by Julia Quinn
But Daphne knew better.
Every time she moved, made a rustling sound, or breathed just a little too loudly, his chin moved. It was barely perceptible, but it was there. And when she yawned, making a low, sleepy, moaning noise, she saw his eyes move under his closed lids.
There was something to admire, however, in the fact that he’d managed to keep up the charade for over two hours.
She’d never lasted past twenty minutes herself.
If he wanted to feign sleep, she decided in a rare fit of magnanimity, she might as well let him. Far be it from her to ruin such a marvelous performance.
With one last yawn—a loud one, just to watch his eyes snap to attention under his eyelids—she turned to the carriage window, drawing the heavy velvet curtain back so she could peer outside. The sun sat orange and fat on the western horizon, about one-third of it already resting below the edge of the earth.
If Simon had been correct in his estimation of their traveling time—and she had the feeling that he was frequently correct about such things; people who liked mathematics usually were—then they should be almost at the halfway point of their journey. Almost to The Hare and Hounds.
Almost to her wedding night.
Good God, she was going to have to stop thinking in such melodramatic terms. This was getting ridiculous.
“Simon?”
He didn’t move. This irritated her.
“Simon?” A little louder this time.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, pulling down into a tiny frown. Daphne was positive he was trying to decide if she’d spoken too loudly for him to continue to feign sleep.
“Simon!” She poked him. Hard, right where his arm joined with his chest. There was no way he could possibly think a person could sleep through that.
His eyelids fluttered open, and he made a funny little breathy sound—the sort people made when they woke up.
He was good, Daphne thought with reluctant admiration.
He yawned. “Daff?”
She didn’t mince words. “Are we there yet?”
He rubbed nonexistent sleep from his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are we there yet?”
“Uhhh . . .” He glanced around the inside of the carriage, not that that would tell him anything. “Aren’t we still moving?”
“Yes, but we could be close.”
Simon let out a little sigh and peered out the window. He was facing east, so the sky looked considerably darker than it had through Daphne’s window. “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “Actually, it’s just up ahead.”
Daphne did her best not to smirk.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Simon hopped down. He exchanged some words with the driver, presumably informing him that they had changed their plans and now intended to spend the night. Then he reached up for Daphne’s hand and helped her down.
“Does this meet with your approval?” he asked, with a nod and a wave toward the inn.
Daphne didn’t see how she could render judgment without seeing the interior, but she said yes, anyway. Simon led her inside, then deposited her by the door when he went to deal with the innkeeper.
Daphne watched the comings and goings with great interest. Right now a young couple—they looked to be landed gentry—were being escorted into a private dining room, and a mother was ushering her brood of four up the stairs. Simon was arguing with the innkeeper, and a tall, lanky gentleman was leaning against a—
Daphne swung her head back toward her husband. Simon was arguing with the innkeeper? Why on earth would he do that? She craned her neck. The two men were speaking in low tones, but it was clear that Simon was most displeased. The innkeeper looked as if he might die of shame at his inability to please the Duke of Hastings.
Daphne frowned. This didn’t look right.
Should she intervene?
She watched them argue a few moments longer. Clearly, she should intervene.
Taking steps that weren’t hesitant yet could never be called determined, she made her way over to her husband’s side. “Is anything amiss?” she inquired politely.
Simon spared her a brief glance. “I thought you were waiting by the door.”
“I was.” She smiled brightly. “I moved.”
Simon scowled and turned back to the innkeeper.
Daphne let out a little cough, just to see if he would turn around. He didn’t. She frowned. She didn’t like being ignored. “Simon?” She poked him in the back. “Simon?”
He turned slowly around, his face pure thundercloud.
Daphne smiled again, all innocence. “What is the problem?”
The innkeeper held his hands up in supplication and spoke before Simon could make any explanations. “I have but one room left,” he said, his voice a study in abject apology. “I had no idea his grace planned to honor us with his presence this eve. Had I known, I would never have let that last room out to Mrs. Weatherby and her brood. I assure you”—the innkeeper leaned forward and gave Daphne a commiserating look—“I would have sent them right on their way!”
The last sentence was accompanied by a dramatic whooshing wave of both hands that made Daphne a touch seasick. “Is Mrs. Weatherby the woman who just walked by here with four children?”
The innkeeper nodded. “If it weren’t for the children, I’d—”
Daphne cut him off, not wanting to hear the remainder of a sentence that would obviously involve booting an innocent woman out into the night. “I see no reason why we cannot make do with one room. We are certainly not as high in the instep as that.”
Beside her, Simon’s jaw clenched until she would swear she could hear his teeth grinding.
He wanted separate rooms, did he? It was enough to make a new bride feel extremely unappreciated.
The innkeeper turned to Simon and waited for his approval. Simon gave a curt nod, and the innkeeper clapped his hands together in delight (and presumably relief; there was little worse for business than an irate duke on one’s premises). He grabbed the key and scurried out from behind his desk. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
Simon motioned for Daphne to go first, so she swept past him and climbed the stairs behind the innkeeper. After only a couple of twists and turns, they were deposited in a large, comfortably furnished room with a view of the village.
“Well, now,” Daphne said, once the innkeeper had seen himself out, “this seems nice enough.”
Simon’s reply was a grunt.
“How articulate of you,” she murmured, then disappeared behind the dressing screen.
Simon watched her for several seconds before it occurred to him where she’d gone. “Daphne?” he called out, his voice strangling on itself. “Are you changing your clothing?”
She poked her head out. “No. I was just looking around.”
His heart continued to thud, although perhaps not at quite as rapid a pace. “Good,” he grunted. “We’ll be wanting to go down for supper soon.”
“Of course.” She smiled—a rather annoyingly winning and confident smile, in his opinion. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Extremely.”
Her smile wobbled just a touch at his curt tone. Simon gave himself a mental scolding. Just because he was irate with himself didn’t mean he had to extend the anger toward her. She’d done nothing wrong. “And you?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.
She emerged fully from behind the screen and perched at the end of the bed. “A bit,” she admitted. She swallowed nervously. “But I’m not certain I could eat anything.”
“The food was excellent the last time I ate here. I assure you—”
“It’s not the quality of the food that worries me,” she interrupted. “It’s my nerves.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Simon,” she said, obviously trying to hide the impatience in her voice (but not, in Simon’s opinion, succeeding), “we were married this morning.”
Realization finally dawned. “Daphne,” he said g
ently, “you needn’t worry.”
She blinked. “I needn’t?”
He drew a ragged breath. Being a gentle, caring husband was not as easy as it sounded. “We will wait until we reach Clyvedon to consummate the marriage.”
“We will?”
Simon felt his eyes widen in surprise. Surely she didn’t sound disappointed? “I’m not going to take you in some roadside inn,” he said. “I have more respect for you than that.”
“You’re not? You do?”
His breath stopped. She did sound disappointed.
“Uh, no.”
She inched forward. “Why not?”
Simon stared at her face for several moments, just sat there on the bed and stared at her. Her dark eyes were huge as they returned his regard, filled with tenderness and curiosity and a touch of hesitation. She licked her lips—surely just another sign of nerves, but Simon’s frustrated body reacted to the seductive movement with an instant quickening.
She smiled tremulously but didn’t quite meet his eye. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Simon remained frozen, curiously rooted to the spot as his body screamed, Tackle her! Haul her onto the bed! Do anything, just get her under you!
And then, just when his urges began to outweigh his honor, she let out a small, tortured cry and jumped to her feet, turning her back on him as she covered her mouth with her hand.
Simon, who had just swiped one arm through the air to yank her to him, found himself off-balance and facedown on the bed. “Daphne?” he mumbled into the mattress.
“I should have known,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry.”
She was sorry? Simon pushed himself back up. She was whimpering? What the hell was going on? Daphne never whimpered.
She turned back around, regarding him with stricken eyes. Simon would have been more concerned, except that he couldn’t even begin to imagine what had so suddenly upset her. And if he couldn’t imagine it, he tended to believe it wasn’t serious.
Arrogant of him, but there you had it.
“Daphne,” he said with controlled gentleness, “what is wrong?”
She sat down opposite him and placed a hand on his cheek. “I’m so insensitive,” she whispered. “I should have known. I should never have said anything.”
“Should have known what?” he ground out.
Her hand fell away. “That you can’t—that you couldn’t—”
“Can’t what?”
She looked down at her lap, where her hands were attempting to wring each other to shreds. “Please don’t make me say it,” she said.
“This,” Simon muttered, “has got to be why men avoid marriage.”
His words were meant more for his ears than hers, but she heard them and, unfortunately, reacted to them with another pathetic moan.
“What the hell is going on?” he finally demanded.
“You’re unable to consummate the marriage,” she whispered.
It was a wonder his erection didn’t die off in that instant. Frankly, it was a wonder he was even able to strangle out the words: “I beg your pardon?”
She hung her head. “I’ll still be a good wife to you. I’ll never tell a soul, I promise.”
Not since childhood, when his stuttering and stammering had attacked his every word, had Simon been so at a loss for speech.
She thought he was impotent?
“Why—why—why—?” A stutter? Or plain old shock? Simon thought shock. His brain didn’t seem able to focus on anything other than that single word.
“I know that men are very sensitive about such things,” Daphne said quietly.
“Especially when it’s not true!” Simon burst out.
Her head jerked up. “It’s not?”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Did your brother tell you this?”
“No!” She slid her gaze away from his face. “My mother.”
“Your mother?” Simon choked out. Surely no man had ever suffered so on his wedding night. “Your mother told you I’m impotent?”
“Is that the word for it?” Daphne asked curiously. And then, at his thunderous glare, she hastily added, “No, no, she didn’t say it in so many words.”
“What,” Simon asked, his voice clipped, “did she say, exactly?”
“Well, not much,” Daphne admitted. “It was rather annoying, actually, but she did explain to me that the marital act—”
“She called it an act?”
“Isn’t that what everyone calls it?”
He waved off her question. “What else did she say?”
“She told me that the, ah, whatever it is you wish to call it—”
Simon found her sarcasm oddly admirable under the circumstances.
“—is related in some manner to the procreation of children, and—”
Simon thought he might choke on his tongue. “In some manner?”
“Well, yes.” Daphne frowned. “She really didn’t provide me with any specifics.”
“Clearly.”
“She did try her best,” Daphne pointed out, thinking she ought at least to try to come to her mother’s defense. “It was very embarrassing for her.”
“After eight children,” he muttered, “you’d think she’d be over that by now.”
“I don’t think so,” Daphne said, shaking her head. “And then when I asked her if she’d participated in this”—she looked up at him with an exasperated expression. “I really don’t know what else to call it but an act.”
“Go right ahead,” he said with a wave, his voice sounding awfully strained.
Daphne blinked with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine,” he choked.
“You don’t sound fine.”
He waved his hand some more, giving Daphne the odd impression that he couldn’t speak.
“Well,” she said slowly, going back to her earlier story, “I asked her if that meant she’d participated in this act eight times, and she became very embarrassed, and—”
“You asked her that?” Simon burst out, the words escaping his mouth like an explosion.
“Well, yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you laughing?”
“No,” he gasped.
Her lips twisted into a small scowl. “You certainly look as if you’re laughing.”
Simon just shook his head in a decidedly frantic manner.
“Well,” Daphne said, clearly disgruntled. “I thought my question made perfect sense, seeing as she has eight children. But then she told me that—”
He shook his head and held up a hand, and now he looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Don’t tell me. I beg of you.”
“Oh.” Daphne didn’t know what to say to that, so she just clamped her hands together in her lap and shut her mouth.
Finally, she heard Simon take a long, ragged breath, and say, “I know I’m going to regret asking you this. In fact, I regret it already, but why exactly did you assume I was”—he shuddered—“unable to perform?”
“Well, you said you couldn’t have children.”
“Daphne, there are many, many other reasons why a couple might be unable to have children.”
Daphne had to force herself to stop grinding her teeth. “I really hate how stupid I feel right now,” she muttered.
He leaned forward and pried her hands apart. “Daphne,” he said softly, massaging her fingers with his, “do you have any idea what happens between a man and a woman?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she said frankly. “You’d think I would, with three older brothers, and I thought I’d finally learn the truth last night when my mother—”
“Don’t say anything more,” he said in the oddest voice. “Not another word. I couldn’t bear it.”
“But—”
His head fell into his hands, and for a moment Daphne thought he might be crying. But then, as she sat there castigating herself for making her husband weep on his wedding day, she realized that his shoulders were shaking with laughter.
The fiend.
“Are you laughing at me?” she growled.
He shook his head, not looking up.
“Then what are you laughing about?”
“Oh, Daphne,” he gasped, “you have a lot to learn.”
“Well, I never disputed that,” she grumbled. Really, if people weren’t so intent on keeping young women completely ignorant of the realities of marriage, scenes like this could be avoided.
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes grew positively electric. “I can teach you,” he whispered.
Daphne’s stomach did a little flip.
Never once taking his eyes off of hers, Simon took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I assure you,” he murmured, flicking his tongue down the line of her middle finger, “I am perfectly able to satisfy you in bed.”
Daphne suddenly found it difficult to breathe. And when had the room grown so hot? “I-I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
He yanked her into his arms. “You will.”
Chapter 15
London seems terribly quiet this week, now that society’s favorite duke and that duke’s favorite duchess have departed for the country. This Author could report that Mr. Nigel Berbrooke was seen asking Miss Penelope Featherington to dance, or that Miss Penelope, despite her mother’s gleeful urging and her eventual acceptance of his offer, did not seem terribly enamored with the notion.
But really, who wants to read about Mr. Berbrooke or Miss Penelope? Let us not fool ourselves. We are all still ravenously curious about the duke and duchess.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 May 1813
It was like being in Lady Trowbridge’s garden all over again, Daphne thought wildly, except that this time there would be no interruptions—no furious older brothers, no fear of discovery, nothing but a husband, a wife, and the promise of passion.
Simon’s lips found hers, gentle but demanding. With each touch, each flick of his tongue, she felt flutterings within her, tiny spasms of need that were building in pitch and frequency.
“Have I told you,” he whispered, “how enamored I am of the corner of your mouth?”
“N-no,” Daphne said tremulously, amazed that he’d ever even once examined it.
