course, but—”

Just then a maid entered with tea. Daphne nearly screamed with frustration. It took a good two minutes for the tea to be set up and poured, and all the while Mrs. Colson chitchatted about the biscuits, and did Daphne prefer them plain or with coarse sugar on top.

Daphne had to pry her hands off the sofa, lest she puncture holes in the upholstery Mrs. Colson had worked so hard to preserve. Finally, the maid left, and Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea, and said, “Now then, where were we?”

“You were talking about the duke,” Daphne said quickly. “The late duke. That nothing my husband did was ever good enough for him and in your opinion—”

“My goodness, you were listening.” Mrs. Colson beamed. “I’m so flattered.”

“But you were saying . . .” Daphne prompted.

“Oh yes, of course. I was simply going to say that I have long held the opinion that the late duke never forgave his son for not being perfect.”

“But Mrs. Colson,” Daphne said quietly, “none of us is perfect.”

“Of course not, but—” The housekeeper’s eyes floated up for a brief second in an expression of disdain toward the late duke. “If you’d known his grace, you would understand. He’d waited so long for a son. And in his mind, the Basset name was synonymous with perfection.”

“And my husband wasn’t the son he wanted?” Daphne asked.

“He didn’t want a son. He wanted a perfect little replica of himself.”

Daphne could no longer contain her curiosity. “But what did Simon do that was so repugnant to the duke?”

Mrs. Colson’s eyes widened in surprise, and one of her hands floated to her chest. “Why, you don’t know,” she said softly. “Of course you wouldn’t know.”

“What?”

“He couldn’t speak.”

Daphne’s lips parted in shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“He couldn’t speak. Not a word until he was four, and then it was all stutters and stammers. It broke my heart every time he opened his mouth. I could see that there was a bright little boy inside. He just couldn’t get the words out right.”

“But he speaks so well now,” Daphne said, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. “I’ve never heard him stammer. Or if I have, I-I-I didn’t notice it. See! Look, I just did it myself. Everyone stammers a bit when they’re flustered.”

“He worked very hard to improve himself. It was seven years, I recall. For seven years he did nothing but practice his speech with his nurse.” Mrs. Colson’s face wrinkled with thought. “Let’s see, what was her name? Oh yes, Nurse Hopkins. She was a saint, she was. As devoted to that boy as if he’d been her own. I was the housekeeper’s assistant at the time, but she often let me come up and help him practice his speech.”

“Was it difficult for him?” Daphne whispered.

“Some days I thought he’d surely shatter from the frustration of it. But he was so stubborn. Heavens, but he was a stubborn boy. I’ve never seen a person so single-minded.” Mrs. Colson shook her head sadly. “And his father still rejected him. It—”

“Broke your heart,” Daphne finished for her. “It would have broken mine, as well.”

Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea during the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. “Thank you very much for allowing me to take tea with you, your grace,” she said, misinterpreting Daphne’s quietude for displeasure. “It was highly irregular of you to do so, but very . . .”

Daphne looked up as Mrs. Colson searched for the correct word.

“Kind,” the housekeeper finally finished. “It was very kind of you.”

“Thank you,” Daphne murmured distractedly.

“Oh, but I haven’t answered any of your questions about Clyvedon,” Mrs. Colson said suddenly.

Daphne gave her head a little shake. “Another time, perhaps,” she said softly. She had too much to think on just then.

Mrs. Colson, sensing her employer desired privacy, stood, bobbed a curtsy, and silently left the room.