“They're mostly brown,” he corrected.
She twisted until she was facing the gilt mirror he'd used earlier to inspect his bruises and blinked a few times. “No,” she said slowly, as if she were speaking to a person of considerably small intellect, “they're brown.”
He reached out and brushed one gentle finger along the bottom edge of her eye, her delicate lashes tickling his skin like a butterfly kiss. “Not around the edge.”
She gave him a look that was mostly dubious, but a little bit hopeful, then let out a funny little breath and stood. “I'm going to look for myself.”
Simon watched with amusement as she stood and marched over to the mirror and put her face close to the glass. She blinked several times, then held her eyes open wide, then blinked some more.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “I've never seen that!”
Simon stood and moved to her side, leaning with her against the mahogany table that stood in front of the mirror. “You'll soon learn that I am always right.”
She shot him a sarcastic look. “But how did you notice that?”
He shrugged. “I looked very closely.”
“You…” She seemed to decide against finishing her statement, and leaned back against the table, opening her eyes wide to inspect them again. “Fancy that,” she murmured. “I have green eyes.”
“Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say—”
“For today,” she interrupted, “I refuse to believe they are anything but green.”
Simon grinned. “As you wish.”
She sighed. “I was always so jealous of Colin. Such beautiful eyes wasted on a man.”
“I'm sure the young ladies who fancy themselves in love with him would disagree.”
Daphne gave him a smirky glance. “Yes, but they don't signify, do they?”
Simon caught himself wanting to laugh. “Not if you say so.”
“You'll soon learn,” she said archly, “that I am always right.”
This time he did laugh. There was no way he could have held it in. He finally stopped, realizing that Daphne was silent. She was regarding him warmly, though, her lips curved into a nostalgic smile.
“This was nice,” she said, placing her hand on his. “Almost like it used to be, don't you think?”
He nodded, turning his hand palm up so that he could clasp hers.
“It will be like this again, won't it?” Her eyes showed a flicker of trepidation. “We'll go back to the way it was, won't we? Everything will be exactly the same.”
“Yes,” he said, even though he knew it could not be true. They might find contentment, but it would never be just as it was.
She smiled, closed her eyes, and rested her head against his shoulder. “Good.”
Simon watched their reflection for several minutes. And he almost believed he would be able to make her happy.
The next evening—Daphne's last night as Miss Bridgerton—Violet knocked on her bedroom door.
Daphne was sitting on her bed, mementos of her childhood spread out before her, when she heard the rap. “Come in!” she called out.
Violet poked her head in, an awkward smile pasted on her face. “Daphne,” she said, sounding queasy, “do you have a moment?”
Daphne looked at her mother with concern. “Of course.” She stood as Violet edged into the room. Her mother's skin was a remarkable match with her yellow dress.
“Are you quite all right, Mother?” Daphne inquired. “You look a little green.”
“I'm fine. I just—” Violet cleared her throat and steeled her shoulders. “It's time we had a talk.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Daphne breathed, her heart racing with anticipation. She'd been waiting for this. All her friends had told her that the night before one's wedding, one's mother delivered all the secrets of marriage. At the last possible moment, one was admitted into the company of womanhood, and told all those wicked and delicious facts that were kept so scrupulously from the ears of unmarried girls. Some of the young ladies of her set had, of course, already married, and Daphne and her friends had tried to get them to reveal what no one else would, but the young matrons had just giggled and smiled, saying, “You'll find out soon.”
“Soon” had become “now,” and Daphne couldn't wait.
Violet, on the other hand, looked as if she might lose the contents of her stomach at any moment.
Daphne patted a spot on her bed. “Would you like to sit here, Mother?”
Violet blinked in a rather distracted manner. “Yes, yes, that would be fine.” She sat down, half-on and half-off the bed. She didn't look very comfortable.
Daphne decided to take pity on her and begin the conversation. “Is this about marriage?” she asked gently.
Violet's nod was barely perceptible.
Daphne fought to keep the fascinated glee out of her voice. “The wedding night?”
This time Violet managed to bob her chin up and down an entire inch. “I really don't know how to tell this to you. It's highly indelicate.”
Daphne tried to wait patiently. Eventually her mother would get to the point.
“You see,” Violet said haltingly, “there are things you need to know. Things that will occur tomorrow night. Things”—she coughed—“that involve your husband.”
Daphne leaned forward, her eyes widening.
Violet scooted back, clearly uncomfortable with Daphne's obvious interest. “You see, your husband…that is to say, Simon, of course, since he will be your husband…”