Daphne decided she had no doubt that he'd be able to move Nigel.
“Very well,” she said, giving him a nod. “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—”
“You do seem to be the expert on men,” he said, somewhat acerbically, then grunted as he hauled Nigel to his feet.
Nigel promptly reached for Daphne, practically sobbing her name. Simon had to brace his legs to keep him from lunging at her.
Daphne darted back a step. “Yes, well, I do have four brothers. A better education I cannot imagine.”
There was no way of knowing if the duke had intended to answer her, because Nigel chose that moment to regain his energy (although clearly not his equilibrium) and yanked himself free of Simon's grip. He threw himself onto Daphne, making incoherent, drunken noises all the way.
If Daphne hadn't had her back to the wall, she would have been knocked to the ground. As it was, she hit the wall with a bone-jarring thud, knocking all the breath from her body.
“Oh, for the love of Christ,” the duke swore, sounding supremely disgusted. He hauled Nigel off Daphne, then turned to her, and asked, “Can I hit him?”
“Oh, please do go ahead,” she replied, still gasping for breath. She'd tried to be kind and generous toward her erstwhile suitor, but really, enough was enough.
The duke muttered something that sounded like “good” and landed a stunningly powerful blow on Nigel's chin.
Nigel went down like a stone.
Daphne regarded the man on the floor with equanimity. “I don't think he's going to wake up this time.”
Simon shook out his fist. “No.”
Daphne blinked and looked back up. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said, scowling at Nigel.
“What shall we do now?” Her gaze joined his on the man on the floor—now well and truly unconscious.
“Back to the original plan,” he said crisply. “We leave him here while you wait in the library. I'd rather not have to drag him out until I've a carriage waiting.”
Daphne gave him a sensible nod. “Do you need help righting him, or should I proceed directly to the library?”
The duke was silent for a moment. His head tilted this way and that as he analyzed Nigel's position on the floor. “Actually, a bit of help would be greatly appreciated.”
“Really?” Daphne asked, surprised. “I was sure you'd say no.”
That earned her a faintly amused and superior look from the duke. “And is that why you asked?”
“No, of course not,” Daphne replied, slightly offended. “I'm not so stupid as to offer help if I have no intention of giving it. I was merely going to point out that men, in my experience—”
“You have too much experience,” the duke muttered under his breath.
“What?!”
“I beg your pardon,” he amended. “You think you have too much experience.”
Daphne glared at him, her dark eyes smoldering nearly to black. “That is not true, and who are you to say, anyway?”
“No, that's not quite right, either,” the duke mused, completely ignoring her furious question. “I think it's more that I think you think you have too much experience.”
“Why you—You—” As retorts went, it wasn't especially effective, but it was all Daphne could manage to get out. Her powers of speech tended to fail her when she was angry.
And she was really angry.
Simon shrugged, apparently unmoved by her furious visage. “My dear Miss Bridgerton—”
“If you call me that one more time, I swear I shall scream.”
“No, you won't,” he said with a rakish smile. “That would draw a crowd, and if you recall, you don't want to be seen with me.”
“I am considering risking it,” Daphne said, each word squeezed out between her teeth.
Simon crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the wall. “Really?” he drawled. “This I should like to see.”
Daphne nearly threw up her arms in frustration. “Forget it. Forget me. Forget this entire evening. I'm leaving.”
She turned around, but before she could even take a step, her movement was arrested by the sound of the duke's voice.
“I thought you were going to help me.”
Drat. He had her there. She turned slowly around. “Why, yes,” she said, her voice patently false, “I'd be delighted.”
“You know,” he said innocently, “if you didn't want to help you shouldn't have—”
“I said I'd help,” she snapped.
Simon smiled to himself. She was such an easy mark. “Here is what we are going to do,” he said. “I'm going to haul him to his feet and drape his right arm over my shoulders. You will go around to the other side and shore him up.”
Daphne did as she was bid, grumbling to herself about his autocratic attitude. But she didn't voice a single complaint. After all, for all his annoying ways, the Duke of Hastings was helping her out of a possibly embarrassing scandal.
Of course if anyone found her in this position, she'd find herself in even worse straits.
“I have a better idea,” she said suddenly. “Let's just leave him here.”
The duke's head swung around to face her, and he looked as if he'd dearly like to toss her through a window—preferably one that was still closed. “I thought,” he said, clearly working hard to keep his voice even, “that you didn't want to leave him on the floor.”