The Bridgertons Happily Ever After Read Online Free PDF Page A

found wanting.
    It hadn’t mattered that his father was dead. Simon had thirsted for vengeance all the same, and it had taken love, first with Daphne and then with his children, to banish that ghost. He’d finally realized that he was free when Daphne had given him a bundle of letters from his father that had been entrusted into her care. He hadn’t wanted to burn them; he hadn’t wanted to rip them to shreds.
    He hadn’t particularly wanted to read them, either.
    He’d looked down at the stack of envelopes, tied neatly with a red and gold ribbon, and realized that he felt nothing. Not anger, not sorrow, not even regret. It had been the greatest victory he could have imagined.
    He wasn’t sure how long the letters had sat in Daphne’s desk. He knew she’d put them in her bottom drawer, and every now and then he’d taken a peek to see if they were still there.
    But eventually even that had tapered off. He hadn’t forgotten about the letters—every now and then something would happen that would spring them to mind—but he’d forgotten about them with such constancy. And they had probably been absent from his mind for months when he opened his bottom desk drawer and saw that Daphne had moved them there.
    That had been twenty years ago.
    And although he still lacked the urge to burn or shred, he’d also never felt the need to open them.
    Until now.
    Well, no.
    Maybe?
    He looked at them again, still tied in that bow. Did he want to open them? Could there be anything in his father’s letters that might be of help to Colin and Penelope as they guided Georgie through what might be a difficult childhood?
    No. It was impossible. His father had been a hard man, unfeeling and unforgiving. He’d been so obsessed with his heritage and title that he’d turned his back on his only child. There could be nothing—nothing—that he might have written that could help Georgie.
    Simon picked up the letters. The papers were dry. They smelled old.
    The fire in the grate felt new. Hot, and bright, and redemptive. He stared at the flames until his vision blurred, just sat there for endless minutes, clutching his father’s final words to him. They had not spoken for over five years when his father died. If there was anything the old duke had wanted to say to him, it would be here.
    “Simon?”
    He looked up slowly, barely able to pull himself from his daze. Daphne was standing in the doorway, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the door. She was dressed in her favorite pale blue dressing gown. She’d had it for years; every time he asked if she wanted to replace it, she refused. Some things were best soft and comfortable.
    “Are you coming to bed?” she asked.
    He nodded, coming to his feet. “Soon. I was just—” He cleared his throat, because the truth was—he wasn’t sure what he’d been doing. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been thinking. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.
    “Better. It’s always better in the evening.” She took a few steps forward. “I had a bit of toast, and even some jam, and I—” She stopped, the only movement in her face the quick blink of her eyes. She was staring at the letters. He hadn’t realized he was still holding them when he stood.
    “Are you going to read them?” she asked quietly.
    “I thought . . . perhaps . . .” He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
    “But why now?”
    “Colin told me about Georgie. I thought there might be something in here.” He moved his hand slightly, holding the stack of letters just a little bit higher. “Something that might help him.”
    Daphne’s lips parted, but several seconds passed before she was able to speak. “I think you might be one of the kindest, most generous men I have ever known.”
    He looked at her in confusion.
    “I know you don’t want to read those,” she said.
    “I really don’t care—”
    “No, you do,” she interrupted gently. “Not enough to destroy them, but they still mean something to