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Daphne said, “Really, Mother, with Lady Whistledown as a reporter, one needn't actually attend any events.” She waved toward the paper. “This is almost as good as actually being there. Better, probably. I'm certain we had better food last night than they did at the ball. And give that back.” She yanked the paper back, leaving a torn corner in Violet's hands.

“Daphne!”

Daphne affected mock righteousness. “I was reading it.”

“Well!”

“Listen to this.”

Violet leaned in.

Daphne read: “‘The rake formerly known as Earl Clyvedon has finally seen fit to grace London with his presence. Although he has not yet deigned to make an appearance at a respectable evening function, the new Duke of Hastings has been spotted several times at White's and once at Tattersall's.’” She paused to take a breath. “‘His grace has resided abroad for six years. Can it be any coincidence that he has returned only now that the old duke is dead?’”

Daphne looked up. “My goodness, she is blunt, isn't she? Isn't Clyvedon one of Anthony's friends?”

“He's Hastings now,” Violet said automatically, “and yes, I do believe he and Anthony were friendly at Oxford. And Eton as well, I think.” Her brow scrunched and her blue eyes narrowed with thought. “He was something of a hellion, if my memory serves. Always at odds with his father. But reputed to be quite brilliant. I'm fairly sure that Anthony said he took a first in mathematics. Which,” she added with a maternal roll of her eyes, “is more than I can say for any of my children.”

“Now, now, Mother,” Daphne teased. “I'm sure I would take a first if Oxford would only see fit to admit women.”

Violet snorted. “I corrected your arithmetic papers when your governess was ill, Daphne.”

“Well, maybe in history, then,” Daphne said with a grin. She looked back down at the paper in her hands, her eyes straying to the new duke's name. “He sounds quite interesting,” she murmured.

Violet looked at her sharply. “He's quite unsuitable for a young lady of your years is what he is.”

“Funny how my ‘years,’ as you put it, volley back and forth between being so young that I cannot even meet Anthony's friends and being so old that you despair of my ever contracting a good marriage.”

“Daphne Bridgerton, I don't—”

“—like my tone, I know.” Daphne grinned. “But you love me.”

Violet smiled warmly and wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulder. “Heaven help me, I do.”

Daphne gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “It's the curse of motherhood. You're required to love us even when we vex you.”

Violet just sighed. “I hope that someday you have children—”

“—just like me, I know.” Daphne smiled nostalgically and rested her head on her mother's shoulder. Her mother could be overly inquisitive, and her father had been more interested in hounds and hunting than he'd been in society affairs, but theirs had been a warm marriage, filled with love, laughter, and children. “I could do a great deal worse than follow your example, Mother,” she murmured.

“Why, Daphne,” Violet said, her eyes growing watery, “what a lovely thing to say.”

Daphne twirled a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger, and grinned, letting the sentimental moment melt into a more teasing one. “I'm happy to follow in your footsteps when it comes to marriage and children, Mother, just so long as I don't have to have eight.”

At that exact moment, Simon Basset, the new Duke of Hastings and the erstwhile topic of the Bridgerton ladies' conversation, was sitting at White's. His companion was none other than Anthony Bridgerton, Daphne's eldest brother. The two cut a striking pair, both tall and athletic, with thick dark hair. But where Anthony's eyes were the same deep chocolate brown as his sister's, Simon's were icy blue, with an oddly penetrating gaze.

It was those eyes as much as anything that had earned him his reputation as a man to be reckoned with. When he stared at a person, clear and unwavering, men grew uncomfortable. Women positively shivered.

But not Anthony. The two men had known each other for years, and Anthony just laughed when Simon raised a brow and turned his icy gaze upon him. “You forget, I've seen you with your head being lowered into a chamber pot,” Anthony had once told him. “It's been difficult to take you seriously ever since.”

To which Simon had replied, “Yes, but if I recall, you were the one holding me over that fragrant receptacle.”

“One of my proudest moments, to be sure. But you had your revenge the next night in the form of a dozen eels in my bed.”

Simon allowed himself a smile as he remembered both the incident and their subsequent conversation about it. Anthony was a good friend, just the sort a man would want by his side in a pinch. He'd been the first person Simon had looked up upon returning to England.

“It's damned fine to have you back, Clyvedon,” Anthony said, once they'd settled in at their table at White's. “Oh, but I suppose you'll insist I call you Hastings now.”

“No,” Simon said rather emphatically. “Hastings will always be my father. He never answered to anything else.” He paused. “I'll assume his title if I must, but I won't be called by his name.”

“If you must?” Anthony's eyes widened slightly. “Most men would not sound quite so resigned about the prospect of a dukedom.”

Simon raked a hand through his dark hair. He knew he was supposed to cherish his birthright and display unwavering pride in the Basset family's illustrious history, but the truth was it all made him sick inside. He'd spent his entire life not living up to his father's expectations; it seemed ridiculous now to try to live up to his name. “It's a damned burden is what it is,” he finally grumbled.