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Advertisement Advertisement. Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads. Simon's fists balled at his sides, and his little chin jutted out as he said, "Don't you h-h-h-h-h-h- h—" The duke's face turned deathly pale.

What could I have possibly done I should have let the title go to my cousin. Nurse Hopkins hugged the boy close. And if anyone can learn to talk properly, I know it's you. While the Duke of Hastings removed himself to London and tried to pretend he had no son, she spent every waking minute with Simon, sounding out words and syllables, praising him lavishly when he got something right, and giving him encouraging words when he didn't.

The progress was slow, but Simon's speech did improve. By the time he was six, "d-d-d-d-d-d-d- don't" had turned into "d-d-don't," and by the time he was eight, he was managing entire sentences without faltering.

He still ran into trouble when he was upset, and Nurse had to remind him often that he needed to remain calm and collected if he wanted to get the words out in one piece. But Simon was determined, and Simon was smart, and perhaps most importantly, he was damned stubborn.

He learned to take breaths before each sentence, and to think about his words before he attempted to say them. He studied the feel of his mouth when he spoke correctly, and tried to analyze what went wrong when he didn't. And finally, at the age of eleven, he turned to Nurse Hopkins, paused to collect his thoughts, and said, "I think it is time we went to see my father.

The duke had not laid eyes on the boy in seven years. And he had not answered a single one of the letters Simon had sent him. Simon had sent nearly a hundred. Simon nodded. I'll order the carriage. We'll leave for London on the morrow. Simon gazed at the busy London streetscape with wonder as Nurse Hopkins led him up the steps.

Neither had ever visited Basset House before, and so Nurse didn't know what to do when she reached the front door other than knock. The butler examined Simon, recognized immediately that he had the look of the Bassets, and ushered them in. He was always most likely to stutter when he was angry. The last I heard, he said he had no son. He looked quite pained as he said it, so no one pursued the conversation. We—the servants, that is—assumed you'd passed on.

How could you have assumed the boy was dead if his father was not in mourning? Mourning wouldn't have altered his costume. He was trying too hard to get his emotions under control. He had to. There was no way he'd be able to talk with his father while his blood was racing so. The butler nodded. I'll alert him immediately to your arrival. Simon remained in the center of the room, his arms angry sticks at his sides as he took deep breaths. You can do this, he shouted in his mind.

You can do this. Nurse turned to him, saw him trying to control his temper, and immediately gasped. She knew better than anyone what would happen if Simon tried to face his father before he calmed down.

And make sure to think about your words before you speak. If you can control—" "I see you're still mollycoddling the boy," came an imperious voice from the doorway. Nurse Hopkins straightened and turned slowly around. She tried to think of something respectful to say. She tried to think of anything that would smooth over this awful situation.

But when she looked at the duke, she saw Simon in him, and her rage began anew. The duke might look just like his son, but he was certainly no father to him. Hastings whirled around, not even noticing that his son had spoken clearly. Simon nodded curtly.

He'd managed one sentence properly, but it had been a short one, and he didn't want to push his luck. Not when he was this upset. Normally, he could go days without a stutter, but now The way his father stared at him made him feel like an infant. An idiot infant. And his tongue suddenly felt awkward and thick. The duke smiled cruelly. What do you have to say? You can do it, sweetling. Simon had come here to prove himself to his father, and now his nurse was treating him like a baby.

Father and son stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, until finally the duke swore and stalked toward the door. This was no way to speak to a child. Simon took three long breaths in through his nose, his mouth still clamped together in anger.

He forced his jaw to relax and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to remind himself of how it felt to speak properly. Finally, just as the duke was about to dismiss him again, he opened his mouth and said, "I am your son. Not much of it, but there was something there, lurking in the depths; something that gave Simon a whisper of hope.

And Simon panicked. But his throat felt tight, and his tongue felt thick, and his father's eyes started to narrow And, as hatred flooded his body and poured from his eyes, he made a solemn vow. If he couldn't be the son his father wanted, then by God, he'd be the exact opposite..

Chapter 1 The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of society. Such industriousness on the part of the viscountess and the late viscount is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children.

Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth— orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize their names.

Furthermore, the sight of the viscountess and all eight of her children in one room is enough to make one fear one is seeing double— or triple— or worse. Never has This Author seen a collection of siblings so ludicrously alike in their physical regard. Although This Author has never taken the time to record eye color, all eight possess similar bone structure and the same thick, chestnut hair.

One must pity the viscountess as she seeks advantageous marriages for her brood that she did not produce a single child of more fashionable coloring. Still, there are advantages to a family of such consistent looks— there can be no doubt that all eight are of legitimate parentage. Ah, Gentle Reader, your devoted Author wishes that that were the case amid all large families Her daughter Daphne wisely made no comment and pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery.

She smoothed the sheet of paper out on her lap and read the paragraph about her family. Blinking, she looked up. In fact, it's a veritable benediction compared to what she wrote about the Featheringtons last week. After nearly two seasons in London, the mere mention of the word husband was enough to set her temples pounding.

She wanted to marry, truly she did, and she wasn't even holding out for a true love match. Thus far, four men had asked for her hand, but when Daphne had thought about living the rest of her days in the company of any of them, she just couldn't do it. There were a number of men she thought might make reasonably good husbands, but the problem was—none of them was interested.

Oh, they all liked her. Everyone liked her. Everyone thought she was funny and kind and a quick wit, and no one thought her the least bit unattractive, but at the same time, no one was dazzled by her beauty, stunned into speechlessness by her presence, or moved to write poetry in her honor. Men, she thought with disgust, were interested only in those women who terrified them.

No one seemed inclined to court someone like her. They all adored her, or so they said, because she was so easy to talk to, and she always seemed to understand how a man felt. As one of the men Daphne had thought might make a reasonably good husband had said, "Deuce take it, Daff, you're just not like regular females. You're positively normal. Daphne looked down and noticed that her hand was clenched into a fist. Then she looked up and realized her mother was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say something.

Since she had already exhaled, Daphne cleared her throat, and said, "I'm sure Lady Whistledown's little column is not going to hurt my chances for a husband. Daphne's fingernails bit her palms as she willed herself not to make a retort. She knew her mother had only her best interests at heart, she knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother, too. In fact, until Daphne had reached marriageable age, Violet had been positively the best of mothers.

She still was, when she wasn't despairing over the fact that after Daphne she had three more daughters to marry off. Violet pressed a delicate hand to her chest. It was always wise to proceed with caution when contradicting her mother. Which is more than one can say for most large families of the ton. It's her job to bring such things up. She planted her hands on her slim hips, then changed her mind and shook her finger in the air. I've never heard of any Whistledowns.

Whoever this depraved woman is, I doubt she's one of us. As if anyone of breeding would write such wicked lies. Did you think she was some sort of impostor, peeking in windows and listening at doors? Daphne bit back another smile. But it was too much fun to tease her mother. No friend of mine would ever stoop so low. But I'm certain it's someone we know. No interloper could ever obtain the information she reports. My puny little embargo would do nothing except make me look ignorant when everyone else is chuckling over her latest gossip.

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. Everyone forked over their pennies, and somewhere some meddlesome woman was getting very rich.

While Violet paced the room and huffed about this "hideous slight" against her family, Daphne looked up to make certain her mother wasn't paying her any attention, then let her eyes drop to peruse the rest of the scandal sheet. What set it apart from any previous society news sheets was that the author actually listed her subjects' names in full. There was no hiding behind abbreviations such as Lord Sand Lady G If Lady Whistledown wanted to write about someone, she used his full name.

The ton declared themselves scandalized, but they were secretly fascinated. This most recent edition was typical Whistledown. Aside from the short piece on the Bridgertons—which was really no more than a description of the family— Lady Whistledown had recounted the events at the previous night's ball. Daphne hadn't attended, as it had been her younger sister's birthday, and the Bridgertons always made a big fuss about birthdays.

And with eight children, there were a lot of birthdays to celebrate. Daphne looked up, refusing to feel the least bit guilty. Apparently Cecil Tumbley knocked over an entire tower of champagne glasses last night. Mentions who was talking to whom, what everyone was wearing—" "And I suppose she felt the need to offer her opinions on that point, "Violet cut in.

Daphne smiled wickedly. You know that Mrs. Featherington has always looked dreadful in purple. Daphne could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to maintain the composure she deemed appropriate for a viscountess and mother. But within two seconds, she was grinning and sitting next to her daughter on the sofa.

Did we miss anything important? Better, probably. I'm certain we had better food last night than they did at the ball. And give that back. Daphne read: "The rake formerly known as Earl Clyvedon has finally seen fit to grace London with his presence.

Can it be any coincidence that he has returned only now that the old duke is dead? Isn't Clyvedon one of Anthony's friends? And Eton as well, I think. Always at odds with his father. But reputed to be quite brilliant. I'm fairly sure that Anthony said he took a first in mathematics.

Which," she added with a maternal roll of her eyes, "is more than I can say for any of my children. She looked back down at the paper in her hands, her eyes straying to the new duke's name.

Violet looked at her sharply. You're required to love us even when we vex you. Her mother could be overly inquisitive, and her father had been more interested in hounds and hunting than he'd been in society affairs, but theirs had been a warm marriage, filled with love, laughter, and children. His companion was none other than Anthony Bridgerton, Daphne's eldest brother.

The two cut a striking pair, both tall and athletic, with thick dark hair. But where Anthony's eyes were the same deep chocolate brown as his sister's, Simon's were icy blue, with an oddly penetrating gaze. It was those eyes as much as anything that had earned him his reputation as a man to be reckoned with. When he stared at a person, clear and unwavering, men grew uncomfortable.

Women positively shivered. But not Anthony. The two men had known each other for years, and Anthony just laughed when Simon raised a brow and turned his icy gaze upon him. But you had your revenge the next night in the form of a dozen eels in my bed. Anthony was a good friend, just the sort a man would want by his side in a pinch. He'd been the first person Simon had looked up upon returning to England. He never answered to anything else. He knew he was supposed to cherish his birthright and display unwavering pride in the Basset family's illustrious history, but the truth was it all made him sick inside.

He'd spent his entire life not living up to his father's expectations; it seemed ridiculous now to try to live up to his name. I might finally get some peace next time I escort my sister to a ball.

She says what she means, and—" Simon's eyes grew somewhat shuttered. Simon gave his head a little shake. Just that she was rather kind to me as a child. I spent a few school holidays at her house with Riverdale. Her nephew, you know. So you have no intention of entering society. I'm impressed by your resolve.

Those fire-breathing dragons with daughters of—God help us— marriageable age. You can run, but you'll never manage to hide from them. And I should warn you, my own is the worst of the lot. And here I thought Africa was dangerous. And when they find you, you will find yourself trapped in conversation with a pale young lady all dressed in white who cannot converse on topics other than the weather, who received vouchers to Almack's, and hair ribbons.

If it were up to me, I'd avoid society functions like the plague. But my sister made her bow last year, and I'm forced to escort her from time to time. Guaranteed to make certain no one forgets who you are. Why don't you join me? She's the exception that proves the rule. You'll like her immensely. Was Anthony playing matchmaker? He couldn't tell. As if Anthony were reading his thoughts, he laughed. You're a bit too brooding for her tastes.

We've had offers from one man old enough to be her father, another old enough to be her father's younger brother, one who was rather too high in the instep for our often boisterous clan, and then this week, dear God, that was the worst!

Anthony gave his temples a weary rub. You'd think, after our rakish days, I'd be completely without feelings—" "Really? Anthony just shrugged again, as if he couldn't imagine treating his sister in any other way. It's the least I can do. Anthony groaned. He had no plans to start a family of his own, but maybe if he'd had one to begin with, his life would have turned out a bit differently.

We never take meals formally when it's just family. And I'll see you at the Danbury bash first? My aim is to be in and out in under thirty minutes. But Anthony's snort of laughter was not terribly reassuring. Chapter 2 The new Duke of Hastings is a most interesting character. While it is common knowledge that he was not on favorable terms with his father, even This Author is unable to learn the reason for the estrangement.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 26 April Later that week, Daphne found herself standing on the fringes of Lady Danbury's ballroom, far away from the fashionable crowd. She was quite content with her position. Normally she would have enjoyed the festivities; she liked a good party as well as the next young lady, but earlier that evening, Anthony had informed her that Nigel Berbrooke had sought him out two days earlier and asked for her hand. Anthony had, of course, refused again!

After all, two marriage proposals in two weeks did not paint a picture of a man who accepted defeat easily. Across the ballroom she could see him looking this way and that, and she shrank further into the shadows. She had no idea how to deal with the poor man. He wasn't very bright, but he also wasn't unkind, and though she knew she had to somehow put an end to his infatuation, she was finding it far easier to take the coward's way out and simply avoid him. She was considering slinking into the ladies' retiring room when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

No other words were necessary. I understand completely. There is no other explanation. She was a perfectly reasonable mother until you reached marriageable age.

You're a full eight years older than I am! I received a list last year. And lately she's been threatening to deliver them to me on a weekly basis. She badgers me on the issue of marriage far more than you could ever imagine. After all, bachelors are a challenge.

Spinsters are merely pathetic. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm female. I don't notice those things. Heavens, no. What can you be thinking? Just to torture Mother. I'm going peruse it right in front of her, pull out my quizzing glass—" "You don't have a quizzing glass. She will kill you. And then, somehow, she'll find a way to blame me. I'm sure you'll have no end of cutting remarks.

The Viscountess Bridgerton had listed the names of eight women. Eight very eligible, very wealthy young women. Philipa Featherington is as dumb as a post. Three of the five married last season. Mother is still berating me for letting them slip through my fingers. Violet Bridgerton was undeterred in her mission to marry off her children. Anthony, her eldest son, and Daphne, her eldest daughter, had borne the brunt of the pressure, although Daphne suspected that the viscountess might have cheerfully married off ten-year-old Hyacinth if she'd received a suitable offer.

What are you doing so far off in the corner? Three times this week she has reminded me I may have to provide the next viscount, if Anthony here doesn't get busy.

She shot them both an irritated scowl. Of course now that you lot have found me, I shan't be able to avoid him for long. They each sported thick chestnut hair—much the same color as her own— and more to the point, they could not go anywhere in polite society without a small gaggle of twittering young ladies following them about.

And where a gaggle of twittering young ladies went, Nigel Berbrooke was sure to follow. Already Daphne could see heads turning in their direction. Ambitious mamas were nudging their daughters and pointing to the two Bridgerton brothers, off by themselves with no company save for their sister.

Somewhat absentmindedly, she handed him the list of Anthony's supposed brides. At Benedict's loud chortle, Anthony crossed his arms, and said, "Try not to have too much fun at my expense. I predict you'll be receiving a similar list next week. Although the funds I sent you should have lasted you at least until—" "Stop," Colin said helplessly, laughter still tingeing his voice.

Tonight I merely wish to enjoy the company of my beloved family. Although I must say the weather is not nearly so fine as on the Continent, and as for the women, well, England would be hard pressed to compete with the signorina I—" Daphne punched him in the arm. Of all her siblings, Colin was the closest to her in age—only eighteen months her elder. As children, they had been inseparable—and always in trouble. Colin was a natural prankster, and Daphne had never needed much convincing to go along with his schemes.

Colin shook his head. Like all Bridgerton males, he was tall, so he didn't have to stretch very far. Colin shuddered. I have no wish to be flayed alive by that dragon. His head didn't move, but his eyes flicked off to the left. Daphne followed his line of vision to see Lady Danbury marching slowly toward them. Lady Danbury's often cutting wit was legendary among the ton.

Daphne had always suspected that a sentimental heart beat under her acerbic exterior, but still, it was always terrifying when Lady Danbury pressed one into conversation. Daphne shushed him and offered the old lady a hesitant smile.

Lady Danbury's brows rose, and when she was but four feet away from the group of Bridgertons, she stopped, and barked, "Don't pretend you don't see me! Since her brothers appeared to have gone temporarily mute except for Benedict, of course, but Daphne didn't think that grunts of pain counted as intelligible speech Daphne swallowed, and said, "I hope I did not give that impression, Lady Danbury, for—" "Not you," Lady Danbury said imperiously.

She jabbed her cane into the air, making a perfectly horizontal line that ended perilously close to Colin's stomach. Lady Danbury flicked the men the briefest of glances before turning back to Daphne, and saying, "Mr. Berbrooke was asking after you. And no, I did not tell him where you were. You"— she pointed the cane at Anthony—"I'm inclined to be favorable toward, since you refused Berbrooke's suit on your sister's behalf, but the rest of you Daphne nodded.

This, he thought with a chuckle, was truly remarkable, considering the fact that he was about to attend a society ball and thus subject himself to all the horrors Anthony Bridgerton had laid out before him earlier that afternoon. But he could console himself with the knowledge that after today, he needn't bother with such functions again; as he had told Anthony earlier that afternoon, he was only attending this particular ball out of loyalty to Lady Danbury, who, despite her curmudgeonly ways, had always been quite nice to him as a child.

His good mood, he was coming to realize, derived from the simple fact that he was pleased to be back in England. Not that he hadn't enjoyed his journeys across the globe. He'd traveled the length and breadth of Europe, sailed the exquisitely blue seas of the Mediterranean, and delved into the mysteries of North Africa. From there he'd gone on to the Holy Land, and then, when inquiries revealed that it was not yet time to return home, he crossed the Atlantic and explored the West Indies.

At that point he considered moving on to the United States of America, but the new nation had seen fit to enter into conflict with Britain, so Simon had stayed away. Besides, that was when he'd learned that his father, ill for several years, had finally died.

It was ironic, really. Simon wouldn't have traded his years of exploration for anything. And yet the only reason the then-twenty-two-year-old Simon had left England was because his father had suddenly decided that he was finally willing to accept his son. Simon hadn't been willing to accept his father, though, and so he'd simply packed his bags and left the country, preferring exile to the old duke's hypocritical overtures of affection.

It had all started when Simon had finished at Oxford. The duke hadn't originally wanted to pay for his son's schooling; Simon had once seen a letter written to a tutor stating that he refused to let his idiot son make a fool of the family at Eton.

But Simon had had a hungry mind as well as a stubborn heart, and so he'd ordered a carriage to take him to Eton, knocked on the headmaster's door, and announced his presence. It had been the most terrifying thing he'd ever done, but he'd somehow managed to convince the headmaster that the mix-up was the school's fault, that somehow Eton must have lost his enrollment papers and fees. He'd copied all of his father's mannerisms, raising an arrogant brow, lifting his chin, and looking down his nose, and generally appearing as if he thought he owned the world.

And the entire time, he'd been quaking in his shoes, terrified that at any moment his words would grow garbled and land on top of each other, that "I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am here to begin classes," would instead come out as, "I am Earl Clyvedon, and I am h-h-h-h-h-h—" But it hadn't, and the headmaster, who'd spent enough years educating England's elite to immediately recognize Simon as a member of the Basset family, had enrolled him posthaste and without question.

It had taken several months for the duke who was always quite busy with his own pursuits to learn of his son's new status and change in residence. By that point, Simon was well ensconced at Eton, and it would have looked very bad if the duke had pulled the boy out of school for no reason. And the duke didn't like to look bad. Simon had often wondered why his father hadn't chosen to make an overture at that time. Clearly Simon wasn't tripping over his every word at Eton; the duke would have heard from the headmaster if his son weren't able to keep up with his studies.

Simon's speech still occasionally slipped, but by then he'd grown remarkably proficient in covering up his mistakes with a cough or, if he was lucky enough to be taking a meal at the time, a well-timed sip of tea or milk. But the duke never even wrote him a letter.

Simon supposed his father had grown so used to ignoring his son that it didn't even matter that he wasn't proving to be an embarrassment to the Basset name. After Eton, Simon followed the natural progression to Oxford, where he earned the reputations of both scholar and rake. Truth be told, he hadn't deserved the label of rake any more than most of the young bucks at university, but Simon's somewhat aloof demeanor somehow fed the persona. Simon wasn't exactly certain how it had happened, but gradually he became aware that his peers craved his approval.

He was intelligent and athletic, but it seemed his elevated status had more to do with his manner than anything else. Because Simon didn't speak when words were not necessary, people judged him to be arrogant, just as a future duke should be. Because he preferred to surround himself with only those friends with whom he truly felt comfortable, people decided he was exceptionally discriminating in his choice of companions, just as a future duke should be.

He wasn't very talkative, but when he did say something, he had a quick and often ironic wit— just the sort of humor that guaranteed that people would hang on his every word. And again, because he didn't constantly run off at the mouth, as did so many of the ton, people were even more obsessed with what he had to say.

He was called "supremely confident," "heart stoppingly handsome," and "the perfect specimen of English manhood. The women swooned at his feet. Simon never could quite believe it all, but he enjoyed his status nonetheless, taking what was offered him, running wild with his friends, and enjoying the company of all the young widows and opera singers who sought his attention—and every escapade was all the more delicious for knowing that his father must disapprove.

But, as it turned out, his father didn't entirely disapprove. Unbeknownst to Simon, the Duke of Hastings had already begun to grow interested in the progress of his only son. He requested academic reports from the university and hired a Bow Street Runner to keep him apprised of Simon's extracurricular activities.

And eventually, the duke stopped expecting every missive to contain tales of his son's idiocy. It would have been impossible to pinpoint exactly when his change of heart occurred, but one day the duke realized that his son had turned out rather nicely, after all. The duke puffed out with pride. As always, good breeding had proven true in the end. He should have known that Basset blood could not produce an imbecile. Upon finishing Oxford with a first in mathematics, Simon came to London with his friends.

He had, of course, taken bachelor's lodgings, having no wish to reside with his father. And as Simon went out in society, more and more people misinterpreted his pregnant pauses for arrogance and his small circle of friends for exclusivity. His reputation was sealed when Beau Brummel—the then recognized leader of society—had asked a rather involved question about some trivial new fashion.

Brummel's tone had been condescending and he had clearly hoped to embarrass the young lord. As all London knew, Brummel loved nothing better than to reduce England's elite into blithering idiots. And so he had pretended to care about Simon's opinion, ending his question with a drawled, "Don't you think? By the next afternoon, Simon might as well have been the king of society.

The irony was unnerving. Simon didn't care for Brummel or his tone, and he would probably have delivered a more loquacious set-down if he'd been sure he could do so without stumbling over his words. And yet in this particular instance, less had most definitely proven to be more, and Simon's terse sentence had turned out to be far more deadly than any long-winded speech he might have uttered.

Word of the brilliant and devastatingly handsome Hastings heir naturally reached the duke's ears. And although he did not immediately seek Simon out, Simon began to hear bits and pieces of gossip that warned him that his relationship with his father might soon see a change.

The duke had laughed when he'd heard of the Brummel incident, and said, "Naturally. And then the two came face-to-face at a London ball. In the centre of this gathering storm stands an improbably long-lived and immensely powerful figure whose hatred of the League knows no bounds…. Both possess fantastic powers but young Nancy, being a half-angel, even more sot han her mother. While Ingrid dedicates herself to protecting the United States and its citizens from its enemies abroad, Nancy is dedicating herself to do good and help the downtrodden, the needy and the sick while leading her amateur musical band.

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