The duke and I julia Quinn

parties if one wasn't looking for a wife. 
Still, he felt he owed some loyalty to Lady Danbury after her many kindnesses during his 
childhood, and truth be told, he held a great deal of affection for the forthright old lady. It would 
have been the height of rudeness to spurn her invitation, especially since it had come 
accompanied by a personal note welcoming him back to the country. 
Since Simon knew his way around this house, he'd entered through a side door. If all went well, 
he could slip unobtrusively into the ballroom, give his regards to Lady Danbury, and leave. 
But as he turned a corner, he heard voices, and he froze. 
Simon suppressed a groan. He'd interrupted a lovers' tryst. Bloody hell. How to extricate himself 
without notice? If his presence was discovered, the ensuing scene was sure to be replete with 
histrionics, embarrassment, and no end of tedious emotion. Better just to melt into the shadows 
and let the lovers go on their merry way. 
But as Simon started backing quietly up, he heard something that caught his attention. 
"No." 
No? Had some young lady been forced into the deserted hallway against her will? Simon had no 
great desire to be anyone's hero, but even he could not let such an insult pass. He craned his neck 
slightly, pressing his ear forward so that he might hear better. After all, he might have heard 
incorrectly. If no one needed saving, he certainly wasn't going to charge forward like some 
bullish fool. 
"Nigel," the girl was saying, "you really shouldn't have followed me out here." 
"But I love you!" the young man cried out in a passionate voice. "All I want is to make you my 
wife." 
Simon nearly groaned. Poor besotted fool. It was painful to listen to. 
"Nigel," she said again, her voice surprisingly kind and patient, "my brother has already told you 
that I cannot marry you. I hope that we may continue on as friends." 
"But your brother doesn't understand!" 

---

"Yes," she said firmly, "he does." 
"Dash it all! If you don't marry me, who will?" 
Simon blinked in surprise. As proposals went, this one was decidedly unromantic. 
The girl apparently thought so, too. "Well," she said, sounding a bit disgruntled, "it's not as if 
there aren't dozens of other young ladies in Lady Danbury's ballroom right now. I'm sure one of 
them would be thrilled to marry you." 
Simon leaned forward slightly so that he could get a glimpse of the scene. The girl was in 
shadows, but he could see the man quite clearly. His face held a hangdog expression, and his 
shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. Slowly, he shook his head. "No," he said forlornly, 
"they don't. Don't you see? They...they...” 
Simon winced as the man fought for words. He didn't appear to be stuttering so much as 
emotionally overcome, but it was never pleasant when one couldn't get a sentence out. 
"No one's as nice as you," the man finally said. "You're the only one who ever smiles at me." 
"Oh, Nigel," the girl said, sighing deeply. "I'm sure that's not true." 
But Simon could tell she was just trying to be kind. And as she sighed again, it became apparent 
to him that she would not need any rescuing. She seemed to have the situation well in hand, and 
while Simon felt vague pangs of sympathy for the hapless Nigel, there wasn't anything he could 
do to help. 
Besides, he was beginning to feel like the worst sort of voyeur. 
He started inching backward, keeping his eye focused on a door that he knew led to the library. 
There was another door on the other side of that room, one that led to the conservatory. From 
there he could enter the main hall and make his way to the ballroom. It wouldn't be as discreet as 
cutting through the back corridors, but at least poor Nigel wouldn't know that his humiliation had 
had a witness. But then, just a footstep away from a clean getaway, he heard the girl squeal. 
"You have to marry me!" Nigel cried out. "You have to! I'll never find anyone else—" 
"Nigel, stop!" 
Simon turned around, groaning. It looked like he was going to have to rescue the chit, after all. 
He strode back into the hall, putting his sternest, most dukish expression on his face. The words, 
"I believe the lady asked you to stop," rested on the tip of his tongue, but it seemed that he wasn't 
fated to play the hero tonight, after all, because before he could make a sound, the young lady 
pulled back her right arm and landed a surprisingly effective punch squarely on Nigel's jaw. 

---

Nigel went down, his arms comically flailing in the air as his legs slid out from under him. 
Simon just stood there, watching in disbelief as the girl dropped to her knees. 
"Oh dear," she said, her voice squeaking slightly. "Nigel, are you all right? I didn't mean to hit 
you so hard." 
Simon laughed. He couldn't help it. The girl looked up, startled. 
Simon caught his breath. She had been in shadows until now, and all he'd been able to discern of 
her appearance was a wealth of thick, dark hair. But now, as she lifted her head to face him, he 
saw that she had large, equally dark eyes, and the widest, lushest mouth he'd ever seen. Her 
heart-shaped face wasn't beautiful by society standards, but something about her quite simply 
sucked the breath from his body. 
Her brows, thick but delicately winged, drew together. "Who," she asked, not sounding at all 
pleased to see him, "are you?" 

---

Chapter 3 
It has been whispered to This Author that Nigel Berbrooke was seen at Moreton's Jewelry Shop 
purchasing a diamond solitaire ring. Can a new Mrs. Berbrooke be very far behind? 
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 28 April 1813 
The night, Daphne decided, couldn't possibly get much worse. First she'd been forced to spend 
the evening in the darkest corner of ballroom (which wasn't such an easy task, since Lady 
Danbury clearly appreciated both the aesthetic and illuminating qualities of candles), then she'd 
managed to trip over Philipa Featherington's foot as she tried to make her escape, which had led 
Philipa, never the quietest girl in the room, to squeal, "Daphne Bridgerton! Are you hurt?"
Which must have captured Nigel's attention, for his head had snapped up like startled bird, and 
he'd immediately started hurrying across the ballroom. Daphne had hoped, no 
prayed
that she 
could outrun him and make it to the ladies' retiring room before he caught up with her, but no, 
Nigel had cornered her in the hall and started wailing out his love for her. 
It was all embarrassing enough, but now it appeared this man—this shockingly handsome and 
almost disturbingly poised stranger—had witnessed the entire thing. And worse, he was 
laughing! 
Daphne glared at him as he chuckled at her expense. She'd never seen him before, so he had to 
be new to London. Her mother had made certain that Daphne had been introduced to, or at least 
been made aware of, all eligible gentlemen. Of course, this man could be married and therefore 
not on Violet's list of potential victims, but Daphne instinctively knew that he could not have 
been long in London without all the world whispering about it. 
His face was quite simply perfection. It took only a moment to realize that he put all of 
Michelangelo's statues to shame. His eyes were oddly intense—so blue they practically glowed. 
His hair was thick and dark, and he was tall—as tall as her brothers, which was a rare thing. 
This was a man. Daphne thought wryly, who could quite possibly steal the gaggle of twittering 
young ladies away from the Bridgerton men for good. Why that annoyed her so much, she didn't 
know. Maybe it was because she knew a man like him would never be interested in a woman like 
her. Maybe it was because she felt like the veriest frump sitting there on the floor in his splendid 
presence. Maybe it was simply because he was standing there laughing as if she were some sort 
of circus amusement. 
But whatever the case, an uncharacteristic peevishness rose within her, and her brows drew 
together as she asked, "Who are you?" 
Simon didn't know why he didn't answer her question in a straightforward manner, but some 

---

devil within caused him to reply, "My intention had been to be your rescuer, but you clearly had 
no need of my services." 
"Oh," the girl said, sounding slightly mollified. She clamped her lips together, twisting them 
slightly as she considered his words. "Well, thank you, then, I suppose! Pity you didn't reveal 
yourself ten seconds earlier. I'd rather not have had to hit him." 
Simon looked down at the man on the ground. A bruise was already darkening on his chin, and 
he was moaning, "Laffy, oh Laffy. I love you, Laffy." 
"You're Laffy, I presume?" Simon murmured, sliding his gaze up to her face. Really, she was 
quite an attractive little thing, and from this angle the bodice of her gown seemed almost 
decadently low. 
She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating his attempt at subtle humor—and also clearly not 
realizing that his heavy-lidded gaze had rested on portions of her anatomy that were not her face. 
"What are we to do with him?" she asked. 
"'We?'" Simon echoed. 
Her scowl deepened. "You did say you aspired to be my rescuer, didn't you?" 
"So I did." Simon planted his hands on his hips and assessed the situation. "Shall I drag him out 
into the street?" 
"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "For goodness sake, isn't it still raining outside?" 
"My dear Miss Laffy," Simon said, not particularly concerned about the condescending tone of 
his voice, "don't you think your concern is slightly misplaced? This man tried to attack you." 
"He didn't try to attack me," she replied. "He just...He just...Oh, very well, he tried to attack me. 
But he would never have done me any real harm." 
Simon raised a brow. Truly, women were the most contrary creatures. "And you can be sure of 
that?" 
He watched as she carefully chose her words."Nigel isn't capable of malice," she said slowly. 
"All he is guilty of is misjudgement." 
"You're a more generous soul than I, then," Simon said quietly. 
The girl let out another sigh, a soft, breathy sound that Simon somehow felt across his entire 
body. "Nigel's not a bad person," she said with quiet dignity. "It's just that he isn't always terribly 
bright, and perhaps he mistook kindness on my part for something more." 
Simon felt a strange sort of admiration for this girl. Most women of his acquaintance would 

---

have been in hysterics at this point, but she—whoever she was—had taken the situation firmly in 
hand, and was now displaying a generosity of spirit that was astounding. That she could even 
think to defend this Nigel person was quite beyond him. 
She rose to her feet, dusting her hands off on the sage green silk of her skirts. Her hair had been 
styled so that one thick lock fell over her shoulder, curling seductively at the top of her breast. 
Simon knew he should be listening to her—she was prattling on about something, as women 
were wont to do—but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off that single dark lock of hair. It fell 
like a silky ribbon across her swanlike neck, and Simon had the most appalling urge to close the 
distance between them and trace the line of her hair with his lips. He'd never dallied with an 
innocent before, but all the world had already painted him a rake. What could be the harm? It 
wasn't as if he were going to ravish her. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss. 
It was tempting, so deliriously, maddeningly tempting. 
"Sir! Sir!" 
With great reluctance, he dragged his eyes up to her face. Which was, of course, delightful in 
and of itself, but it was difficult to picture her seduction when she was scowling at him. 
"Were you listening to me?" 
"Of course," he lied. 
"You weren't." 
"No," he admitted. 
A sound came from the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "Then why," 
she ground out, "did you say you were?" 
He shrugged. "I thought it was what you wanted to hear." 
Simon watched with fascinated interest as she took a deep breath and muttered something to 
herself. He couldn't hear her words, but he doubted any of them could be construed as 
complimentary. Finally, her voice almost comically even, she said, "If you don't wish to aid me, 
I'd prefer it if you would just leave." 
Simon decided it was time to stop acting like such a boor, so he said, "My apologies. Of course 
I'll help you." 
She exhaled, and then looked back to Nigel, who was still lying on the floor, moaning 
incoherently. Simon looked down, too, and for several seconds they just stood there, staring at 
the unconscious man, until the girl said, "I really didn't hit him very hard." 
"Maybe he's drunk." 

---

She looked dubious. "Do you think? I smelled spirits on his breath, but I've never seen him 
drunk before." 
Simon had nothing to add to that line of thought, so he just asked, "Well, what do you want to 
do?" 
"I suppose we could just leave him here," she said, the expression in her dark eyes hesitant. 
Simon thought that was an excellent idea, but it was obvious she wanted the idiot cared for in a 
more tender manner. And heaven help him, but he felt the strangest compulsion to make her 
happy. "Here is what we're going to do," he said crisply, glad that his tone belied any of the odd 
tenderness he was feeling. "I am going to summon my carriage—" 
"Oh, good," she interrupted. "I really didn't want to leave him here. It seemed rather cruel."
Simon thought it seemed rather generous considering the big oaf had nearly attacked her, but he 
kept that opinion to himself and instead continued on with his plan. "You will wait in the library 
while I'm gone." 
"In the library? But—" 
"In the library," he repeated firmly. "With the door shut. Do you really want to be discovered 
with Nigel's body should anyone happen to wander down this hallway?" 
"His body? Good gracious, sir, you needn't make it sound as if he were dead." 
"As I was saying," he continued, ignoring her comment completely, "you will remain in the 
library. When I return, we will relocate Nigel here to my carriage." 
"And how will we do that?" 
He gave her a disarmingly lopsided grin. "I haven't the faintest idea." 
For a moment Daphne forgot to breathe. 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. 
And, much to Daphne's dismay, it was awfully hard to remain thoroughly irritated with a man 
under the influence of such a smile. After growing up with four brothers, all of whom had 
seemed to know how to charm ladies from birth, Daphne had thought she was immune. 
But apparently not. Her chest was tingling, her stomach was turning cartwheels, and her knees 
felt like melted butter. 
"Nigel," she muttered, desperately trying to force her attention away from the nameless man 
standing across from her, "I must see to Nigel." She crouched down and shook him none too 

---

gently by the shoulder. "Nigel? Nigel? You have to wake up now, Nigel." 
"Daphne," Nigel moaned. "Oh, Daphne." 
The dark-haired stranger's head snapped around. "Daphne? Did he say Daphne?" 
She drew back, unnerved by his direct question and the rather intense look in his eyes. "Yes." 
"Your name is Daphne?" 
Now she was beginning to wonder if he was an idiot. 
"Yes." 
He groaned. "Not Daphne Bridgerton."
Her face slid into a puzzled frown. "The very one."
Simon staggered back a step. He suddenly felt physically ill, as his brain finally processed the 
fact that she had thick, chestnut hair. The famous Bridgerton hair. Not to mention the Bridgerton 
nose, and cheekbones, and—Bugger it all, this was Anthony's 
sister!
Bloody hell. There were 
rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not 
Lust After Thy Friend's Sister. 
While he stood there, probably staring at her like a complete idiot, she planted her hands on her 
hips, and demanded, "And who are 
you?" 
"Simon Basset," he muttered. 
"The duke?" she squeaked. He nodded grimly, "Oh, dear." 
Simon watched with growing horror as the blood drained from her face. "Good God, woman, 
you're not going to swoon, are you?" He couldn't imagine why she would, but Anthony—her 
brother, he reminded himself— had spent half the afternoon warning him about the effects of a 
young, unmarried duke on the young, unmarried female population. Anthony had specifically 
singled out Daphne as the exception to the rule, but still, she looked deucedly pale. "Are you?" 
he demanded, when she said nothing. "Going to swoon?" 
She looked offended that he'd even considered the notion. "Of course not!" 
"Good." 
"It's just that—" 
"What?" Simon asked suspiciously. 

---

"Well," she said with a rather dainty shrug of her shoulders, "I've been warned about you." 
This was really too much. "By whom?" he demanded. 
She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. "By everyone." 
"That, my d—" He felt something suspiciously like a stammer coming on, and so he took a deep 
breath to steady his tongue. He'd become a master at this kind of control. All she would see was 
a man who looked as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. And considering the direction 
of their conversation, that image could not seem terribly far-fetched. 
"My dear Miss Bridgerton," Simon said, starting anew in a more even and controlled tone, "I 
find that difficult to believe." 
She shrugged again, and he had the most irritating sensation that she was enjoying his distress. 
"Believe what you will," she said blithely, "but it was in the paper today." 
"What?' 
"In