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Daphne winced as the insult crossed her lips, but it had to be said. “At some point you've got to leave him behind and live your own life. You've got to let go of the anger and—”

Simon shook his head, and his eyes looked lost and hopeless. “Don't ask me to do that. It's all I had. Don't you see, it's all I had?”

“I don't understand.”

His voice rose in volume. “Why do you think I learned to speak properly? What do you think drove me? It was anger. It was always anger, always to show him.”

“Simon—”

A bubble of mocking laughter erupted from his throat. “Isn't that just too amusing? I hate him. I hate him so much, and yet he's the one reason I've managed to succeed.”

Daphne shook her head. “That's not true,” she said fervently, “you would have succeeded no matter what. You're stubborn and brilliant, and I know you. You learned to speak because of you, not because of him.” When he said nothing, she added in a soft voice, “If he'd shown you love, it would have made it all the easier.”

Simon started to shake his head, but she cut him off by taking his hand and squeezing it. “I was shown love,” she whispered. “I knew nothing but love and devotion when I was growing up. Trust me, it makes everything easier.”

Simon sat very still for several minutes, the only sound the low whoosh of his breath as he fought to control his emotions. Finally, just when Daphne was beginning to fear she'd lost him, he looked up at her with shattered eyes.

“I want to be happy,” he whispered.

“You will be,” she vowed, wrapping her arms around him. “You will be.”

Chapter 21

The Duke of Hastings is back!

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 6 AUGUST 1813

Simon didn't speak as they slowly rode home. Daphne's mare had been found munching contentedly on a patch of grass about twenty yards away, and even though Daphne had insisted that she was fit to ride, Simon had insisted that he didn't care. After tying the mare's reins to his own gelding, he had boosted Daphne into his saddle, hopped up behind her, and headed back to Grosvenor Square.

Besides, he needed to hold her.

He was coming to realize that he needed to hold on to something in life, and maybe she was right—maybe anger wasn't the solution. Maybe—just maybe he could learn to hold on to love instead.

When they reached Hastings House, a groom ran out to take care of the horses, and so Simon and Daphne trudged up the front steps and entered the hall.

And found themselves being stared down by the three older Bridgerton brothers.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Simon demanded. All he wanted to do was scoot up the stairs and make love to his wife, and instead he was greeted by this belligerent trio. They were standing with identical postures—legs spread, hands on hips, chins jutted out. If Simon hadn't been so damned irritated with the lot of them, he probably would have had the presence of mind to have been slightly alarmed.

Simon had no doubt that he could hold his own against one of them—maybe two—but against all three he was a dead man.

“We heard you were back,” Anthony said.

“So I am,” Simon replied. “Now leave.”

“Not so fast,” Benedict said, crossing his arms.

Simon turned to Daphne. “Which one of them may I shoot first?”

She threw a scowl at her brothers. “I have no preference.”

“We have a few demands before we'll let you keep Daphne,” Colin said.

“What?” Daphne howled.

“She is my wife!” Simon roared, effectively obliterating Daphne's angry query.

“She was our sister first,” Anthony growled, “and you've made her miserable.”

“This isn't any of your business,” Daphne insisted.

“You're our business,” Benedict said.

“She's my business,” Simon snapped, “so now get the hell out of my house.”

“When the three of you have marriages of your own, then you can presume to offer me advice,” Daphne said angrily, “but in the meantime, keep your meddling impulses to yourselves.”

“I'm sorry, Daff,” Anthony said, “but we're not budging on this.”

“On what?” she snapped. “You have no place to budge one way or the other. This isn't your affair!”

Colin stepped forward. “We're not leaving until we're convinced he loves you.”

The blood drained from Daphne's face. Simon had never once told her that he loved her. He'd shown it, in a thousand different little ways, but he'd never said the words. When they came, she didn't want them at the hands of her overbearing brothers; she wanted them free and felt, from Simon's heart.

“Don't do this, Colin,” she whispered, hating the pathetic, pleading note of her voice. “You have to let me fight my own battles.”

“Daff—”

“Please,” she pleaded.

Simon marched between them. “If you will excuse us,” he said to Colin, and by extension, to Anthony and Benedict. He ushered Daphne to the other end of the hall, where they might talk privately. He would have liked to have moved to another room altogether, but he had no confidence that her idiot brothers wouldn't follow.

“I'm so sorry about my brothers,” Daphne whispered, her words coming out in a heated rush. “They're boorish idiots, and they had no business invading your house. If I could disown them I would. After this display I wouldn't be surprised if you never want children—”

Simon silenced her with a finger to her lips. “First of all, it's our house, not my house. And as for your brothers—they annoy the hell out of me, but they're acting out of love.” He leaned down, just an inch, but it brought him close enough so that she could feel his breath on her skin. “And who can blame them?” he murmured.