Simon

Simon Tuttle, Duke of Hertfordshire, Earl of St. Albans. During his introduction to Cora, he had said, “I’m Simon Tuttle. My friends call me Albans.” Though technically true, they should now call me Hertfordshire. He cringed inwardly at the misfit of that name. He had grown up as Lord Simon and wished he could hear his own familiar name more often, especially from her.

He’d failed to mention “duke” or “earl.” Oh, and he knew why. Since the death of his father and both older brothers, the universe had singled him out to be the trophy that would be taken in the marriage mart come spring—only the women on the hunt weren’t waiting for April. They had gotten it into their bonnets to contrive to become Simon’s duchess as soon as possible.

       Every event he’d attended since returning three weeks ago from his rustication with his mother’s family in Scotland had turned into a troupe of actors with each woman more daring than the last. Thank heavens for Everett’s reconnaissance, or Simon was sure he would have been trapped within mere days of stepping onto England’s soil. He was grateful he’d missed the Season. Now he had just short of a year to steel himself for the onslaught.

       It came down to this—he hid. He had attended several events, if one accepts attending to mean walking through the door. Last night, he was determined to spend a quiet evening apart from well-meaning family and friends who would introduce him to not-so-well-meaning misses and their mammas.

At the Lambeth’s dinner party on Friday last, two out of the three young ladies invited suddenly became ill and requested that he escort them home. Thankfully, they made miraculous recoveries when it was learned that he would, of course, make his carriage available to both of them, and he would ride atop with his driver to aid the comfort of the women.

If he was supposed to be hiding last night, as he’d been determined to do, why did he walk Cora to dinner? Why did he relish the delicate touch of her hand pressed on the sleeve of his coat? He longed to feel that warmth again. And why did he study the color of her eyes to learn they were not blue as he first assumed but the color of violets? Her dress, a shade or two lighter, exaggerated their color.

He’d spent a restless night considering the curl of her hair, the tinkling sound of her laughter, the unladylike snort, and the pleasing curves of her gown. It wasn’t just that she was attractive to look at, but she was also bold, intervening to protect Lucy or Everett. Simon thought on how he’d nearly blurted his secret to her not an hour after they first met.

Somehow Cora was different, and he wanted to satisfy his curiosity by getting to know her. He hoped it would take a very long time.

While just a day ago, he had shunned female attention, he hoped Cora was attracted to him. That thought brought him right back to where all this musing had started. He didn’t fully introduce himself because he wanted her to be attracted to him, the man, not the titles.

Simon had never thought to gain the titles, and he felt they hung on him like a wet coat as if he were a child who wore his father’s jacket out in a storm. But he believed in the responsibility the titles bequeathed. He was now responsible for the security and welfare of his mother and two younger sisters, the survival of hundreds of working families, and the husbandry of thousands of acres.

Everything was entailed to the estates. It made him a very wealthy man, but only him. Had he succumbed to death prior to his sisters, they and his mother would now be poor relations who must live on some cousin’s kindness or, worse yet, take positions of employment.

Simon launched from bed, leaving his daydreams behind, and dressed for the day. He was determined to make small fortunes for the women in his family should he die. Each of his sisters had generous dowries set aside, and his mother would have a widow’s portion, but neither of those gave them independence should they need it.

Attending the Full Moon Ball last night with Everett had been fortunate for meeting the lovely Cora, but his real reason for this visit was altogether different. As Simon entered the dining room for breakfast, Everett finished filling his plate at the sideboard. Simon likewise selected eggs, scones, and pork, then sat beside him. “When do we meet with your man of business?”

“He’ll be here soon.” Everett put his fork down. Simon steeled himself, recognizing something serious was coming. “So, that woman last night … ” Everett’s eyebrows wiggled. “Are you going to marry her?”

“I only met her last night.” Simon thought to have that end the conversation and shoved sausage in his mouth, but Everett stared at him and shrugged.

“You are, you know. Time doesn’t matter.”

“We only danced once.”

“A waltz, and that’s more than you’ve done since you were twenty. Oh, except Lady—ouch!” Everett glared at Simon and rubbed the spot on his arm where Simon had hit him. Everett laughed again. “You are.”