Bridgerton Collection, Volume 1 (Bridgertons #1-3)

by Julia Quinn

Though his wife had managed to conceive five times in the fifteen years of their marriage, only twice had she carried to full term, and both of those infants had been stillborn. After the fifth pregnancy, which had ended with a bloody miscarriage in the fifth month, surgeons and physicians alike had warned their graces that they absolutely must not make another attempt to have a child. The duchess’s very life was in danger. She was too frail, too weak, and perhaps, they said gently, too old. The duke was simply going to have to reconcile himself to the fact that the dukedom would pass out of the Basset family.

But the duchess, God bless her, knew her role in life, and after a six-month recuperative period, she opened the connecting door between their bedrooms, and the duke once again commenced his quest for a son. Five months later, the duchess informed the duke that she had conceived. The duke’s immediate elation was tempered by his grim determination that nothing—absolutely nothing—would cause this pregnancy to go awry. The duchess was confined to her bed the minute it was realized that she’d missed her monthly courses. A physician was brought in to visit her every day, and halfway through the pregnancy, the duke located the most respected doctor in London and paid him a king’s ransom to abandon his practice and take up residence at Clyvedon Castle temporarily.

The duke wanted to take the boy outside to prove to everyone that he had finally sired a healthy male child, but there was a slight chill in the early April air, so he allowed the midwife to take the babe back to his mother. The duke mounted one of his prized geldings and rode off to celebrate, shouting his good fortune to all who would listen. Meanwhile, the duchess, who had been bleeding steadily since the birth, slipped into unconsciousness, and then finally just slipped away.

The duke mourned his wife. He truly did. He hadn’t loved her, of course, and she hadn’t loved him, but they’d been friends in an oddly distant sort of way. The duke hadn’t expected anything more from marriage than a son and an heir, and in that regard, his wife had proven herself an exemplary spouse. He arranged for fresh flowers to be laid at the base of her funereal monument every week, no matter the season, and her portrait was moved from the sitting room to the hall, in a position of great honor over the staircase. And then the duke got on with the business of raising his son.

That much was true, Daphne silently agreed. Fashionable London was positively addicted to Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. The mysterious newspaper had arrived on the doorstep of every member of the ton three months earlier. For two weeks it was delivered unbidden every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And then, on the third Monday, butlers across London waited in vain for the pack of paperboys who normally delivered Whistledown, only to discover that instead of free delivery, they were selling the gossip sheet for the outrageous price of five pennies a paper.

Daphne had to admire the fictitious Lady Whistledown’s savvy. By the time she started forcing people to pay for their gossip, all the ton was addicted.

Daphne’s eyes inexplicably focused on a wet spot on the railing as she fought to keep an absurd smile off her face. Simon was so sweet when he was grumpy. “What are you looking at?” he asked. Her lips twitched. “Nothing.” “Then what are you smiling about?” That she most certainly was not going to reveal. “I’m not smiling.” “If you’re not smiling,” he muttered, “then you’re either about to suffer a seizure or sneeze.” “Neither,” she said in a breezy voice. “Just enjoying the excellent weather.” Simon was leaning his head against the back of the chair, so he just rolled it to the side so he could look at her. “And the company’s not that bad,” he teased.

If they hadn’t been about to pull into dock, with her entire family running around them, he would have kissed her. He knew he couldn’t dally with her, and he knew he would never marry her, and still he found himself leaning toward her. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he suddenly felt off-balance and lurched back upright. Anthony, unfortunately, caught the entire episode, and he rather brusquely insinuated himself between Simon and Daphne, grasping her arm with far more strength than grace. “As your eldest brother,” he growled, “I believe it is my honor to escort you ashore.” Simon just bowed and let Anthony have his way, too shaken and angered by his momentary loss of control to argue.

Anthony leveled a stony stare at her across the table. “About why he won’t get married,” she prodded. “Why are you so interested?” he asked wearily. The truth, Daphne feared, lay a little too close to Anthony’s accusations, but she just said, “I’m curious, and besides, I think I have a right to know, since, if I don’t find an acceptable suitor soon, I may become a pariah after the duke drops me.”

“I don’t know why Hastings refuses to marry. All I know is that he has maintained this opinion for as long as I’ve known him.” Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but Anthony cut her off by adding, “And he’s stated it in such a way so that I do not believe his is the weak vow of the beleaguered bachelor.” “Meaning?” “Meaning that unlike most men, when he says he will never marry, he means it.” “I see.” Anthony let out a long, tired breath, and Daphne noticed tiny lines of concern around his eyes that she’d never seen before. “Choose a man from your new crowd of suitors,” he said, “and forget Hastings. He’s a good man, but he’s not for you.”

Daphne latched on to the first part of his sentence. “But you think he’s a good—” “He’s not for you,” Anthony repeated. But Daphne couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, Anthony might be wrong.

But even though Daphne’s dance card was now full within minutes of her arrival at any ball, and even though men fought for the privilege of fetching her a glass of lemonade (Daphne had almost laughed out loud the first time that had happened), she found that no evening was truly memorable unless Simon was at her side. It didn’t matter that he seemed to find it necessary to mention at least once every evening that he was adamantly opposed to the institution of marriage. (Although, to his credit, he usually mentioned this in conjunction with his thankfulness to Daphne for saving him from the multitudes of Ambitious Mamas.) And it didn’t matter that he occasionally fell silent and was even almost rude to certain members of society.

All that seemed to matter were those moments when they were not quite alone (they were never alone), but still somehow left to their own devices. A laughing conversation in a corner, a waltz around a ballroom. Daphne could look into his pale blue eyes and almost forget that she was surrounded by five hundred onlookers, all of whom were inordinately interested in the state of her courtship. And she could almost forget that her courtship was a complete sham.

They had become the best of companions, their conversations ranging from comfortable silences to the wittiest of repartée. At every party, they danced together twice—the maximum permitted without scandalizing society. And Daphne knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was falling in love. The irony was exquisite. She had, of course, begun spending so much time in Simon’s company specifically so that she might attract other men. For his part, Simon had begun spending time in her company so that he might avoid marriage. Come to think of it, Daphne thought, sagging against the wall, the irony was exquisitely painful.

He patted her hand, and smiled, and Daphne noticed with relief that his happiness reached his eyes. Then her relief turned into something a little more precious—joy. Because she had been the one to chase the shadows from his eyes. She wanted to banish them forever, she realized. If only he would let her . . .

Daphne felt something wild and wicked take hold. “Let’s walk in the garden,” she said softly. “We can’t.” “We must.” “We can’t.” The desperation in Simon’s voice told her everything she needed to know. He wanted her. He desired her. He was mad for her. Daphne felt as if her heart was singing the aria from The Magic Flute, somersaulting wildly as it tripped past high C. And she thought—what if she kissed him? What if she pulled him into the garden and tilted her head up and felt his lips touch hers? Would he realize how much she loved him? How much he could grow to love her? And maybe—just maybe he’d realize how happy she made him.

Then maybe he’d stop talking about how determined he was to avoid marriage. “I’m going for a walk in the garden,” she announced. “You may come if you wish.” As she walked away—slowly, so that he might catch up with her—she heard him mutter a heartfelt curse, then she heard his footsteps shortening the distance between them. “Daphne, this is insanity,” Simon said, but the hoarseness in his voice told her he was trying harder to convince himself of that than he was her. She said nothing, just slipped farther into the depths of the garden. “For the love of God, woman, will you listen to me?” His hand closed hard around her wrist, whirling her around. “I promised your brother,” he said wildly. “I made a vow.” She smiled the smile of a woman who knows she is wanted. “Then leave.” “You know I can’t. I can’t leave you out in the garden unprotected. Someone could try to take advantage of you.”

Daphne gave her shoulders a dainty little shrug and tried to wiggle her hand free of his grasp. But his fingers only tightened. And so, although she knew it was not his intention, she let herself be drawn to him, slowly moving closer until they were but a foot apart. Simon’s breathing grew shallow. “Don’t do this, Daphne.” She tried to say something witty; she tried to say something seductive. But her bravado failed her at the last moment. She’d never been kissed before, and now that she had all but invited him to be the first, she didn’t know what to do. His fingers loosened slightly around her wrist, but then they tugged, pulling her along wit...

Many a woman has been ruined by a single kiss. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 May 1813

Taking a deep breath, Simon picked up his letter opener and slit the envelope. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and looked down. Simon, My efforts, as you termed them, were met with success. I have removed myself to London, so that I might be near my family, and await your directive there. Yours, Daphne Simon didn’t know how long he sat there behind his desk, barely breathing, the cream-colored slip of paper hanging from his fingers. Then finally, a breeze washed over him, or perhaps the light changed, or the house creaked—but something broke him out of his reverie and he jumped to his feet, strode into the hall, and bellowed for his butler. “Have my carriage hitched,” he barked when the butler appeared. “I’m going to London.”

Simon’s blood began to pound, and his breath grew uneven. Riding? Was she bloody insane? She was pregnant, for God’s sake. Even he knew that pregnant women weren’t supposed to ride.

“Well, don’t worry.” She bit her lip. “It’s not here.” Simon’s breath caught. “What do you mean?” Her eyes flitted to the side of his face. “I’m not pregnant.” “You’re—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The strangest feeling sank into his body. He didn’t think it was disappointment, but he wasn’t quite sure. “You lied to me?” he whispered. She shook her head fiercely as she sat up to face him. “No!” she cried. “No, I never lied. I swear. I thought I’d conceived. I truly thought I had. But—” She choked on a sob, and squeezed her eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. She hugged her legs to her body and pressed her face against her knees. Simon had never seen her like this, so utterly stricken with grief. He stared at her, feeling agonizingly helpless. All he wanted was to make her feel better, and it didn’t much help to know that he was the cause of her pain. “But what, Daff?” he asked.

When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were huge, and full of grief. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted a child so badly that I somehow willed my courses away. I was so happy last month.” She let out a shaky breath, one that teetered precariously on the edge of a sob. “I waited and waited, even got my woman’s padding ready, and nothing happened.”

It’s a boy for the Duke and Duchess of Hastings! After three girls, society’s most besotted couple has finally produced an heir. This Author can only imagine the level of relief in the Hastings household; after all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an heir. The name of the new babe has yet to be made public, although This Author feels herself uniquely qualified to speculate. After all, with sisters named Amelia, Belinda, and Caroline, could the new Earl Clyvedon be called anything but David? LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 15 December 1817

Simon threw up his arms in amazement, the single-sheet newspaper flying across the room. “How does she know this?” he demanded. “We’ve told no one of our decision to name him David.” Daphne tried not to smile as she watched her husband sputter and storm about the room. “It’s just a lucky guess, I’m sure,” she said, turning her attention back to the newborn in her arms. It was far too early to know if his eyes would remain blue or turn brown like his older sisters’, but already he looked so like his father; Daphne couldn’t imagine that his eyes would spoil the effect by darkening.

Simon’s smile was an endearing cross between sheepish and sly. “Here,” she said, holding David up. “Do you want to hold him?” “Of course.” Simon crossed the room and took the baby into his arms. He cuddled him for several moments, then glanced over at Daphne and grinned. “I think he looks like me.” “I know he does.” Simon kissed him on the nose, and whispered, “Don’t you worry, my little man. I shall love you always. I’ll teach you your letters and your numbers, and how to sit on a horse. And I shall protect you from all the awful people in this world, especially that Whistledown woman . . .”

Her ankles swelled and her cheeks got puffy, and her digestive tract did things that she absolutely did not wish to experience again. She thought of her sister-in-law Lucy, who positively glowed throughout pregnancy—which was a good thing, as Lucy was currently fourteen months pregnant with her fifth child. Or nine months, as the case might be. But Daphne had seen her just a few days earlier, and she looked as if she were fourteen months along. Huge. Staggeringly huge. But still glowing, and with astonishingly dainty ankles.

He’d fallen asleep quickly upon returning home that evening. He’d stripped naked and soaked in a hot bath for nearly an hour, trying to remove the chill from his bones. He hadn’t been completely submerged in The Serpentine as had Edwina, but his legs had been soaked, as had one of his sleeves, and Newton’s strategic shake had guaranteed that not one inch of his body remained warm during the windy ride home in the borrowed curricle.

After his bath he’d crawled into bed, not particularly caring that it was still light outside, and would be for a good hour yet. He was exhausted, and he’d had every intention of falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, not to be awakened until the first streaks of dawn touched the morning. But sometime in the night, his body had grown restless and hungry. And his treacherous mind had filled with the most awful of images. He’d watched it as if floating near the ceiling, and yet he felt everything—his body, naked, moving over a lithe female form; his hands stroking and squeezing warm flesh. The delectable tangle of arms and legs, the musky scent of two bodies in love—it had all been there, hot and vivid in his mind. And then he’d shifted. Just the tiniest bit, perhaps to kiss the faceless woman’s ear. Except as he moved to the side, she was no longer faceless. First appeared a thick lock of dark brown hair, softly curling and tickling at his shoulder. Then he moved even farther . . . And he saw her. Kate Sheffield.

He’d awakened in an instant, sitting bolt upright in bed and shaking from the horror of it. It had been the most vivid erotic dream he’d ever experienced. And his worst nightmare. He’d felt frantically around the sheets with one of his hands, terrified that he’d find the proof of his passion. God help him if he’d actually ejaculated while dreaming of quite the most awful woman of his acquaintance. Thankfully, his sheets were clean, and so, with beating heart and heavy breath, he...

No, if he felt uneasy, if he felt frustrated, if he felt like he wanted to put his damned fist through a brick wall, it was because he was using Maria to banish the nightmare that was Kate Sheffield from his mind. He never wanted to wake up hard and tortured again, knowing that Kate Sheffield was the cause. He wanted to drown himself in another woman until the very memory of the dream dissolved and faded into nothingness. Because God knew he was never going to act on that particular erotic fantasy. He didn’t even like Kate Sheffield. The thought of bedding her made him break out in a cold sweat, even as it swirled a ripple of desire right through his gut.

No, the only way that dream was going to come true was if he were delirious with fever . . . and maybe she’d have to be delirious as well . . . and perhaps they would both have to be stranded on a desert isle, or sentenced to be executed in the morning, or . . . Anthony shuddered. It simply wasn’t going to happen. But bloody hell, the woman must have bewitched him.

Here he was, pouring a glass of the finest whiskey for Maria Rosso, one of the few women of his acquaintance who knew how to appreciate both a fine whiskey and the devilish intoxication that followed, and all he could smell was the damned scent of Kate Sheffield. He knew she was in the house—and he was half ready to kill his mother for that—but this was ridiculous.

Anthony shut the door with a decisive click. Then, some devil on his shoulder surely prodding him, he turned the key in the lock and pocketed

“You,” he boomed, eliminating the distance to the desk in four long strides. “Show yourself.” When Kate didn’t scramble out quickly enough, he reached down, clamped his hand around her upper arm, and hauled her to her feet. “Explain yourself,” he hissed. Kate’s legs nearly buckled as the blood rushed back to her knees, which had been bent for nearly a quarter of an hour. “It was an accident,” she said, grabbing on to the edge of the desk for support. “Funny how those words seem to emerge from your mouth with startling frequency.” “It’s true!” she protested. “I was sitting in the hall, and—” She gulped. He had stepped forward and was now very, very close. “I was sitting in the hall,” she said again, her voice sounding crackly and hoarse, “and I heard you coming. I was just trying to avoid you.”

“And so you invaded my private office?” “I didn’t know it was your office. I—” Kate sucked in her breath. He’d moved even closer, his crisp, wide lapels now only inches from the bodice of her dress. She knew his proximity was deliberate, that he sought to intimidate rather than sed...

“I think perhaps you did know that this was my office,” he murmured, letting his forefinger trail down the side of her cheek. “Perhaps you did not seek to avoid me at all.” Kate swallowed convulsively, long past the point of trying to maintain her composure. “Mmmm?” His finger slid along the line of her jaw. “What do you say to that?” Kate’s lips parted, but she couldn’t have uttered a word if her life had depended on it. He wore no gloves—he must have removed them during his tryst with Maria—and the touch of his skin against hers was so powerful it seemed to control her body. She breathed when he paused, stopped when he moved. She had no doubt that her heart was beating in time to his pulse. “Maybe,” he whispered, so close now that his breath kissed her lips, “you desired somet...

Anthony knew he had to be insane. There could be no other explanation. He’d meant to scare her, terrify her, make her understand that she could never hope to meddle in his affairs and win, and instead . . . He kissed her. Intimidation had been his intention, and so he’d moved closer and closer until she, an innocent, could only be cowed by his presence. She wouldn’t know what it was like to have a man so near that the heat of his body seeped through her clothes, so close that she couldn’t tell where his breath ended and hers began.

She wouldn’t recognize the first prickles of desire, nor would she understand that slow, swirling heat in the core of her being. And that slow, swirling heat was there. He could see it in her face. But she, a complete innocent, would never comprehend what he could see with one look of his experienced eyes. All she would know was that he was looming over her, that he was stronger, more powerful, and that she had made a dreadful mistake by invading his private sanctuary.

He was going to stop right there and leave her bothered and breathless. But when there was barely an inch between them, the pull grew too strong. Her scent was too beguiling, the sound of her breath too arousing. The prickles of desire he’d meant to spark within her suddenly ignited within him, sending a warm claw of need to the very tips of his toes. And the finger he’d been trailing along her cheek—just to torture her, he told himself—suddenly became a hand that cupped the back of her head as his lips took hers in an explosion of anger and desire. She gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage of her parted lips by sliding his tongue between them. She was stiff in his arms, but it seeme...

“Yes, Anthony. We lived here almost exclusively when he was a child. We went to London during the season, of course, since I do love to attend parties and balls, but never for more than a few weeks. It was only after my husband passed away that we moved our primary residence to town.” “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kate murmured. The viscountess turned to her with a wistful expression in her blue eyes. “That is very sweet of you. He has been gone for many years, but I do still miss him each and every day.”

Kate felt a lump forming in her throat. She remembered how well Mary and her father had loved each other, and she knew that she was in the presence of another woman who had experienced true love. And suddenly she felt so very sad. Because Mary had lost her husband and the viscountess had lost hers as well, and . . . And maybe most of all because she would probably never know the bliss of true love herself.

Kate, who was wearing green, held up her sleeve near Penelope’s face, blocking the yellow as best as she could. “Your whole face lights up,” she said. “Don’t tell me that. It will only make the yellow more painful.” Kate offered her a sympathetic smile. “I would loan you one of mine, but I’m afraid it would drag on the floor.” Penelope waved away her offer. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m resigned to my fate. At least it’s better than last year.” Kate raised a brow. “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t out last year.” Penelope winced. “I weighed nearly two stone more than I do now.” “Two stone?” Kate echoed. She couldn’t believe it. Penelope nodded and made a face. “Baby fat. I begged Mama not to force me to come out until I turned eighteen, but she thought a head start might be good for me.”

Kate only had to take one look at Penelope’s face to know that it hadn’t been good for her. She felt a certain kinship with this girl, even though Penelope was nearly three years younger. Both of them knew the singular feeling of not being the most popular girl in the room, knew the exact expression you put on your face when you weren’t asked to dance but you wanted to look as if you didn’t care.

Kate discreetly followed Penelope’s gaze. If Edwina had any competition for the role of 1814’s reigning beauty, it was Cressida Cowper. Tall, slender, with honey-blond hair and sparkling green eyes, Cressida was almost never without a small bevy of admirers. But where Edwina was kind and generous, Cressida was, in Kate’s estimation, a self-centered, ill-mannered witch who took her joy in the torment of others.

Bridgerton offered Penelope his arm, turning his back on Cressida in the process. “I do hate a bully, don’t you?” he murmured. Kate clapped her hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t stifle her giggle. Bridgerton offered her a small, secret smile over Penelope’s head, and in that moment Kate had the oddest feeling that she understood this man completely.

Kate, who, along with the rest of the assembled company, had been staring openmouthed as Bridgerton led Penelope from the room, his head bent to hers as if she were the most fascinating woman ever to walk the earth, turned to see Edwina standing next to her. “I saw the whole thing,” Kate said in a dazed voice. “I heard the whole thing.” “What happened?” “He was . . . he was . . .” Kate stumbled over her words, unsure of how to describe what exactly he’d done. And then she said something she’d never thought possible: “He was a hero.”

And instead he couldn’t stop thinking about Kate. Kate, who, much as she infuriated him, couldn’t help but command his respect. How could he not admire one who clung so steadfastly to her convictions? And Anthony had to admit that the crux of her convictions—devotion to family—was the one principle he held above all else.

He didn’t have to voice his question. It was there in his eyes. “My father was wonderful,” Kate explained, her eyes warming as she reminisced. “Kind and gentle, but stern when he needed to be. But a boy’s father—well, he has to teach his son how to be a man. And to lose a father at eighteen, when you’re just learning what all that means . . .” She let out a long exhale. “It’s probably presumptuous for me even to discuss it, as I’m not a man and therefore couldn’t possibly put myself in your shoes, but I think . . .” She paused, pursing her lips as she considered her words. “Well, I just think it would be very difficult.”

had to be done. But there really wasn’t all that much to sort out. Because everything she had learned in the past few days pointed her conscience in one, singular direction. And she knew that she could no longer oppose Bridgerton’s courtship of Edwina.