Daphne stared at him in fascination. She'd never seen him at such a loss for words.

Simon let out an irritated exhale. It was strange, Daphne thought, because it seemed as if he were irritated with himself.

“When you brought him up…” He shook his head, as if deciding to try a different avenue of conversation. “It grabs at my mind. I can't stop thinking about him. It—it—it makes me extremely angry.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, knowing her confusion must show on her face. She thought she should say more, but she didn't know what words to use.

“Not at you,” he said quickly, and as his pale blue eyes focused on hers, something seemed to clear in them. His face seemed to relax as well, especially the tight lines that had formed around his mouth. He swallowed uncomfortably. “I'm angry at myself.”

“And apparently at your father as well,” she said softly.

He said nothing. She hadn't expected him to, she realized. His hand was still on her arm, and she covered it with her own. “Would you like to get a bit of air?” she asked gently. “You look as if you might need it.”

He nodded. “You stay. Anthony will have my head if I take you out onto the terrace.”

“Anthony can hang for all I care.” Daphne's mouth tightened with irritation. “I'm sick of his constant hovering, anyway.”

“He is only trying to be a good brother to you.”

Her lips parted in consternation. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Deftly ignoring her question, he said, “Very well. But just a short walk. Anthony I can take on, but if he enlists the aid of your brothers, I'm a dead man.”

There was a door leading out to the terrace a few yards away. Daphne nodded toward it, and Simon's hand slid down her arm and around the crook of her elbow.

“There are probably dozens of couples out on the terrace, anyway,” she said. “He'll have nothing about which to complain.”

But before they could make their way outside, a loud male voice sounded from behind them. “Hastings!”

Simon halted and turned around, grimly realizing that he had grown used to the name. In no time, he'd be thinking of it as his own.

Somehow that concept made him ill.

An older man leaning on a cane hobbled his way toward them. “That's the duke I told you about,” Daphne said. “Of Middlethorpe, I believe.”

Simon nodded curtly, having no desire to speak.

“Hastings!” the old man said, patting him on the arm. “I have wanted to make your acquaintance for so very long. I am Middlethorpe. Your father was a good friend of mine.”

Simon just nodded again, the motion almost military in its precision.

“He missed you, you know. While you were off traveling.”

A rage began to build in his mouth, a rage that rendered his tongue swollen and his cheeks tight and rigid. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he tried to speak, he would sound just as he'd done when he was a lad of eight.

And there was no way he'd shame himself in such a way in front of Daphne.

Somehow—he'd never know how, maybe it was because he'd never had much trouble with vowels aside from “I”—he managed to say, “Oh?” He was pleased that his voice came out sharp and condescending.

But if the old man heard the rancor in his tone, he made no reaction to it. “I was with him when he died,” Middlethorpe said.

Simon said nothing.

Daphne—bless her—leapt into the fray with a sympathetic, “My goodness.”

“He asked me to pass along some messages to you. I have several letters in my house.”

“Burn them.”

Daphne gasped and grabbed Middlethorpe by the arm. “Oh, no, don't do that. He might not want to see them now, but surely he will change his mind in the future.”

Simon blasted her with an icy glare before turning back to Middlethorpe. “I said burn them.”

“I—ah—” Middlethorpe looked hopelessly confused. He must have been aware that the Basset father and son were not on good terms, but clearly the late duke had not revealed to him the true depth of the estrangement. He looked to Daphne, sensing a possible ally, and said to her, “In addition to the letters, there were things he asked me to tell him. I could tell them to him now.”

But Simon had already dropped Daphne's arm and stalked outside.

“I'm so sorry,” Daphne said to Middlethorpe, feeling the need to apologize for Simon's atrocious behavior. “I'm sure he doesn't mean to be rude.”

Middlethorpe's expression told her that he knew Simon meant to be rude.

But Daphne still said, “He's a bit sensitive about his father.”

Middlethorpe nodded. “The duke warned me he'd react this way. But he laughed as he said it, then made a joke about the Basset pride. I must confess I didn't think he was completely serious.”

Daphne looked nervously through the open door to the terrace. “Apparently he was,” she murmured. “I had best see to him.”

Middlethorpe nodded.

“Please don't burn those letters,” she said.

“I would never dream of it. But—”

Daphne had already taken a step toward the terrace door and turned around at the halting tone of the old man's voice. “What is it?” she asked.

“I'm not a well man,” Middlethorpe said. “I—The doctor says it could be anytime now. May I trust the letters into your safekeeping?”

Daphne stared at the duke with a mix of shock and horror. Shock because she could not believe he would trust such personal correspondence to a young woman he'd known for barely an hour. Horror because she knew that if she accepted them, Simon might never forgive her.