The duke and I julia Quinn

My efforts, as you termed them, were met with success. I have removed myself to London, so that 
I might be near my family, and await your directive there. 
 
 Yours, 
 Daphne 
Simon didn't know how long he sat there behind his desk, barely breathing, the cream-colored 
slip of paper hanging from his fingers. Then finally, a breeze washed over him, or perhaps the 
light changed, or the house creaked—but something broke him out of his reverie and he jumped 
to his feet, strode into the hall, and bellowed for his butler. 
"Have my carriage hitched," he barked when the butler appeared. "I'm going to London." 

---

Chapter 20 
The marriage of the season seems to have gone sour. The Duchess of Hastings (formerly Miss 
Bridgerton) returned to London nearly two months ago, and This Author has seen neither hide nor 
hair of her new husband, the duke . 
Rumor has it that he is not at Clyvedon, where the once happy couple took their honeymoon. 
Indeed, This Author cannot find anyone who professes to know his whereabouts. (If her grace 
knows, she is not telling, and furthermore, one rarely has the opportunity to ask, as she has shunned 
the company of all except her rather large and extensive family.) 
It is, of course, This Author's place and indeed duty to speculate on the source of such rifts, but 
This Author must confess that even she is baffled. They seemed so very much in love... 
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. 2August 1813 
The trip took two days, which was two days longer than Simon would have liked to be alone 
with his thoughts. He'd brought a few books to read, hoping to keep himself distracted during the 
tedious journey, but whenever he managed to open one it sat unread in his lap. 
It was difficult to keep his mind off Daphne. 
It was even more difficult to keep his mind off the prospect of fatherhood. 
Once he reached London, he gave his driver instructions to take him directly to Bridgerton 
House. He was travel-weary, and probably could use a change of clothing, but he'd done nothing 
for the past two days but play out his upcoming confrontation with Daphne—it seemed foolish to 
put it off any longer than he had to. 
Once admitted to Bridgerton House, however, he discovered that Daphne wasn't there. 
"What do you mean," Simon asked in a deadly voice, not particularly caring that the butler had 
done little to earn his ire, "the duchess isn't here?" 
The butler took his deadly voice and raised him one curled upper lip. "I mean, your grace"—this 
was not said with particular graciousness—"that she is not in residence." 
"I have a letter from my wife—" Simon thrust his hand into his pocket, but—damn it—didn't 
come up with the paper. "Well, I have a letter from her somewhere," he grumbled. "And it 
specifically states that she has removed herself to London." 
"And she has, your grace." 
"Then where the hell is she?" Simon ground out. 

---

The butler merely raised a brow. "At Hastings House, your grace." 
Simon clamped his mouth shut. There was little more humiliating than being bested by a butler. 
"After all," the butler continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "she is married to 
you,
is she 
not?" 
Simon glared at him. "You must be quite secure in your position." 
"Quite." 
Simon gave him a brief nod (since he couldn't quite bring himself to thank the man) and stalked 
off, feeling very much like a fool. Of course Daphne would have gone to Hastings House. She 
hadn't 
left
him, after all; she just wanted to be near her family. 
If he could have kicked himself on the way back to the carriage, he would have done so. 
Once inside, however, he did kick himself. He lived just across Grosvenor Square from the 
Bridgertons. He could have walked across the blasted green in half the time. 
Time, however, proved not to be particularly of the essence, because when he swung open the 
door to Hastings House and stomped into the hall, he discovered that his wife was not at home. 
"She's riding," Jeffries said. 
Simon stared at his butler in patent disbelief. "She's riding?" he echoed. 
"Yes, your grace," Jeffries replied. "Riding. On a horse." 
Simon wondered what the penalty washer strangling a butler. "Where," he bit off, "did she go?" 
"Hyde Park, I believe." 
Simon's blood began to pound, and his breath grew uneven. Riding? Was she bloody insane? 
She was pregnant, for God's sake. Even 
he
knew that pregnant women weren't supposed to ride. 
"Have a horse saddled for me," Simon ordered. "Immediately." 
"Any particular horse?" Jeffries inquired. 
"A fast one," Simon snapped. "And do it now. Or better yet, I'll do it." With that, he turned on 
his heel and marched out of the house. 
But about halfway to the stables, his panic seeped from his blood to his very bones, and Simon's 
determined stride turned into a run. 

---

* * * 
It wasn't the same as riding astride, Daphne thought, but at least she was going
fast
. 
In the country, when she'd been growing up, she'd always borrowed Colin's breeches and joined 
her brothers on their hell-for-leather rides. Her mother usually suffered an attack of the vapors 
every time she saw her eldest daughter return covered with mud, and quite frequently sporting a 
new and startling bruise, but Daphne hadn't cared. She hadn't cared where they were riding to or 
what they were riding from. It had all been about speed. 
In the city, of course, she couldn't don breeches and thus was relegated to the sidesaddle, but if 
she took her horse out early enough, when fashionable society was still abed, and if she made 
certain to limit herself to the more remote areas of Hyde Park, she could bend over her saddle 
and urge her horse to a gallop. The wind whipped her hair out of its bun and stung her eyes to 
tears, but at least it made her forget. 
Atop her favorite mare, tearing across the fields, she felt free. There was no better medicine for 
a broken heart. 
She'd long since ditched her groom, pretending she hadn't heard him when he'd yelled, "Wait! 
Your grace! Wait!" 
She'd apologize to him later. The grooms at Bridgerton House were used to her antics and well 
aware of her skill atop a horse. This new man—one of her husband's servants—would probably 
worry. 
Daphne felt a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. She needed to be alone. She needed to move 
fast. 
She slowed down as she reached a slightly wooded area and took a deep breath of the crisp 
autumn air. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and smells of the park fill her 
senses. She thought of a blind man she'd once met, who'd told her that the rest of his senses had 
grown sharper since he'd lost his sight. As she sat there and inhaled the scents of the forest, she 
thought he might be right. 
She listened hard, first identifying the high-pitched chirp of the birds, then the soft, scurrying 
feet of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts for the winter. Then— 
She frowned and opened her eyes. Damn. That was definitely the sound of another rider 
approaching. 
Daphne didn't want company. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her pain, and she 
certainly didn't want to have to explain to some well-meaning society member why she was 
alone in the park. She listened again, identified the location of the oncoming rider, and took off 
in the other direction. 

---

She kept her horse to a steady trot, thinking that if she just got out of the other rider's way, he'd 
pass her by. But whichever way she went, he seemed to follow. 
She picked up speed, more speed than she should have in this lightly wooded area. There were 
too many low branches and protruding tree roots. But now Daphne was starting to get scared. 
Her pulse pounded in her ears as a thousand horrifying questions rocked through her head. 
What if this rider wasn't, as she'd originally supposed, a member of the 
ton?
What if he was a 
criminal? Or a drunk? It was early; there was no one about. If Daphne screamed, who would hear 
her? Was she close enough to her groom? Had he stayed put where she'd left him or had he tried 
to follow? And if he had, had he even gone in the right direction? 
Her groom! She nearly cried out in relief. It had to be her groom. She swung her mare around to 
see if she could catch a glimpse of the rider. The Hastings livery was quite distinctly red; surely 
she'd be able to see if— 
Smack! 
Every bit of air was violently forced from her body as a branch caught her squarely in the chest. 
A strangled grunt escaped her lips, and she felt her mare moving forward without her. And then 
she was falling ... falling ... 
She landed with a bone-jarring thud, the autumn brown leaves on the ground providing scant 
cushioning. Her body immediately curled into a fetal position, as if by making herself as small as 
possible, she could make the hurt as small as possible. 
And, oh God, she hurt. Damn it, she hurt everywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut and 
concentrated on breathing. Her mind flooded with curses she'd never dared speak aloud. But it 
hurt. Bloody hell, it hurt to breathe. 
But she had to. Breathe.