She didn't want to be at the center of the party. She didn't want to be found by the dozens of suitors now clamoring to claim her in a dance. In all truth, she didn't want to be in Lady Trowbridge's ballroom at all.
Because Simon was not there.
This did not mean that she was destined to spend the evening as a wallflower. All of Simon's predictions in regard to her burgeoning popularity had proven correct, and Daphne, who had always been the girl everyone liked but no one adored, was suddenly proclaimed the season's Incomparable. Everyone who cared to air an opinion on the subject (and this being the ton, that meant everyone) declared that they always knew that Daphne was special and were just waiting for everyone else to notice. Lady Jersey told everyone who would listen that she had been predicting Daphne's success for months, and the only mystery was why no one had listened to her sooner.
Which was, of course, hogwash. While Daphne had certainly never been the object of Lady Jersey's scorn, not one Bridgerton could recall ever hearing Lady Jersey refer to her (as she was presently doing) as “Tomorrow's Treasure.”
But even though Daphne's dance card was now full within minutes of her arrival at any ball, and even though men fought for the privilege of fetching her a glass of lemonade (Daphne had almost laughed out loud the first time that had happened), she found that no evening was truly memorable unless Simon was at her side.
It didn't matter that he seemed to find it necessary to mention at least once every evening that he was adamantly opposed to the institution of marriage. (Although, to his credit, he usually mentioned this in conjunction with his thankfulness to Daphne for saving him from the multitudes of Ambitious Mamas.) And it didn't matter that he occasionally fell silent and was even almost rude to certain members of society.
All that seemed to matter were those moments when they were not quite alone (they were never alone), but still somehow left to their own devices. A laughing conversation in a corner, a waltz around a ballroom. Daphne could look into his pale blue eyes and almost forget that she was surrounded by five hundred onlookers, all of whom were inordinately interested in the state of her courtship.
And she could almost forget that her courtship was a complete sham.
Daphne hadn't tried to talk to Anthony about Simon again. Her brother's hostility was apparent every time the duke's name was brought up in conversation. And when he and Simon actually met—well, Anthony usually managed a certain level of cordiality, but that was all he seemed able to muster.
And yet even amidst all this anger, Daphne could see faint glimmers of the old friendship between them. She could only hope that when all this was over—and she was married off to some boring but affable earl who never quite managed to make her heart sing—that the two men would be friends again.
At Anthony's somewhat forceful request, Simon had elected not to attend every social event to which Violet and Daphne had RSVPed in the affirmative. Anthony said that the only reason he had agreed to this ridiculous scheme was so that Daphne might find a husband among all her new suitors. Unfortunately, in Anthony's opinion (and fortunately in Daphne's) none of these eager young gentlemen dared to approach her in Simon's presence.
“A fat lot of good this is doing,” were Anthony's exact words.
Actually, those exact words had been appended a fair amount of cursing and invective, but Daphne had seen no reason to dwell on this. Ever since the incident at—or rather in—the Thames, Anthony had spent a great deal of time applying expletives to Simon's name.
But Simon had seen Anthony's point, and Simon had told Daphne that he wanted her to find a suitable husband.
And so Simon stayed away.
And Daphne was miserable.
She supposed she should have known that this was going to happen. She should have realized the dangers of being courted—even falsely—by the man society had recently dubbed The Devastating Duke.
The moniker had begun when Philipa Featherington had pronounced him “devastatingly handsome,” and since Philipa didn't know the meaning of the word “whisper,” all the ton bore witness to her statement. Within minutes some droll young buck just down from Oxford had shortened and alliterated, and The Devastating Duke was born.
Daphne found the name woefully ironic. For The Devastating Duke was devastating her heart.
Not that he meant to. Simon treated her with nothing but respect and honor and good humor. Even Anthony was forced to admit that he'd been given no cause to complain in that quarter. Simon never tried to get Daphne alone, never did anything more than kiss her gloved hand (and much to Daphne's dismay, that had only happened twice).
They had become the best of companions, their conversations ranging from comfortable silences to the wittiest of repartée. At every party, they danced together twice—the maximum permitted without scandalizing society.
And Daphne knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was falling in love.
The irony was exquisite. She had, of course, begun spending so much time in Simon's company specifically so that she might attract other men. For his part, Simon had begun spending time in her company so that he might avoid marriage.
Come to think of it, Daphne thought, sagging against the wall, the irony was exquisitely painful.
Although Simon was still quite vocal on the subject of marriage and his determination never to enter that blessed state, she did on occasion catch him looking at her in ways that made her think he might desire her. He never repeated any of the risqué comments he'd made before he'd learned she was a Bridgerton, but sometimes she caught him looking at her in the same hungry, feral way he'd done that first evening. He turned away, of course, as soon as she noticed, but it was always enough to set her skin tingling and shorten her breath with desire.