“Of course not.”
Anthony went pale. “Is Daphne ill?”
Simon's head snapped up. “Not that she's told me. Why? Does she look ill? Has she—”
“No, she looks fine.” Anthony's eyes filled with curiosity. “Simon,” he finally asked, shaking his head, “what are you doing here? It's obvious you love her. And much as I can't comprehend it, she seems to love you as well.”
Simon pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the pounding headache he never seemed to be without these days. “There are things you don't know,” he said wearily, shutting his eyes against the pain. “Things you could never understand.”
Anthony was silent for a full minute. Finally, just when Simon opened his eyes, Anthony pushed away from the desk and walked back to the door. “I won't drag you back to London,” he said in a low voice. “I should but I won't. Daphne needs to know you came for her, not because her older brother had a pistol at your back.”
Simon almost pointed out that that was why he'd married her, but he bit his tongue. That wasn't the truth. Not all of it, at least. In another lifetime, he'd have been on bended knee, begging for her hand.
“You should know, however,” Anthony continued, “that people are starting to talk. Daphne returned to London alone, barely a fortnight after your rather hasty marriage. She's keeping a good face about it, but it's got to hurt. No one has actually come out and insulted her, but there's only so much well-meaning pity a body can take. And that damned Whistledown woman has been writing about her.”
Simon winced. He'd not been back in England long, but it was long enough to know that the fictitious Lady Whistledown could inflict a great deal of damage and pain.
Anthony swore in disgust. “Get yourself to a doctor, Hastings. And then get yourself back to your wife.” With that, he strode out the door.
Simon stared at the envelope in his hands for many minutes before opening it. Seeing Anthony had been a shock. Knowing he'd just been with Daphne made Simon's heart ache.
Bloody hell. He hadn't expected to miss her.
This was not to say, however, that he wasn't still furious with her. She'd taken something from him that he quite frankly hadn't wanted to give. He didn't want children. He'd told her that. She'd married him knowing that. And she'd tricked him.
Or had she? He rubbed his hands wearily against his eyes and forehead as he tried to remember the exact details of that fateful morning. Daphne had definitely been the leader in their lovemaking, but he distinctly recalled his own voice, urging her on. He should not have encouraged what he knew he could not stop.
She probably wasn't pregnant, anyway, he reasoned. Hadn't it taken his own mother over a decade to produce a single living child?
But when he was alone, lying in bed at night, he knew the truth. He hadn't fled just because Daphne had disobeyed him, or because there was a chance he'd sired a child.
He'd fled because he couldn't bear the way he'd been with her. She'd reduced him to the stuttering, stammering fool of his childhood. She'd rendered him mute, brought back that awful, choking feeling, the horror of not being able to say what he felt.
He just didn't know if he could live with her if it meant going back to being the boy who could barely speak. He tried to remind himself of their courtship—their mock-courtship, he thought with a smile—and to remember how easy it had been to be with her, to talk with her. But every memory was tainted by where it had all led—to Daphne's bedroom that hideous morning, with him tripping over his tongue and choking on his own throat.
And he hated himself like that.
So he'd fled to another of his country estates—as a duke, he had a number of them. This particular house was in Wiltshire, which, he had reasoned, wasn't too terribly far from Clyvedon. He could get back in a day and a half if he rode hard enough. It wasn't so much like he'd run away, if he could go back so easily.
And now it looked like he was going to have to go back.
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.”
Chapter 20
The marriage of the season seems to have gone sour. The Duchess of Hastings (formerly Miss Bridgerton) returned to London nearly two months ago, and This Author has seen neither hide nor hair of her new husband, the duke.
Rumor has it that he is not at Clyvedon, where the once happy couple took their honeymoon. Indeed, This Author cannot find anyone who professes to know his whereabouts. (If her grace knows, she is not telling, and furthermore, one rarely has the opportunity to ask, as she has shunned the company of all except her rather large and extensive family.)
It is, of course, This Author's place and indeed duty to speculate on the source of such rifts, but This Author must confess that even she is baffled. They seemed so very much in love…
LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 AUGUST 1813
The trip took two days, which was two days longer than Simon would have liked to be alone with his thoughts. He'd brought a few books to read, hoping to keep himself distracted during the tedious journey, but whenever he managed to open one it sat unread in his lap.