“Calling on your sister.”
Anthony pushed past Daphne and strode into the room, looking rather like a thundercloud on legs. “I did not give you leave to court my sister,” he bellowed.
“I did,” Violet said. She shoved the flowers in Anthony's face, wiggling them so as to deposit the greatest amount of pollen on his nose. “Aren't these lovely?”
Anthony sneezed and pushed them aside. “Mother, I am trying to have a conversation with the duke.”
Violet looked at Simon. “Do you want to have this conversation with my son?”
“Not particularly.”
“Fine, then. Anthony, be quiet.”
Daphne clapped her hand over her mouth, but a snuffly-giggly sound escaped nonetheless.
“You!” Anthony jabbed a finger in her direction. “Be quiet.”
“Perhaps I should fetch that vase,” Daphne mused.
“And leave me to the tender mercies of your brother?” Simon said in a mild voice. “I think not.”
Daphne raised a brow. “Do you imply that you are not man enough to deal with him?”
“Nothing of the sort. Merely that he ought to be your problem, not mine, and—”
“What the hell is going on here?” Anthony roared.
“Anthony!” Violet exclaimed. “I will not tolerate such unbecoming language in my drawing room.”
Daphne smirked.
Simon did nothing more than cock his head, regarding Anthony with a curious stare.
Anthony threw a dark scowl at both of them before turning his attention to his mother. “He is not to be trusted. Do you have any idea what is happening here?” he demanded.
“Of course I do,” Violet replied. “The duke is paying a call upon your sister.”
“And I brought flowers for your mother,” Simon said helpfully.
Anthony gazed longingly at Simon's nose. Simon had the distinct impression that Anthony was imagining smashing it in.
Anthony whipped his head around to face his mother. “Do you understand the extent of his reputation?”
“Reformed rakes make the best husbands,” Violet said.
“Rubbish and you know it.”
“He's not a true rake, anyway,” Daphne added.
The look Anthony shot at his sister was so comically malevolent Simon nearly laughed. He managed to restrain himself, but mostly just because he was fairly certain that any show of humor would cause Anthony's fist to lose its battle with his brain, with Simon's face emerging as the conflict's primary casualty.
“You don't know,” Anthony said, his voice low and nearly shaking with rage. “You don't know what he has done.”
“No more than what you have done, I'm sure,” Violet said slyly.
“Precisely!” Anthony roared. “Good God, I know exactly what is going on in his brain right now, and it has nothing to do with poetry and roses.”
Simon pictured laying Daphne down on a bed of rose petals. “Well, maybe roses,” he murmured.
“I'm going to kill him,” Anthony announced.
“These are tulips, anyway,” Violet said primly, “from Holland. And Anthony, you really must summon control of your emotions. This is most unseemly.”
“He is not fit to lick Daphne's boots.”
Simon's head filled with more erotic images, this time of himself licking her toes. He decided not to comment.
Besides, he had already decided that he wasn't going to allow his thoughts to wander in such directions. Daphne was Anthony's sister, for God's sake. He couldn't seduce her.
“I refuse to listen to another disparaging word about his grace,” Violet stated emphatically, “and that is the end of the subject.”
“But—”
“I don't like your tone, Anthony Bridgerton!”
Simon thought he heard Daphne choke on a chuckle, and he wondered what that was all about.
“If it would please Your Motherhood,” Anthony said in excruciatingly even tones, “I would like a private word with his grace.”
“This time I'm really going to get that vase,” Daphne announced, and dashed from the room.
Violet crossed her arms, and said to Anthony, “I will not have you mistreat a guest in my home.”
“I shan't lay so much as a hand on him,” Anthony replied. “I give you my word.”
Having never had a mother, Simon was finding this exchange fascinating. Bridgerton House was, after all, technically Anthony's house, not his mother's, and Simon was impressed that Anthony had refrained from pointing this out. “It's quite all right, Lady Bridgerton,” he interjected. “I'm sure Anthony and I have much to discuss.”
Anthony's eyes narrowed. “Much.”
“Very well,” Violet said. “You're going to do what you want no matter what I say, anyway. But I'm not leaving.” She plopped down onto the sofa. “This is my drawing room, and I'm comfortable here. If the two of you want to engage in that asinine interchange that passes for conversation among the males of our species, you may do so elsewhere.”
Simon blinked in surprise. Clearly there was more to Daphne's mother than met the eye.
Anthony jerked his head toward the door, and Simon followed him into the hall.
“My study is this way,” Anthony said.
“You have a study here?”
“I am the head of the family.”
“Of course,” Simon allowed, “but you do reside elsewhere.”
Anthony paused and turned an assessing stare on Simon. “It cannot have escaped your notice that my position as head of the Bridgerton family carries with it serious responsibilities.”