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Men, she thought with disgust, were interested only in those women who terrified them.
Just when she’d decided that her would-be rescuer was irredeemingly arrogant, he had to go and smile at her like that. It was one of those boyish grins, the kind that melted female hearts within a ten-mile radius.
There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.
She refused—absolutely refused—to let him see how he’d affected her.
“And thank you. It’s very kind of you to help me in this way.” “I’m rarely kind,” he muttered. “Really?” she murmured, allowing herself a tiny smile. “How odd. I couldn’t possibly think of anything else to call it. But then again, I’ve learned that men—”
Simon took Daphne’s gloved hand and laid a scrupulously polite kiss on her knuckles. “I am honored to officially make your acquaintance, Miss Bridgerton.”
He wanted her. He wanted her so desperately he was straining against his clothing, but he could never, ever so much as touch her. Because to do so would be to shatter every last one of her dreams, and rake or not, Simon wasn’t certain he could live with himself if he did that.
No one ever has any romantic interest in me.”
The Duke of Hastings. Daphne decided then and there that she’d be a fool if she didn’t fall in love with him.
As she spoke, she turned her face toward his, and in that instant, with the wind catching her hair and painting her cheeks pink, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Simon nearly forgot to breathe. Her lush mouth was caught somewhere between a laugh and a smile, and the sun glinted almost red on her hair. Here on the water, away from stuffy ballrooms, with the fresh air swirling about them, she looked natural and beautiful and just being in her presence made Simon want to grin like an idiot.
Instead, she was wondering why she had the most bizarre urge to throw her arms around the duke and never let go.
“Any man, you’ll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool.”
always been the girl everyone liked but no one adored,
Although Simon was still quite vocal on the subject of marriage and his determination never to enter that blessed state, she did on occasion catch him looking at her in ways that made her think he might desire her.
sometimes she caught him looking at her in the same hungry, feral way he’d done that first evening.
“You’re not supposed to be so obvious,” he said in a stage whisper, purposely loud enough for Simon to hear. “He’ll figure out that you like him.”
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 I were exotic and dashing, and the sort of female men write poetry about, I suppose I should want to travel.” “You are the sort of female men write poetry about,” Simon reminded her with a slightly sarcastic tilt to his head. “It was just bad poetry.”
He wanted her. He desired her. He was mad for her.
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.
ahhhh!!
Simon was undone.
“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.”
“Colin, I can’t sit here and stare at the ceiling while Simon dies.” Her voice broke, and she added, “I love him.”
They didn’t know anything about cruel words and shattered dreams. They didn’t know the impossible feeling of rejection.
“You’re worth it.” Then she walked slowly back to her horse.
He burned for her, ached for the day when he could lay her down and cover her body with his, slowly entering her until she moaned his name—
“I thought you might like something of your own. All of the Hastings jewelry was chosen for someone else. This I chose for you.”
“May I put it on?” he asked softly. She nodded and started to remove her glove. But Simon stilled her fingers with his own, then took over the task. He gave the tip of each finger a tug, then slowly slid the glove from her hand. The motion was unabashedly erotic, clearly an abbreviated version of what he wanted to do: remove every stitch from her body.
“How did you know I like emeralds?” she asked. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “They reminded me of your eyes.” “Of my—” Her head cocked slightly as her mouth twisted into what could only be described as a scolding grin. “Simon, my eyes are brown.” “They’re mostly brown,” he corrected.
“No,” she said slowly, as if she were speaking to a person of considerably small intellect, “they’re brown.” He reached out and brushed one gentle finger along the bottom edge of her eye, her delicate lashes tickling his skin like a butterfly kiss. “Not around the edge.”
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself, Mother.” Violet groaned. “You won’t. Trust me. Men are . . .” Daphne seized upon the half-finished thought. “Men are what? What, Mother? What were you going to say?” By now Violet’s entire face had turned bright red, and her neck and ears had progressed well into the pinks. “Men are easily pleased,” she mumbled. “He won’t be disappointed.”
To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 2 June 1813
“I own this room,” he growled. “I own you.”
ewwww
“What am I to do with you?” He looked her way and grinned. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” He frowned. “I don’t think you can take that back.”
“Heavens above,” she said under her breath, “why did you have to go out and get so drunk?” He wasn’t supposed to hear her words, but he must have done, because he cocked his head, and said, “I wanted you back.”
“The thing is, Daphrey—” He shook his head in much the same manner a dog shakes off water. “DaphNe,” he said carefully. “DaphNe DaphNe.”
stop hahahaha
He loved her. He worshipped her. He’d walk across fire for her. He—
“Before I met you I was only half-alive.” “And now?” she whispered. “And now?” he echoed. “‘Now’ suddenly means happiness, and joy, and a wife I adore. But do you know what?”
“‘Now’ doesn’t even compare to tomorrow. And tomorrow couldn’t possibly compete with the next day. As perfect as I feel this very moment, tomorrow is going to be even better. Ah, Daff,” he murmured, moving his lips to hers, “every day I’m going to love you more. I promise you that. Every day . . .”
“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 . . .”
