The smooth hardwood felt startlingly cold beneath the soft patter of your bare feet, the pads of your toes pressing flat against the foyer with each passing step. The atmosphere inside of the house was rather humid, as you inhaled a deep breath in the darkness of the night, but somehow managed a faint chill when it touched down upon your exposed flesh. For thin cotton trailed down your body, a pale white nightgown that did little to keep you warm, but kept you comfortable in the bed you had long ago abandoned. A dressing gown, a thin material of it's own, concealed your arms and flowed down on top of your nightgown, layering the pale fabric in an effort for hopeful warmth and to keep your modesty as you ventured down the short front hallway.   

Night fell heavy on the other side of the drawn curtains, it's dark shadows swallowing the vast exterior of the estate, managing to seep it's bright moonlight in through the material, bathing the hardwood in a whiteish glow that melded with the deep orange radiating from the lantern set up in the drawing room. The night was quiet and somehow still, even as a gentle rain washed over the streets of London in soft sheets of cold November precipitation. It was barely perceptible against the roof itself, silently gliding down the siding of the house, but you couldn't miss the sight of lonely raindrops trailing slowly down the windowpanes. It was not an angry rain, one that descended upon the Earth with a sought vengeance. It was not even a melancholy rain, one that fell from the heavy clouds in the form of lost tears. This soft rainfall, starting in the late hours of the evening, was calm. It was nearly comforting, the way it's gentle droplets sprinkled against the cobblestone with care, washing away the traces of the day as though to prepare for the raising sun in the hours to come. 

But even as it fell from the dark indigo sky, the delicate droplets illuminated by the sharp glow of the nearly full moon, it remained a cold precipitation. One drenched in the bitter temperatures of the night, winter steadily on the heels of a not quite finished autumn season. It was gentle and beautiful in it's own right, but you still wished for no soul to be stuck out in the rainfall. It was with that emotion, rooted in the base of your compassionate heart, that Simon Basset, The Duke of Hastings, sat in your drawing room at nearly midnight on a Saturday night. 

Your fingers gripped tighter to the small metal bowl held securely in your palms, careful not to splash the lukewarm liquid out of it's confines, as a thin blue rag sat in the center absorbing the water, as you made your way through the threshold to the drawing room. Leaving the bright and raw moonlight streaks dancing against the tall walls and hardwood flooring behind, entering a space bathed in a rich and saturated glow of warm flaming orange. It casted shadows against the portraits hung with care all around you, in delicate golden frames that seemed to sparkle in the cast of dim lantern light. The intricate fabric that lined the many pieces of furniture, the shades of dark burgundy and soft cream, seeming to deepen in it's color tones and exposure. 

Your feet guided you towards the only inhabited chair in the room, beside the end table that housed the flickering lantern, and rested the metal bowl down beside it with a gentle clink resounding in the space. The room was quite vast, stretching far with more pieces of furniture ever to be filled all at once, and more art than anyone ever truly cared to look at, and yet the room had never felt more intimate and small as it did in that very moment. As your attention drifted from the bowl of water that rippled softly from it's placement against the mahogany table, to the man who sat in the chair mere inches from you. Your shadow casted down upon his frame, his height no longer towering above you as it always seemed to when in his company, this time your small features managing to hover above him as though he was caught in the shade of a sycamore tree. He sat with poise and complete composure, his back firmly against the soft cushion of the chair, as his hands rested loosely over his thighs. 

His face was still, his expression even and obscured any possible detail of the thoughts or emotions found in the depth of his mind in that moment. His hands were relaxed against the swell of his thighs, but the flesh against his knuckles were torn and bloody. A deepening shade of something on it's way to becoming blue gathered around the site, blood caked across the cuts as fresh still seeped slowly from the ripped flesh at the base of his fingers. His lip adorned a cut deeper than those scattered against his hands, swelling the bottom right corner of his lip into an inflamed laceration. Blood trickled as it dried against the smooth dark skin of his temple, as a slash through his right eyebrow screamed with the same profound redness found in the other torn parts of his flesh. He had taken a beating, that much you knew, but you hated to think of what his opposition looked like now that the fight was over, the damage done to him. 

You hadn't been searching for him, you didn't even know he would be out at this time of night in the rain, but somehow the timing in which you felt drawn to the window, was impeccable. For you had watched with narrowed eyes, through the slight blur of running raindrops against the glass from the foyer front window, the sight of Simon walking at a leisurely pace in the middle of the street. His shoulders held broad and without the slightest hint of a slouch, even as the rainfall saturated him from head to toe. You watched as he made his way past your neighbors house before he continued to make his way into the proximity of your own, but as you watched him alone in the cold and the rain, you felt compelled. For your bare feet thudded towards the front door, twisting it open and rushing out onto the concealed dry front step. Your voice called out to him, wincing slightly as you had hoped not to wake your mother or a maid at this hour, but you called his name out in the rain. Startling him as his head shot over to look at your faintly illuminated doorway, but as you motioned with your hands for him to come near, Simon slowly turned and made the short walk up the pathway to your door. 

Raindrops slid down his face as though a sheen of sweat or wide spread tears dripping from his skin. His clothing, from the coat he wore to the now slickened leather of his boots, were drenched. But it was the sight of his injuries marring his beautiful skin, that made you usher him in without a moment for objection. Even as the thought of your sleeping mother upstairs and the other sets of eyes and ears, bound to still be scurrying around the house like mice at this hour, crossed your mind, you found you had to bring him inside. You had to get him towels to dry off with, allow for him warm up for a moment as you tended to his bleeding wounds. 

The Duke of Hastings shouldn't have been inside of your house at nearly midnight, alone with you without another soul in sight, but here he was. Sitting before you now, as your fingers reached for the saturated cloth sitting alone in the bowl. Simon Basset was a complicated man, you realized soon after your first meeting many months ago, but there was something about him. Something that you found you couldn't stop thinking about, as you laid in your bed in the dark of night. Something that drew you towards his stoic and charmingly composed nature at every soiree and event you found yourself in attendance during the span of the season. Something that made your heart beat wildly when he looked at you with that tightly kept secret of a devilish twinkle in his eye, the soft smile that curled against the swell of his perfectly plump lips, and made you come alive when he shared a side of himself to you, as though you might be just special enough to see it. As the months passed, you realized the friendship you had formed with a man of such title and rank but such hidden depth and honesty at the very same time, had become the very thing you treasured most in your life. 

The water felt cooler as you rung the cloth over the bowl, listening to the strong trickling of the access pouring back, streams of the water flowing through your fingers as you finished ringing the fabric. Wrapping it around your pointer finger, you slowly moved towards the side of his face. Simon's eyes had yet to lift to meet your steady gaze as you stood beside him, but you watched them flutter shut almost immediately as you pressed the edge of the cloth against his cut in the tenderest of dabs. A slight clench of his jaw as though he hissed silently at the sting, but his brown eyes opened a short breath later. The span of his dark lashes brushing faintly against his brow bone as his attention turned upwards, and your eyes collided for the first time since you had let him in. 

You remained in silence, dabbing the wound against his eyebrow gingerly with the cool damp cloth, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. There was something comforting and easy, something unbelievably honest about the single moment in time, that made staring into each other's eyes feel as though you were falling into an endless abyss. Simon had given you a rather weak explanation for the injuries he sustained, a disagreement in the club he was having a drink at with Viscount Anthony Bridgerton earlier that evening, turning sour as the hours ticked later. But now, as you tended gently to the bloody wounds that had ceased flowing with fresh red droplets, you sought a better answer, the real answer as to why he was bruised in the middle of the night. 

"I am rather inclined to believe that there is a much greater story behind these nasty cuts of yours, surely The Duke of Hastings is a better fighter than this." Your voice was hushed, as you willed for it not to carry up into the other bedchambers, but your mirthful tone was not lost in the softness of your words. Your head tilted ever so gently to the right as you regarded him with an arch of your brow, as a rather amused smirk toyed at the edges of your expression. 

Even as your finger began to dab gently at the slice across his lower lip, they still managed to curl into an honest smile of faint gaiety. "Are you questioning my fighting abilities, your highness?" 

Although you certainly did not hold that rightful title or reference, nothing relatively close, you still found yourself smiling at the sound of the words falling in an effortless breath from his swollen lips. For he rather disliked when you referred to him by his title, calling him "Your Grace" or anything to do with Hastings when not around others, and so he'd started to jester by calling you such outlandish ranks that never failed to make you laugh and shake your head at the titles that seemed too unfitting when you thought of yourself. 

"I wouldn't dream of confirming such an audacious implication, but I must admit these bruises are a testament to a much grander scheme of disagreement, are they not?"

Simon's head bobbed with the faintest fraction of a motion, his acknowledgement of your remark nearly missed if your eyes hadn't been so keenly trained upon his expressions. "Indeed they are, but you mustn't trouble yourself with these kinds of matters."

"And what matters would those be, Your Grace? Hmm? Because from where I stand, tending to your wounds, I see it is a matter of your very well-being."

Simon's lips twitched beneath your tender tapping of the damp cloth, as though your stubbornness and relentless curiosity was enough for a smirk of pure amusement and quite possible adoration to grow against them. But he composed his expression once again, before replying to your last remark. 

"There are some matters, tonight being one of them, that are best to stay within the confines of gentlemen."

Your fingers stalled against his lips before you pulled your hand back altogether, placing your left firm against your hip as your right held the cloth by your side. Conscious not to press the damp fabric against your rather thin nightgown. Your eyes narrowed a fraction as you stared back at Simon, before your lips parted to speak softly. 

"I know better than to believe you are keeping the reason behind your injuries a secret, just because I am a woman. You best not prove me wrong Simon Basset."

Simon's smirk appeared as though the fluttering of a ghost against his lips, before a deep exhale resonated through his chest, echoing in the space with a soft but strong breath. He stared up into your unshakable gaze for a short moment longer, as you watched the wheels in his mind turning begin to filter through his orbs, as he came to the realization that you weren't to let up until you received an explanation that satisfied your anxiety and curiosity.  

"I had shared a few drinks with Viscount Bridgerton earlier in the evening, before he needed to return home to his wife," Simon began to explain in slow detail. You had only met Anthony Bridgerton a time or two, having spent more time with his wife Kate than the Vicount himself, and you found you liked her company insurmountably. "but I decided to stay an hour or two longer."

"There were some gentlemen that entered the establishment later on, although I despise the very notion of calling them as such. They were brutes, adorned in money and titles that made them rich with arrogance and misplaced privilege. They were conversing rather loudly when they entered, only gaining momentum once within the sanctity of the surrounding walls. The words they spoke, the very things that came from their mouths as though those kinds of words were meant to be spoken at all, were repulsive. I had to leave immediately."

Your curiosity got the better of you as you spoke up softly, gazing intently on his stilled expression. Although the look of disgust and anger flashed against the sheen glimmer of his brown eyes, as though moonlight beaming across the rippling creak. "It sounds as though their words wounded you before their fists had the chance, pray tell Simon, what could they have spoken of that seems to have struck such a personal note?" 

Simon stared silently at you, before he broke his gaze away from your constant kind but heavy scrutiny. Simon Basset didn't go around starting fights with people, he surely wouldn't punch someone just because he disagreed with their opinions or disliked the way they spoke, if that were the case, half of the London ton might still be licking their wounds. There must have been something about these men, something in the ghastly words that they spewed, that felt personal to Simon. Personal enough that he felt the need to stand up and confront in a move he didn't often resort to. What had managed to push him so far as to get into a fist fight with a couple of men he hadn't ever met?

"They were speaking of a woman." His eyes were trained downwards towards the floor, his voice low and his tone solemn as he spoke slowly. "The most degrading, disrespectful, disgusting words I have ever heard strung together in a single sentence, and I've heard quite a lot in my lifetime. I am not a viable candidate for sainthood, I know that, but the things they spoke of, my anger and repulsion that they breathed the same air as I, got the best of me I suppose."

You swallowed deeply at his words, feeling the chilling weight of them soak into your chest as you listened to him with complete concentration. But a single question pulled at your mind, and you could not hold it back from slipping through your parted lips. 

"Who was the woman they spoke of, Simon?"

You knew he didn't want to answer the question, and so he didn't. He sat there in complete silence, still in his chair, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement shown across his body as he composed his expression. His shoulders straight and broad, only moving with the deep inhales and exhales of his breaths, not a sign shown on his exterior as to alert you to any thoughts found in his head. But as Simon sat there, your eyes gazing compassionately upon his strong and still dampened shoulders, his eyes flickered upwards. Peering through his eyelashes in a single gaze, capturing your stare in his own and it was in the deep reflection of his dark brown orbs, that you found the answer you had searched for. He hadn't needed to say the words, for the wary look reflecting back in the depth of his stare, spoke volumes his voice never could. 

Although his expression was still shrouded in it's strongest ability to keep the extent of his emotions hidden from your view, the sight of something raw and solemn in the gentle glimmer of his eyes, made you swallow a deep breath. You should feel as disgusted as Simon was in the moment there at the club, you should feel as though you might have to scrub your skin forever to feel clean again. You should feel saddened, on the very edge of shocked tears, but you weren't. If there were any tears to be found in the depths of your own gentle gaze, they were not due to any ill-meant emotion. For as you looked to Simon, all you could feel, all you could think, the reason behind the tears forming in your eyes, was that Simon Basset had protected you in a way no one had ever done so in your entire life. 

"You defended my honour?"

Your voice was breathless, if it had been out in the rain and the cold wind, it would have surely become lost. But indoors, it was real and it was raw as it cracked in it's vulnerable tone. Your eyes blurred with the clouding of fresh tears, but you blinked their stinging presence away until Simon's face became clear before you once more. The night felt heavy on the other side of the walls, as the dim lantern did it's best to cast out the darkening shadows, but as you stood hovering a few mere inches above Simon, you hadn't felt warmer than you did in the very moment. Adorned in your thin cotton nightgown, your flesh was untouched by a single row of goosebumps as you stood before him, feeling a warmth radiating off of the man from the very core of his heart and outwards. 

He watched you closely for the shortest of moments before he responded, his tone low and serious, but his voice felt nearly as raw in the open air as your own felt. The light from the lantern illuminated the side of his face, leaving the other shrouded in shadows that weren't strong enough to conceal his features entirely. His clothes were still damp and his wounds against his face were clean of the dried caking of blood, swollen lacerations decorating his skin in its place. But as he stared at you in the same deeply keen intent that you held within your own steady gaze, it felt as though nothing else in the moment mattered. Forgotten was the rain falling in the cold hour of midnight just a window away, disregarded were the others slumbering peacefully a floor above you both, unbeknownst to the happenings below. Gone was the startling sight of Simon's wounds. Nothing seemed to amount when compared to the words shared in the dimly light night.

"Could I have done anything else?"

It was a simple response, one that fell from his swollen lips in an effortless breath, as his inflamed brow furrowed ever so faintly in the dim glow of the light beside you. His expression looking to you with an incredulous gaze, the emotion lightly dancing across his bruised but still somehow just as handsome features. His gentle yet serious tone wrapping around your softly whispered inquiry, but as you stared into the depths of Simon's eyes that hadn't moved a single fraction in the seconds that ticked by in silence, you felt something deep within the makings of your heart, suddenly begin to beat for what felt like the very first time. 

For it was overwhelming, a breathless sensation that soared through your chest that heaved in the silence that swirled around the two of you, like the flickering flame illuminating the walls. There was a weight, descended upon the base of your now thundering heart and in the pit of your stomach, and yet, you felt as light as a feather blowing in the breeze. As though you were floating in the moment, staring at Simon as his words echoed in your head, every sensation heightened and every emotion running through your veins more vivid than the last. 

The air within the vast makings of the dimly lit drawing room, suddenly felt warmer and denser than it had mere minutes before. The strings of your heart that had always appeared to pull for Simon Basset, tugged with a violence that nearly lurched the beating organ from your chest. The tears piercing your eyes, blurring your vision with a glinting cloud of crystal like hues, felt different as they balanced on the very edge of your lash line. They burned with a sting that stemmed from an emotion of pure love and adoration, an emotion that seemed to overtake your body in a rush of warmth and as you looked to Simon, you felt as though not a word you could say would be enough to thank him for what he did. To repay him, in some way, for the injuries he sustained and the damage to others he had inflicted. Nothing you could think of to say, felt like enough when compared to the way he stood up for you the way that he did.

Your right hand lifted slowly from your side, extending it towards the table beside you as your eyes remained steady within the comforting clutch of Simon's stare. Dropping the cloth, that had begun to dry while in the confines of your clenched hand, back into the bowl of chilled water with a gentle ripple of the submersion. When your hand swung gently back against your side, swishing faintly against the thin fabric of your nightgown, your bare toes took a small step forward. No longer feeling the cold of the hardwood or the softness of the rug beneath their touch, they guided you the last few steps towards the leg of Simon's chair. You stood in front of him now, your knees brushing against the very edges of his own, as your toes nearly touched the leather of his boots that remained planted against the decorated rug. 

His eyes followed you, never once breaking eye contact, as your fingers timidly reached out in the slowest of motions. Gliding across his cheeks, feeling the pure radiating warmth of his flesh beneath the pads of your fingertips, and the slightly prickly sensation of his beard rubbing against your palms as they flattened against the sides of his face. Your hands cradled him cautiously, not only looking out for the bruises yet to emerge against his face or the lacerations you had tended with care, but with a faint hesitation as you had never touched a man in this way, never touched a man at all. But as Simon's eyes stayed stilled on your soft expression, his eyes gentle as he watched your slow and bold actions with a flash of wary curiosity, you felt yourself drawn to him. Your movements no longer a conscious decision on your part, but rather that of the strings pulling within the foundation of your beating heart. 

Taking the last step closer to him, as your thumb brushed against the skin against his cheekbone, your legs lifted. Sweeping over his own that sat still and firm against the cushion of the chair, the arm rests skimming past your hips as you settled in his lap. You knew the look that blazed across his eyes, the emotion panned within the lines of his lightly shadowed face keeping composed and even, while his eyes twinkled with a regard of slight shock. But he didn't stop you. He didn't push you away when you leaned forward, grazing the tip of your nose ever so gently against his own, as your eyelashes fluttered closed against the base of your cheekbones. Simon Basset didn't push you away when you pressed your lips against his own in the lightest of caresses, as though the very touch of a butterfly descending down upon the petals of a peony. Your movement slow, almost agonizingly so, but it was in a moment that seemed to slow to the very ticking second on the old grandfather clock. A moment that felt as though the rest of the world ceased to exist, as though all that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was right here in this very room.

His lips melded against your own, colliding with caution and timid care in the first few heart racing moments, until you felt as his kiss deepened. A fervent desire burning beneath the pressure of his lips, as his bruised fingers slowly lifted and smoothed against the base of your spine. Holding you closer to him as his action became stronger and more sure than your own. As your hands tightened their hold against his face and his kept a gentle but protective hold against your back, you realized that you could kiss Simon Basset forever if the world would allow it.  

But as your lungs began to scream, begging for a breath through the heat of your embrace radiating through your entire being, you pulled back in a reluctance. Pressing your forehead against his own, as your eyes opened to see his own gaze already looking back. The cut against his lower lip looked angrier as it flared a harsher hue of red, yet, the edges were curled in the softest ghost of a smile. His left hand had risen and his fingers were now lost within the tangles of your loose flowing curls, cascading down your shoulders. Your hands had slacked against his cheeks, but your thumb still brushed gently over his skin as though you needed to feel him to remind yourself that this moment was real. That your very first kiss had truly happened. That Simon was real and here before you now, holding you tenderly. That this was love.

You felt the edges of your lips begin to pull upwards, as a laugh began to bubble in the base of your throat, as a thought entered your mind. Bringing you from what felt like a dream, a wonderous land far from the rainy surroundings of London, back down to reality. "I cannot help but wonder what my mother would say if she caught sight of us together, sitting as we are, alone in the drawing room at this late an hour."

Simon's arm wrapped securely around your waist, seemed to tighten as though he was pulling you closer towards his chest. His brow furrowing in an expression of faint playfulness that only seemed to make him more attractive, for the sides of him which he exposed to you whole heartedly, were your favorite. For they were the real Simon, the one uninfluenced by the ton or the expectations of society. He didn't feel the need to disguise himself from you and there was something incredibly moving in that kind of trust.

"I rather think I would not care in the slightest."

Smiling at his words, with a soft shake of your head as your palm dropped to push ever so gently against his clothed chest. "I must admit, Lady Whistledown was correct about you, Your Grace."

Simon's brow arched, an expression of slight displeasure or disinterest replacing his prior impish regard. "In regards to what? As I must say the woman never ceases to write some bloody article containing my name during the span of the week."

Leaning back in his embrace, as you felt the security of both of his arms encircling your waist, your hands dropped from his face and laid against your own lap. Tilting your head in a small display of amusement as you pursed your lips in mock recollection. "I believe she said something along the lines that you were a dangerous temptation to an innocent debutante such as myself, a very handsome temptation, but one none the less."

Simon's shadowed smile broke through the haze and shone brightly against his swollen lips. His own head tipping to the side as he regarded you with a rather clear expression of amusement, a mischievous glimmer to his gaze as he spoke with a slightly furrowed brow and smirked lip. "You are not so innocent yourself, I'm inclined to remind you."

You knew he was right, as his words rang out softly and your felt yourself blushing wildly at his implications. For any innocence you had prided yourself with, had surely been diminished as you sat alone in the drawing room, in the very lap of the man you had so brazenly and passionately kissed in the dead of the night. Unchaperoned, unmarried, unbetrothed. But even as the truth sunk into your very bones, you realized you hardly even cared. 

"Innocent enough for a gallant gentleman to fight for my honour amongst a room full of drunken scoundrels." You mused with a teasing tone, smiling through the words as you watched his own seem to grow. 

Simon bobbed his head as though he was confirming the accuracy in your remark, "Well, as the gallant and handsome gentleman that I am, I saw no other option."

You rolled your eyes playfully at his response, before regarding him with an amused curl of your lips. "Oh, and most humble indeed."

You couldn't quite say how long the two of you sat like that, content in each other's arms, while sharing smiles that danced across your lips like whisper spilled secrets. Simon's smile had always been infectious, you knew, as every rarity in which it shone brightly in your company was a blessed day. As though you were gifted with a special ray of sunshine, that beamed from the warming presence of such a display of unbridled joy. But as you stared into his mesmerizing eyes, feeling the waves of deep brown washing over you in something that calmed the very essence of your beating soul, you realized that although the smiles he adorned were commonly small and timid in their own kind of way, the extent of his smile was not lost. For it shone like a glimmering light in the swirls of his irises, the sight of his eyes captivating the weight of his smile. When his lips could only muster the alluring and mysterious curl amongst the edges, his smile and true source of emotion could be found locked within his eyes, and there was something incredibly entrancing about it. 

You weren't sure who initiated another kiss, as your lips were soon melding against his own as they had mere moments before, lost in the overwhelming sensation of Simon Basset's embrace. For although the chilled rain still clung to his clothes, he felt of pure warmth. Radiating through the thin cotton of your nightgown, straight through to your bare flesh. His lips tasted of the rain and the very faint lingering of alcohol holding onto his taste buds, with the merest tinge of metal seeping across your senses from his inflamed cut. But there was something about it, that sent your heart and parts of yourself you had never known were alive before, soaring. 

You weren't sure if you had felt the rush of boldness soar through you once again, aching for the feel of his lips upon your own, that prompted such action. Or if it had been Simon this time, leaning forward and solidifying the space between. His hand, with knuckles torn and turning to a shade of blistering blue, lifting to cradle your face with the softest caress of his faintly calloused pads. The tips of his fingers curling into your cascading locks, that draped like shimmering streams of a waterfall over the nape of your neck. Or perhaps, you wondered, perhaps it was in a shared moment, that you were drawn to each other in the very same breath. In the same beat of your hearts, with the very same need in your souls. 

A/N: Ahh! I love this one and I can honestly say it turned out even better than I had hoped!😍 I was so excited about this idea when it first came to me, most of the dialogue came to me first, with the vivid image of an intimate moment in the middle of the night. When I sat down to write this one, nervous as I wanted to make it as perfect as it could be, it instantly began to flow from my hands, my mind and my heart! I am so happy with how this one turned out, with the descriptions and details that I wanted to lift the scene to life and create an intimate and vulnerable feeling as you read and the scene itself that came together so beautifully! I hope that you all enjoyed this one!❤