The duke and I julia Quinn

particular about which you cared to inquire?" 

---

"Not at all. But I still have much to learn about Clyvedon if I am to manage it properly. Perhaps 
we could take tea in the yellow room? I do so enjoy the decor. It's so warm and sunny. I had been 
hoping to make that my personal parlor." 
Mrs. Colson gave her an odd look. "The last duchess felt the same way." 
"Oh," Daphne replied, not certain whether that ought to make her feel uncomfortable. 
"I've given special care to that room over the years," Mrs. Colson continued. "It does get quite a 
bit of sun, being on the south side. I had all of the furniture reupholstered three years ago." Her 
chin rose in a slightly proud manner. "Went all the way to London to get the same fabric." 
"I see," Daphne replied, leading the way out of the office. "The late duke must have loved his 
wife very much, to order such a painstaking conservation of her favorite room." 
Mrs. Colson didn't quite meet her eyes. "It was my decision," she said quietly. "The duke always 
gave me a certain budget for the upkeep of the house. I thought it the most fitting use of the 
money." 
Daphne waited while the housekeeper summoned a maid and gave her instructions for the tea. 
"It's a lovely room," she announced once they had exited the kitchen, "and although the current 
duke never had the opportunity to know his mother, I'm sure he'll be quite touched that you have 
seen fit to preserve her favorite room." 
"It was the least I could do," Mrs. Colson said as they strolled across the hall. "I have not always 
served the Basset family, after all." 
"Oh?" Daphne asked curiously. Upper servants were notoriously loyal, often serving a single 
family for generations. 
"Yes, I was the duchess's personal maid." Mrs. Colson waited outside the doorway of the yellow 
room to allow Daphne to precede her. "And before that her companion. My mother was her 
nurse. Her grace's family was kind enough to allow me to share her lessons." 
"You must have been quite close," Daphne murmured. 
Mrs. Colson nodded. "After she died I occupied a number of different positions here at 
Clyvedon until I finally became housekeeper." 
"I see." Daphne smiled at her and then took a seat on the sofa. "Please sit," she said, motioning 
to the chair across from her. 
Mrs. Colson seemed hesitant with such familiarity, but eventually sat. "It broke my heart when 
she died," she said. She gave Daphne a slightly apprehensive look. "I hope you don't mind my 
telling you so." 

---

"Of course not," Daphne said quickly. She was ravenously curious about Simon's childhood. He 
said so little, and yet she sensed that it all meant so much. "Please, tell me more. I would love to 
hear about her." 
Mrs. Colson's eyes grew misty. "She was the kindest, gentlest soul this earth has ever known. 
She and the duke—well, it wasn't a love match, but they got on well enough. They were friends 
in their own way." She looked up. "They were both very much aware of their duties as duke and 
duchess. Took their responsibilities quite seriously." 
Daphne nodded understandingly. 
"She was so determined to give him a son. She kept trying even after the doctors all told her she 
mustn't. She used to cry in my arms every month when her courses came." 
Daphne nodded again, hoping the motion would hide her suddenly strained expression. It was 
difficult to listen to stories about not being able to have children. But she supposed she was 
going to have to get used to it. It was going to be even more strenuous to answer questions about 
it. 
And there 
would
be questions. Painfully tactful and hideously pitying questions. 
But Mrs. Colson thankfully didn't notice Daphne's distress. She sniffled as she continued her 
story. "She was always saying things like how was she to be a proper duchess if she couldn't give 
him a son. It broke my heart. Every month it broke my heart." 
Daphne wondered if her own heart would shatter every month. Probably not. She, at least, knew 
for a fact that she wouldn't have children. Simon's mother had her hopes crushed every four 
weeks. 
"And of course," the housekeeper continued, "everyone talked as if it were 
her
fault there was 
no baby. How could they know that, I ask you? It's not always the woman who is barren. 
Sometimes it's the man's fault, you know." 
Daphne said nothing. 
"I told her this time and again, but still she felt guilty. I said to her—" The housekeeper's face 
turned pink. "Do you mind if I speak frankly?" 
"Please do." 
She nodded. "Well, I said to her what my mother said to me. A womb won't quicken without 
strong, healthy seed." 
Daphne held her face in an expressionless mask. It was all she could manage. 
"But then she finally had Master Simon." Mrs. Colson let out a maternal sigh, then looked to 

---

Daphne with an apprehensive expression. "I beg your pardon," she said hastily. "I shouldn't be 
calling him that. He's the duke now." 
"Don't stop on my account," Daphne said, happy to have something to smile about. 
"It's hard to change one's ways at my age," Mrs. Colson said with a sigh. "And I'm afraid a part 
of me will always remember him as that poor little boy." She looked up at Daphne and shook her 
head. "He would have had a much easier time of it if the duchess had lived." 
"An easier time of it?" Daphne murmured, hoping that would be all the encouragement Mrs. 
Colson would need to explain further. 
"The duke just never understood that poor boy," the housekeeper said forcefully. "He stormed 
about and called him stupid, and..." 
Daphne's head snapped up. "The duke thought Simon was stupid?" she interrupted. That was 
preposterous. Simon was one of the smartest people she knew. She'd once asked him a bit about 
his studies at Oxford and had been stunned to learned that his brand of mathematics didn't even 
use 
numbers
. 
"The duke never could see the world beyond his own nose," Mrs. Colson said with a snort. "He 
never gave that boy a chance." 
Daphne felt her body leaning forward, her ears straining for the housekeeper's words. What had 
the duke done to Simon? And was this the reason he turned to ice every time his father's name 
was mentioned? 
Mrs. Colson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "You should have seen the way 
that boy worked to improve himself. It broke my heart. It simply broke my heart." 
Daphne's hands clawed at the sofa. Mrs. Colson was 
never
going to get to the point. 
"But nothing he ever did was good enough for the duke. This is just my opinion of course, but—
" 
Just then a maid entered with tea. Daphne nearly screamed with frustration. It took a good two 
minutes for the tea to be set up and poured, and all the while Mrs. Colson chitchatted about the 
biscuits, and did Daphne prefer them plain or with coarse sugar on top. 
Daphne had to pry her hands off the sofa, lest she puncture holes in the upholstery Mrs. Colson 
had worked so hard to preserve. Finally, the maid left, and Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea, and 
said, "Now then, where were we?" 
"You were talking about the duke," Daphne said quickly. 'The late duke. That nothing my 
husband did was ever good enough for him and in your opinion—" 

---

"My goodness, you 
were
listening." Mrs. Colson beamed. "I'm so flattered." 
"But you were saying..." Daphne prompted. 
"Oh yes, of course. I was simply going to say that I have long held the opinion that the late duke 
never forgave his son for not being perfect." 
"But Mrs. Colson," Daphne said quietly, "none of us is perfect." 
"Of course not, but—" The housekeeper's eyes floated up for a brief second in an expression of 
disdain toward the late duke. "If you'd known his grace, you would understand. He'd waited so 
long for a son. And in his mind, the Basset name was synonymous with perfection." 
"And my husband wasn't the son he wanted?" Daphne asked. 
"He didn't want a son. He wanted a perfect little replica of himself." 
Daphne could no longer contain her curiosity. "But what did Simon do that was so repugnant to 
the duke?" 
Mrs. Colson's eyes widened in surprise, and one of her hands floated to her chest. "Why, you 
don't know," she said softly. "Of course you wouldn't know." 
"What?" 
"He couldn't speak." 
Daphne's lips parted in shock. "I beg your pardon?" 
"He couldn't speak. Not a word until he was four, and then it was all stutters and stammers. It 
broke my heart every time he opened his mouth. I could see that there was a bright little boy 
inside. He just couldn't get the words out right."
"But he speaks so well now," Daphne said, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. "I've 
never heard him stammer. Or if I have, I-I-I didn't notice it. See! Look, I just did it myself. 
Everyone stammers a bit when they're flustered." 
"He worked very hard to improve himself. It was seven years, I recall. For seven years he did 
nothing but practice his speech with his nurse." Mrs. Colson's face wrinkled with thought. "Let's 
see, what was her name? Oh yes, Nurse Hopkins. She was a saint, she was. As devoted to that 
boy as if he'd been her own. I was the housekeeper's assistant at the time, but she often let me 
come up and help him practice his speech." 
"Was it difficult for him?" Daphne whispered. 
"Some days I thought he'd surely shatter from the frustration of it. But he was so stubborn. 

---

Heavens, but he was a stubborn boy. I've never seen a person so single-minded." Mrs. Colson 
shook her head sadly. "And his father still rejected him. It—" 
"Broke your heart," Daphne finished for her. "It would have broken mine, as well." 
Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea during the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. 'Thank 
you very much for allowing me to take tea with you, your grace," she said, misinterpreting 
Daphne's quietude for displeasure. "It was highly irregular of you to do so, but very..." 
Daphne looked up as Mrs. Colson searched for the correct word. 
"Kind," the housekeeper finally finished. "It was very kind of you." 
"Thank you," Daphne murmured distractedly. 
"Oh, but I haven't answered any of your questions about Clyvedon," Mrs. Colson said suddenly. 
Daphne gave her head a little shake. "Another time, perhaps," she said softly. She had too much 
to think on just then. 
Mrs. Colson, sensing her employer desired privacy, stood, bobbed a curtsy, and silently left the 
room. 

---

Chapter 16 
The stifling heat in London this week has certainly put a crimp in society junctions. This author saw 
Miss Prudence Featherington swoon at the Huxley ball, but it is impossible to discern whether this 
temporary lack of verticality was due to the heat or the presence of Mr. Colin Bridgerton, who has 
been cutting quite a swash through society since his return from the Continent . 
The unseasonable heat has also made a casualty of Lady Danbury, who quit London several days 
ago, claiming that her cat (a long-haired, bushy beast) could not tolerate the weather. It is believed 
that she has retired to her country home in Surrey . 
One would guess that the Duke and Duchess of Hastings are unaffected by these rising 
temperatures; they are down on the coast, where the sea wind is always a pleasure. But This Author 
cannot be certain of their comfort; contrary to popular belief, This Author does not have spies in all 
the important households, and certainly not outside of London! 
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers,2 June 1813 
It was odd, Simon reflected, how they'd not been married even a fortnight and yet had already 
fallen into comfortable patterns and routines. Just now, he stood barefoot in the doorway of his 
dressing room, loosening his cravat as he watched his wife brush her hair. 
And he'd done the exact same thing yesterday. There was something oddly comforting in that. 
And both times, he thought with a hint of a leer, he'd been planning how to seduce her into bed. 
Yesterday, of course, he'd been successful. 
His once expertly tied cravat lying limp and forgotten on the floor, he took a step forward. 
Today he'd be successful, too. 
He stopped when he reached Daphne's side, perching on the edge of her vanity table. She looked 
up and blinked owlishly. He touched his hand to hers, both of their fingers wrapped around the 
handle of the hairbrush. "I like to watch you brush your hair," he said, "but I like to do it myself 
better." 
She stared at him in an oddly intent fashion. Slowly, she relinquished the brush. "Did you get 
everything done with your accounts? You were tucked away with your estate manager for quite a 
long time." 
"Yes, it was rather tedious but necessary, and—" His face froze. "What are you looking at?" 
Her eyes slid from his face. "Nothing," she said, her voice unnaturally staccato. 

---

He gave his head a tiny shake, the motion directed more at himself than at her, then he began to 
brush her hair. For a moment it had seemed as if she were staring at his mouth. 
He fought the urge to shudder. All through his childhood, people had stared at his mouth. They'd 
gazed in horrified fascination, occasionally forcing their eyes up to his, but always returning to 
his mouth, as ifunable to believe that such a normal-looking feature could produce such 
gibberish. 
But he had to be imagining things. Why would Daphne be looking at his mouth? 
He pulled the brush gently through her hair, allowing his fingers to trail through the silky strands 
as well. "Did you have a nice chat with Mrs. Colson?" he asked. 
She flinched. It was a tiny movement, and she hid it quite well, but he noticed it nonetheless. 
"Yes," she said, "she's very knowledgeable." 
"She should be. She's been here forev— 
what 
are you looking at?" 
Daphne practically jumped in her chair. "I'm looking at the mirror," she insisted. 
Which was true, but Simon was still suspicious. Her eyes had been fixed and intent, focused on 
a single spot. 
"As I was saying," Daphne said hastily, "I'm certain Mrs. Colson will prove invaluable as I 
adjust to the management of Clyvedon. It's a large estate, and I have much to learn." 
"Don't make too much of an effort," he said. "We won't spend much time here." 
"We won't?" 
"I thought we would make London our primary residence." At her look of surprise, he added, 
"You'll be closer to your family, even when they retire to the country. I thought you'd like that." 
"Yes, of course," she said. "I do miss them. I've never been away from them for so long before. 
Of course I've always known that when I married I would be starting my own family, and—" 
There was an awful silence. 
"Well, you're my family now," she said, her voice sounding just a bit forlorn. 
Simon sighed, the silver-backed hairbrush halting its path through her dark hair. "Daphne," he 
said, "your family will always be your family. I can never take their place." 
"No," she agreed. She twisted around to face him, her eyes like warm chocolate as she 
whispered, "But you can be something more." 

---

And Simon realized that all his plans to seduce his wife were moot, because clearly