The duke and I julia Quinn

required
—an end to the conversation, but Daphne threw 
caution to the winds, and decided to pursue the topic, anyway. "You must have been a darling 
child," she said in a deliberately blithe voice, "or perhaps an extremely mischievous one, to have 
inspired such long-standing devotion." 
He said nothing. 
Daphne plodded on. "My brother—Colin, you know— is much the same way. He was the very 
devil whenhe was small, but so insufferably charming that all servants adored him. Why, one 
time—" 
Her mouth froze, half-open. There didn't seem much point in continuing. Simon had turned on 
his heel and walked away. 
* * * 
He wasn't interested in roses. And he'd never pondered the existence of violets one way or 
another, but now Simon found himself leaning on a wooden fence, gazing out over Clyvedon's 
famed flower garden as if he were seriously considering a career in horticulture. 
All because he couldn't face Daphne's questions about his childhood. 

---

But the truth was, he hated the memories. He despised the reminders. Even staying here at 
Clyvedon was uncomfortable. The only reason he'd brought Daphne down to his childhood home 
was because it was the only one of his residences within a two-day drive from London that was 
ready for immediate occupancy. 
The memories brought back the feelings. And Simon didn't want to feel like that young boy 
again. He didn't want to remember the number of times he'd sent letters to his father, only to wait 
in vain for a response. He didn't want to remember the kind smiles of the servants—kind smiles 
that were always accompanied by pitying eyes. They'd loved him, yes, but they'd also felt sorry 
for him. 
And the fact that they'd hated his father on his behalf—well, somehow that had never made him 
feel better. He hadn't been—and, to be honest, still wasn't—so noble-minded that he didn't take a 
certain satisfaction in his father's lack of popularity, but that never took away the embarrassment 
or the discomfort. 
Or the shame. 
He'd wanted to be admired, not pitied. And it hadn't been until he'd struck out on his own by 
traveling unheralded to Eton that he'd had his first taste of success. 
He'd come so far; he'd travel to hell before he went back to the way he'd been. 
None of this, of course, was 
Daphne's
fault. He knew she had no ulterior motives when she 
asked about his childhood. How could she? She knew nothing of his occasional difficulties with 
speech. He'd worked damned hard to hide it from her. 
No, he thought with a weary sigh, he'd rarely had to work hard at all to hide it from Daphne. 
She'd always set him at ease, made him feel free. His stammer rarely surfaced these days, but 
when it did it was always during times of stress and anger. 
And whatever life was about when he was with Daphne, it wasn't stress and anger. 
He leaned more heavily against the fence, guilt forcing his posture into a slouch. He'd treated 
her abominably. It seemed he was fated to do that time and again. 
"Simon?" 
He'd felt her presence before she'd spoken. She'd approached from behind, her booted feet soft 
and silent on the grass. But he knew she was there. He could smell her gentle fragrance and hear 
the wind whispering through her hair. 
'These are beautiful roses," she said. It was, he knew, her way of soothing his peevish mood. He 
knew she was dying to ask more. But she was wise beyond her years, and much as he liked to 
tease her about it, she did know a lot about men and their idiot tempers. She wouldn't say 

---

anything more. At least not today. 
"I'm told my mother planted them," he replied. His words came out more gruffly than he would 
have liked, but he hoped she saw them as the olive branch he'd meant them to be. When she 
didn't say anything, he added by way of an explanation, "She died at my birth." 
Daphne nodded. "I'd heard. I'm sorry." 
Simon shrugged. "I didn't know her." 
'That doesn't mean it wasn't a loss." 
Simon considered his childhood. He had no way of knowing if his mother would have been 
more sympathetic to his difficulties than his father had been, but he figured there was no way she 
could have made it worse. "Yes," he murmured, "I suppose it was." 
* * * 
Later that day, while Simon was going over some estate accounts, Daphne decided it was as 
good a time as any to get to know Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper. Although she and Simon had 
not yet discussed where they would reside, Daphne couldn't imagine that they wouldn't spend 
some time there at Clyvedon, Simon's ancestral home, and if there was one thing she'd learned 
from her mother, it was that a lady simply 
had
to have a good working relationship with her 
housekeeper. 
Not that Daphne was terribly worried about getting along with Mrs. Colson. She had met the 
housekeeper briefly when Simon had introduced her to the staff, and it had been quickly apparent 
that she was a friendly, talkative sort. 
She stopped by Mrs. Colson's office—a tiny little room just off the kitchen—a bit before 
teatime. The housekeeper, a handsome woman in her fifties, was bent over her small desk, 
working on the week's menus. 
Daphne gave the open door a knock. "Mrs. Colson?" 
The housekeeper looked up and immediately stood. "Your grace," she said, bobbing into a small 
curtsy. "You should have called for me." 
Daphne smiled awkwardly, still unused to her elevation from the ranks of mere misses. "I was 
already up and about," she said, explaining her unorthodox appearance in the servants' domain. 
"But if you have a moment, Mrs. Colson, I was hoping we might get to know one another better, 
since you have lived here for many years, and I hope to do so for many to come." 
Mrs. Colson smiled at Daphne's warm tone. "Of course, your grace. Was there anything in