It’s marriage for the Duke of Hastings and Miss Bridgerton!
This Author must take this opportunity to remind you, dear reader, that the forthcoming nuptials were predicted in this very column. It has not escaped the note of This Author that when this newspaper reports a new attachment between an eligible gentleman and an unmarried lady, the odds in the betting books at gentleman’s clubs change within hours, and always in favor of marriage.
Although This Author is not allowed in White’s, she has reason to believe that the official odds concerning the marriage of the duke and Miss Bridgerton were 2–1 for.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 May 1813
The rest of the week flew by in a rush. Daphne didn’t see Simon for several days. She might have thought he’d left town, except that Anthony told her he’d been over to Hastings House to settle the details of the marriage contract.
Much to Anthony’s surprise, Simon had refused to accept even a penny as dowry. Finally, the two men had decided that Anthony would put the money his father had put aside for Daphne’s marriage in a separate estate with himself as the trustee. It would be hers to spend or save as she liked.
“You can pass it along to your children,” Anthony suggested.
Daphne only smiled. It was either that or cry.
A few days after that, Simon called upon Bridgerton House in the afternoon. It was two days before the wedding.
Daphne waited in the drawing room after Humboldt announced his arrival. She sat primly on the edge of the damask sofa, her back straight and her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked, she was sure, the very model of genteel English womanhood.
She felt a bundle of nerves.
Correction, she thought, as her stomach turned itself inside out, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges.
She looked down at her hands and realized that her fingernails were leaving red, crescent-shaped indentations on her palms.
Second correction, a bundle of nerves with frayed edges with an arrow stuck through them. Maybe a flaming arrow at that.
The urge to laugh was almost as overwhelming as it was inappropriate. She had never felt nervous at seeing Simon before. In fact, that had been possibly the most remarkable aspect of their friendship. Even when she caught him gazing at her with smoldering heat, and she was sure that her eyes reflected the same need, she had felt utterly comfortable with him. Yes, her stomach flipped and her skin tingled, but those were symptoms of desire, not of unease. First and foremost, Simon had been her friend, and Daphne knew that the easy, happy feeling she’d experienced whenever he was near was not something to be taken for granted.
She was confident that they would find their way back to that sense of comfort and companionship, but after the scene in Regent’s Park, she very much feared that this would occur later rather than sooner.
“Good day, Daphne.”
Simon appeared in the doorway, filling it with his marvelous presence. Well, perhaps his presence wasn’t quite as marvelous as usual. His eyes still sported matching purple bruises, and the one on his chin was starting to turn an impressive shade of green.
Still, it was better than a bullet in the heart.
“Simon,” Daphne replied. “How nice to see you. What brings you to Bridgerton House?”
He gave her a surprised look. “Aren’t we betrothed?”
She blushed. “Yes, of course.”
“It was my impression that men were supposed to visit their betrothed.” He sat down across from her. “Didn’t Lady Whistledown say something to that effect?”
“I don’t think so,” Daphne murmured, “but I’m certain my mother must have done.”
They both smiled, and for a moment Daphne thought that all would be well again, but as soon as the smiles faded, an uncomfortable silence fell across the room.
“Are your eyes feeling any better?” she finally asked. “They don’t look quite as swollen.”
“Do you think?” Simon turned so that he was facing a large gilt mirror. “I rather think the bruises have turned a spectacular shade of blue.”
“Purple.”
He leaned forward, not that that brought him appreciably closer to the mirror. “Purple then, but I suppose it might be a debatable fact.”
“Do they hurt?”
He smiled humorlessly. “Only when someone pokes at them.”
“I shall refrain from doing so, then,” she murmured, her lips quirking in a telltale twitch. “It shall be difficult, of course, but I shall persevere.”
“Yes,” he said, with a perfectly deadpan expression, “I’ve often been told I make women want to poke me in the eye.”
Daphne’s smile was one of relief. Surely if they could joke about such things, everything would go back to the way it was.
Simon cleared his throat. “I did have a specific reason for coming to see you.”
Daphne gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.
He held out a jeweler’s box. “This is for you.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she reached for the small, velvet-covered box. “Are you certain?” she asked.
“I believe betrothal rings are considered quite de rigueur,” he said quietly.
“Oh. How stupid of me. I didn’t realize . . .”
“That it was a betrothal ring? What did you think it was?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” she admitted sheepishly. He’d never given her a gift before. She’d been so taken aback by the gesture she’d completely forgotten that he owed her a betrothal ring.
“Owed.” She didn’t like that word, didn’t like that she’d even thought it. But she was fairly certain that that was what Simon must have been thinking when he’d picked out the ring.
This depressed her.
Daphne forced a smile. “Is this a family heirloom?”
“No!” he said, with enough vehemence to make her blink.
“Oh.”
Yet another awkward silence.
He coughed, then said, “I thought you might like something of your own. All of the Hastings jewelry was chosen for someone else. This I chose for you.”
Daphne thought it a wonder she didn’t melt on the spot. “That’s so sweet,” she said, just barely managing to stifle a sentimental sniffle.
Simon squirmed in his seat, which didn’t surprise her. Men did so hate to be called sweet.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he grunted.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Daphne shook her head slightly as she snapped back to attention. “How silly of me.” Her eyes had glazed over slightly as she stared at the jeweler’s box. Blinking a few times to clear her vision, she carefully released the box’s clasp and opened it.
And couldn’t possibly say anything besides, “Oh, my goodness,” and even that came out with more breath than voice.
Nestled in the box was a stunning band of white gold, adorned with a large marquis-cut emerald, flanked on either side by a single, perfect diamond. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry Daphne had ever seen, brilliant but elegant, obviously precious but not overly showy.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “I love it.”
“Are you certain?” Simon removed his gloves, then leaned forward and took the ring out of the box. “Because it is your ring. You shall be the one to wear it, and it should reflect your tastes, not mine.”
Daphne’s voice shook slightly as she said, “Clearly, our tastes coincide.”
Simon breathed a small sigh of relief and picked up her hand. He hadn’t realized how much it meant to him that she liked the ring until that very moment. He hated that he felt so nervous around her when they’d been such easy friends for the past few weeks. He hated that there were silences in their conversations, when before she’d been the only person with whom he never felt the need to pause and take stock of his words.
Not that he was having any trouble speaking now. It was just that he didn’t seem to know what to say.
“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.
Daphne gasped as the edge of the glove trailed past the tips of her fingers. The sound of her breath rushing across her lips made him want her all the more.
With tremulous hands, he slid the ring on her finger, easing it over her knuckle until it rested in place.
“It fits perfectly,” she said, moving her hand this way and that so that she could see how it reflected the light.
Simon, however, didn’t let go of her hand. As she moved, her skin slid along his, creating a warmth that was oddly soothing. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “I’m glad,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
Her lips curved—a hint of that wide smile he’d come to adore. Maybe a hint that all would be well between them.
“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.
She twisted until she was facing the gilt mirror he’d used earlier to inspect his bruises and blinked a few times. “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.”
She gave him a look that was mostly dubious, but a little bit hopeful, then let out a funny little breath and stood. “I’m going to look for myself.”
Simon watched with amusement as she stood and marched over to the mirror and put her face close to the glass. She blinked several times, then held her eyes open wide, then blinked some more.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen that!”
Simon stood and moved to her side, leaning with her against the mahogany table that stood in front of the mirror. “You’ll soon learn that I am always right.”
She shot him a sarcastic look. “But how did you notice that?”
He shrugged. “I looked very closely.”
“You . . .” She seemed to decide against finishing her statement, and leaned back against the table, opening her eyes wide to inspect them again. “Fancy that,” she murmured. “I have green eyes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”
“For today,” she interrupted, “I refuse to believe they are anything but green.”
Simon grinned. “As you wish.”
She sighed. “I was always so jealous of Colin. Such beautiful eyes wasted on a man.”
“I’m sure the young ladies who fancy themselves in love with him would disagree.”
Daphne gave him a smirky glance. “Yes, but they don’t signify, do they?”
Simon caught himself wanting to laugh. “Not if you say so.”
“You’ll soon learn,” she said archly, “that I am always right.”
This time he did laugh. There was no way he could have held it in. He finally stopped, realizing that Daphne was silent. She was regarding him warmly, though, her lips curved into a nostalgic smile.
“This was nice,” she said, placing her hand on his. “Almost like it used to be, don’t you think?”
He nodded, turning his hand palm up so that he could clasp hers.
“It will be like this again, won’t it?” Her eyes showed a flicker of trepidation. “We’ll go back to the way it was, won’t we? Everything will be exactly the same.”
“Yes,” he said, even though he knew it could not be true. They might find contentment, but it would never be just as it was.
She smiled, closed her eyes, and rested her head against his shoulder. “Good.”
Simon watched their reflection for several minutes. And he almost believed he would be able to make her happy.
The next evening—Daphne’s last night as Miss Bridgerton—Violet knocked on her bedroom door.
Daphne was sitting on her bed, mementos of her childhood spread out before her, when she heard the rap. “Come in!” she called out.
Violet poked her head in, an awkward smile pasted on her face. “Daphne,” she said, sounding queasy, “do you have a moment?”
Daphne looked at her mother with concern. “Of course.” She stood as Violet edged into the room. Her mother’s skin was a remarkable match with her yellow dress.
“Are you quite all right, Mother?” Daphne inquired. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine. I just—” Violet cleared her throat and steeled her shoulders. “It’s time we had a talk.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Daphne breathed, her heart racing with anticipation. She’d been waiting for this. All her friends had told her that the night before one’s wedding, one’s mother delivered all the secrets of marriage. At the last possible moment, one was admitted into the company of womanhood, and told all those wicked and delicious facts that were kept so scrupulously from the ears of unmarried girls. Some of the young ladies of her set had, of course, already married, and Daphne and her friends had tried to get them to reveal what no one else would, but the young matrons had just giggled and smiled, saying, “You’ll find out soon.”
“Soon” had become “now,” and Daphne couldn’t wait.
Violet, on the other hand, looked as if she might lose the contents of her stomach at any moment.
Daphne patted a spot on her bed. “Would you like to sit here, Mother?”
Violet blinked in a rather distracted manner. “Yes, yes, that would be fine.” She sat down, half-on and half-off the bed. She didn’t look very comfortable.
Daphne decided to take pity on her and begin the conversation. “Is this about marriage?” she asked gently.
Violet’s nod was barely perceptible.
Daphne fought to keep the fascinated glee out of her voice. “The wedding night?”
This time Violet managed to bob her chin up and down an entire inch. “I really don’t know how to tell this to you. It’s highly indelicate.”
Daphne tried to wait patiently. Eventually her mother would get to the point.
“You see,” Violet said haltingly, “there are things you need to know. Things that will occur tomorrow night. Things”—she coughed—“that involve your husband.”
Daphne leaned forward, her eyes widening.
Violet scooted back, clearly uncomfortable with Daphne’s obvious interest. “You see, your husband . . . that is to say, Simon, of course, since he will be your husband . . .”
Since Violet showed no sign of finishing that thought, Daphne murmured, “Yes, Simon will be my husband.”
Violet groaned, her cornflower blue eyes glancing everywhere but Daphne’s face. “This is very difficult for me.”
“Apparently so,” Daphne muttered.
Violet took a deep breath and sat up straight, her narrow shoulders thrown back as if she were steeling herself for the most unpleasant task. “On your wedding night,” she began, “your husband will expect you to do your marital duty.”
This was nothing Daphne didn’t already know.
“Your marriage must be consummated.”
“Of course,” Daphne murmured.
“He will join you in your bed.”
Daphne nodded. She knew this as well.
“And he will perform certain”—Violet groped for a word, her hands actually waving through the air—“intimacies upon your person.”
Daphne’s lips parted slightly, her short indrawn breath the room’s only sound. This was finally getting interesting.
“I am here to tell you,” Violet said, her voice turning quite brisk, “that your marital duty need not be unpleasant.”
But what was it?
Violet’s cheeks blazed. “I know that some women find the, er, act distasteful, but—”
“They do?” Daphne asked curiously. “Then why do I see so many maids sneaking off with the footmen?”
Violet instantly went into outraged employer mode. “Which maid was that?” she demanded.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Daphne warned. “I’ve been waiting for this all week.”
Some of the steam went out of her mother. “You have?”
Daphne’s look was pure what-did-you-expect. “Well, of course.”
Violet sighed and mumbled, “Where was I?”
“You were telling me that some women find their marital duty unpleasant.”
“Right. Well. Hmmm.”
Daphne looked down at her mother’s hands and noticed that she’d practically shredded a handkerchief.
“All I really want you to know,” Violet said, the words tumbling out as if she could not wait to be rid of them, “is that it needn’t be unpleasant at all. If two people care for one another—and I believe that the duke cares for you very much—”
“And I for him,” Daphne interrupted softly.
“Of course. Right. Well, you see, given that you do care for each other, it will probably be a very lovely and special moment.” Violet started scooting to the foot of the bed, the pale yellow silk of her skirts spreading along the quilts as she moved. “And you shouldn’t be nervous. I’m sure the duke will be very gentle.”
Daphne thought of Simon’s scorching kiss. “Gentle” didn’t seem to apply. “But—”
Violet stood up like a shot. “Very well. Have a good night. That’s what I came here to say.”
“That’s all?”
Violet dashed for the door. “Er, yes.” Her eyes shifted guiltily. “Were you expecting something else?”
“Yes!” Daphne ran after her mother and threw herself against the door so she couldn’t escape. “You can’t leave telling me only that!”
Violet glanced longingly at the window. Daphne gave thanks that her room was on the second floor; otherwise, she wouldn’t have put it past her mother to try to make a getaway that way.
“Daphne,” Violet said, her voice sounding rather strangled.
“But what do I do?”
“Your husband will know,” Violet said primly.
“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.”
“But—”
“But enough!” Violet finally said firmly. “I have told you everything my mother told me. Don’t be a nervous ninny, and do it enough so you’ll have a baby.”
Daphne’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Violet chuckled nervously. “Did I forget to mention the bit about the baby?”
“Mother!”
“Very well. Your marital duty—the, er, consummation, that is—is how you have a baby.”
Daphne sank against the wall. “So you did this eight times?” she whispered.
“No!”
Daphne blinked in confusion. Her mother’s explanations had been impossibly vague, and she still didn’t know what marital duty was, precisely, but something wasn’t adding up. “But wouldn’t you have had to do it eight times?”
Violet began to fan herself furiously. “Yes. No! Daphne, this is very personal.”
“But how could you have had eight children if you—”
“I did it more than eight times,” Violet ground out, looking as if she wanted to melt right into the walls.
Daphne stared at her mother in disbelief. “You did?”
“Sometimes,” Violet said, barely even moving her lips, and certainly not moving her eyes off a single spot on the floor, “people just do it because they like to.”
Daphne’s eyes grew very wide. “They do?” she breathed.
“Er, yes.”
“Like when men and women kiss?”
“Yes, exactly,” Violet said, sighing with relief. “Very much like—” Her eyes narrowed. “Daphne,” she said, her voice suddenly shrill, “have you kissed the duke?”
Daphne felt her skin turning a shade that rivaled her mother’s. “I might have done,” she mumbled.
Violet shook her finger at her daughter. “Daphne Bridgerton, I cannot believe you would do such a thing. You know very well I warned you about allowing men such liberties!”
“It hardly signifies now that we’re to be married!”
“But still—” Violet gave a deflating sigh. “Never mind. You’re right. It doesn’t signify. You’re to be married, and to a duke no less, and if he kissed you, well, then, that was to be expected.”
Daphne just stared at her mother in disbelief. Violet’s nervous, halting chatter was very much out of character.
“Now then,” Violet announced, “as long as you don’t have any more questions, I’ll just leave you to your, er,”—she glanced distractedly at the mementos Daphne had been shuffling through—“whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“But I do have more questions!”
Violet, however, had already made her escape.
And Daphne, no matter how desperately she wanted to learn the secrets of the marital act, wasn’t about to chase her mother down the hall—in full view of all the family and servants—to find out.
Besides, her mother’s talk had raised a new set of worries. Violet had said that the marital act was a requirement for the creation of children. If Simon couldn’t have children, did that mean he couldn’t perform those intimacies her mother had mentioned?
And dash it all, what were those intimacies? Daphne suspected they had something to do with kissing, since society seemed so determined to make sure that young ladies keep their lips pure and chaste. And, she thought, a blush stealing over her cheeks as she remembered her time in the gardens with Simon, they might have something to do with a woman’s breasts as well.
Daphne groaned. Her mother had practically ordered her not to be nervous, but she didn’t see how she could be otherwise—not when she was expected to enter into this contract without the slightest idea of how to perform her duties.
And what of Simon? If he could not consummate the marriage, would it even be a marriage?
It was enough to make a new bride very apprehensive, indeed.
In the end, it was the little details of the wedding that Daphne remembered. There were tears in her mother’s eyes (and then eventually on her face), and Anthony’s voice had been oddly hoarse when he stepped forward to give her away. Hyacinth had strewn her rose petals too quickly, and there were none left by the time she reached the altar. Gregory sneezed three times before they even got to their vows.
And she remembered the look of concentration on Simon’s face as he repeated his vows. Each syllable was uttered slowly and carefully. His eyes burned with intent, and his voice was low but true. To Daphne, it sounded as if nothing in the world could possibly be as important as the words he spoke as they stood before the archbishop.
Her heart found comfort in this; no man who spoke his vows with such intensity could possibly view marriage as a mere convenience.
Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.
A shiver raced down Daphne’s spine, causing her to sway. In just a moment, she would belong to this man forever.
Simon’s head turned slightly, his eyes darting to her face. Are you all right? his eyes asked.
She nodded, a tiny little jog of her chin that only he could see. Something blazed in his eyes—could it be relief?
I now pronounce you—
Gregory sneezed for a fourth time, then a fifth and sixth, completely obliterating the archbishop’s “man and wife.” Daphne felt a horrifying bubble of mirth pushing up her throat. She pressed her lips together, determined to maintain an appropriately serious facade. Marriage, after all, was a solemn institution, and not one to be treating as a joke.
She shot a glance at Simon, only to find that he was looking at her with a queer expression. His pale eyes were focused on her mouth, and the corners of his lips began to twitch.
Daphne felt that bubble of mirth rising ever higher.
You may kiss the bride.
Simon grabbed her with almost desperate arms, his mouth crashing down on hers with a force that drew a collective gasp from the small assemblage of guests.
And then both sets of lips—bride and groom—burst into laughter, even as they remained entwined.
Violet Bridgerton later said it was the oddest kiss she’d ever been privileged to view.
Gregory Bridgerton—when he finished sneezing—said it was disgusting.
The archbishop, who was getting on in years, looked perplexed.
But Hyacinth Bridgerton, who at ten should have known the least about kisses of anyone, just blinked thoughtfully, and said, “I think it’s nice. If they’re laughing now, they’ll probably be laughing forever.” She turned to her mother. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Violet took her youngest daughter’s hand and squeezed it. “Laughter is always a good thing, Hyacinth. And thank you for reminding us of that.”
And so it was that the rumor was started that the new Duke and Duchess of Hastings were the most blissfully happy and devoted couple to be married in decades. After all, who could remember another wedding with so much laughter?
