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“Pity. And here I thought I had you well and truly in my clutches.” Daphne laughed. “I don’t know how anyone considered you a rake. Your sense of humor is far too superb.” “And here we rakes thought we were so wickedly droll.” “A rake’s humor,” Daphne stated, “is essentially cruel.”
“He’s your favorite brother?” Simon asked, one dark brow raised in disbelief. “Only because Gregory put a toad in my bed last night,” Daphne bit off, “and Benedict’s standing has never recovered from the time he beheaded my favorite doll.” “Makes me wonder what Anthony’s done to deny him even an honorable mention,” Colin murmured.
“I have a letter from my wife—” Simon thrust his hand into his pocket, but—damn it—didn’t come up with the paper. “Well, I have a letter from her somewhere,” he grumbled. “And it specifically states that she has removed herself to London.” “And she has, your grace.” “Then where the hell is she?” Simon ground out. The butler merely raised a brow. “At Hastings House, your grace.” Simon clamped his mouth shut. There was little more humiliating than being bested by a butler. “After all,” the butler continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “she is married to you, is she not?” Simon glared at him.
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“I didn’t abduct you,” he said, idly examining his fingernails. “I blackmailed you. There’s a world of difference.”
“The point is,” Colin said forcefully, “that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her.” Anthony turned to Benedict and said, “They’ll be married within a year. Mark my words.”
