“This is hardly necessary, Daff.”

“Promise!” she ordered.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled, “I promise.”

“Good.” She handed him the letter. He looked at it longingly.

“Secondly,” Daphne said loudly, forcing his attention back to her, “you must promise not to hurt him.”

“Oh, now, wait one second, Daphne,” Anthony burst out. “You ask far too much.”

She held out her hand. “I'll be taking that letter back.”

He shoved it behind his back. “You already gave it to me.”

She smirked. “I didn't give you his address.”

“I can get his address,” he returned.

“No, you can't, and you know it,” Daphne shot back. “He has no end of estates. It'd take you weeks to figure out which one he's visiting.”

“A-ha!” Anthony said triumphantly. “So he's at one of his estates. You, my dear, let slip a vital clue.”

“Is this a game?” Daphne asked in amazement.

“Just tell me where he is.”

“Not unless you promise—no violence, Anthony.” She crossed her arms. “I mean it.”

“All right,” he mumbled.

“Say it.”

“You're a hard woman, Daphne Bridgerton.”

“It's Daphne Basset, and I've had good teachers.”

“I promise,” he said—barely. His words weren't precisely crisp.

“I need a bit more than that,” Daphne said. She uncrossed her arms and twisted her right hand in a rolling manner, as if to draw forth the words from his lips. “I promise not to…”

“I promise not to hurt your bloody idiot of a husband,” Anthony spat out. “There. Is that good enough?”

“Certainly,” Daphne said congenially. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the letter she'd received earlier that week from Simon's steward, giving his address. “Here you are.”

Anthony took it with a decidedly ungraceful—and ungrateful—swipe of his hand. He glanced down, scanned the lines, then said, “I'll be back in four days.”

“You're leaving today?” Daphne asked, surprised.

“I don't know how long I can keep my violent impulses in check,” he drawled.

“Then by all means, go today,” Daphne said.

He did.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull your lungs out through your mouth.”

Simon looked up from his desk to see a travel-dusty Anthony Bridgerton, fuming in the doorway to his study. “It's nice to see you, too, Anthony,” he murmured.

Anthony entered the room with all the grace of a thunderstorm, planted his hands on Simon's desk and leaned forward menacingly. “Would you mind telling me why my sister is in London, crying herself to sleep every night, while you're in—” He looked around the office and scowled. “Where the hell are we?”

“Wiltshire,” Simon supplied.

“While you're in Wiltshire, puttering around an inconsequential estate?”

“Daphne's in London?”

“You'd think,” Anthony growled, “that as her husband you'd know that.”

“You'd think a lot of things,” Simon muttered, “but most of the time, you'd be wrong.” It had been two months since he'd left Clyvedon. Two months since he'd looked at Daphne and not been able to utter a word. Two months of utter emptiness.

In all honesty, Simon was surprised it had taken Daphne this long to get in touch with him, even if she had elected to do so through her somewhat belligerent older brother. Simon wasn't exactly certain why, but he'd thought she would have contacted him sooner, if only to blister his ears. Daphne wasn't the sort to stew in silence when she was upset; he'd half expected her to track him down and explain in six different ways why he was an utter fool.

And truth be told, after about a month, he'd half wished she would.

“I would tear your bloody head off,” Anthony growled, breaking into Simon's thoughts with considerable force, “if I hadn't promised Daphne I wouldn't do you bodily harm.”

“I'm sure that wasn't a promise easily made,” Simon said.

Anthony crossed his arms and settled a heavy stare on Simon's face. “Nor easily kept.”

Simon cleared his throat as he tried to figure out some way to ask about Daphne without seeming too obvious. He missed her. He felt like an idiot, he felt like a fool, but he missed her. He missed her laugh and her scent and the way, sometimes in the middle of the night, she always managed to tangle her legs with his.

Simon was used to being alone, but he wasn't used to being this lonely.

“Did Daphne send you to fetch me back?” he finally asked.

“No.” Anthony reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, ivory envelope, and slapped it down on the desk. “I caught her summoning a messenger to send you this.”

Simon stared at the envelope with growing horror. It could only mean one thing. He tried to say something neutral, such as “I see,” but his throat closed up.

“I told her I'd be happy to conduct the letter to you,” Anthony said, with considerable sarcasm.

Simon ignored him. He reached for the envelope, hoping that Anthony would not see how his fingers were shaking.

But Anthony did see. “What the devil is wrong with you?” he asked in an abrupt voice. “You look like hell.”

Simon snatched the envelope and pulled it to him. “Always a pleasure to see you, too,” he managed to quip.

Anthony gazed steadily at him, the battle between anger and concern showing clearly on his face. Clearing his throat a few times, Anthony finally asked, in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Are you ill?”