Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  “I adore it,” he murmured, and then went to show her how. His teeth scraped along her lower lip until his tongue darted out and traced the curve of the corner of her mouth.

  It tickled, and Daphne felt her lips spreading into a wide, openmouthed smile. “Stop,” she giggled.

  “Never,” he vowed. He pulled back, cradling her face in his hands. “You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

  Daphne’s initial reaction was to say, “Don’t be silly,” but then she thought—Why ruin such a moment?—and so she just said, “Really?”

  “Really.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “When you smile it takes up half your face.”

  “Simon!” she exclaimed. “That sounds horrible.”

  “It’s enchanting.”

  “Distorted.”

  “Desirable.”

  She grimaced, but somehow she laughed at the same time. “Clearly, you have no knowledge of the standards of female beauty.”

  He arched a brow. “As pertains to you, my standards are the only ones that count any longer.”

  For a moment she was speechless, then she collapsed against him, a torrent of laughter shaking both of their bodies. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped, “you sounded so fierce. So wonderfully, perfectly, absurdly fierce.”

  “Absurd?” he echoed. “Are you calling me absurd?”

  Her lips tightened to prevent another giggle, but they weren’t entirely successful.

  “It’s almost as bad as being called impotent,” he grumbled.

  Daphne was instantly serious. “Oh, Simon. You know I didn’t . . .” She gave up trying to explain, and instead just said, “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” He waved off her apology. “Your mother I may have to kill, but you have nothing to apologize for.”

  A horrified giggle escaped her lips. “Mother did try her best, and if I hadn’t been confused because you said—”

  “Oh, so now it’s all my fault?” he said with mock outrage. But then his expression grew sly, seductive. He moved closer, angling his body so that she had to arch backwards. “I suppose I’ll just have to work doubly hard to prove my capabilities.”

  One of his hands slid to the small of her back, supporting her as he lowered her onto the bed. Daphne felt the breath leave her body as she looked up into his intensely blue eyes. The world seemed somehow different when one was lying down. Darker, more dangerous. And all the more thrilling because Simon was looming above her, filling her vision.

  And in that moment, as he slowly closed the distance between them, he became her entire world.

  This time his kiss wasn’t light. He didn’t tickle; he devoured. He didn’t tease; he possessed.

  His hands slipped under her, cradling her derrière, pressing it up against his arousal. “Tonight,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and hot in her ear, “I will make you mine.”

  Daphne’s breath started coming faster and faster, each little gasp of air impossibly loud to her ears. Simon was so close, every inch of him covering her intimately. She’d imagined this night a thousand times since that moment in Regent’s Park when he’d said he would marry her, but it had never occurred to her that the sheer weight of his body on hers would be so thrilling. He was large and hard and exquisitely muscled; there was no way she could escape his seductive onslaught, even if she’d wanted to.

  How strange it was to feel such titillating joy at being so powerless. He could do with her whatever he desired—and she wanted to let him.

  But when his body shuddered, and his lips tried to say her name but didn’t get beyond “D-D-Daph—” she realized that she possessed her own kind of control. He wanted her so much he couldn’t breathe, needed her so badly he couldn’t speak.

  And somehow, as she reveled in her newfound strength, she found that her body seemed to know what to do. Her hips arched up to meet his, and as his hands pushed her skirts up over her waist, her legs snaked around his, pulling him ever closer to the cradle of her femininity.

  “My God, Daphne,” Simon gasped, hauling his shaking body up on his elbows. “I want to—I can’t—”

  Daphne grabbed at his back, trying to pull him back down to her. The air felt cool where his body had just been.

  “I can’t go slow,” he grunted.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do.” His eyes burned with wicked intention. “We seem to be getting ahead of ourselves.”

  Daphne just stared at him, trying to catch her breath. He’d sat up, and his eyes were raking across her body as one of his hands slid up the length of her leg to her knee.

  “First of all,” he murmured, “we need to do something about all of your clothes.”

  Daphne gasped with shock as he stood, pulling her to her feet along with him. Her legs were weak, her balance nonexistent, but he held her upright, his hands bunching her skirts around her waist. He whispered in her ear, “It’s difficult to strip you naked when you’re lying down.”

  One of his hands found the curve of her buttocks, and started massaging her in a circular motion. “The question,” he mused, “is do I push the dress up, or pull it down?”

  Daphne prayed that he wasn’t expecting her to actually answer his question, because she couldn’t make a sound.

  “Or,” he said slowly, one finger slipping under the ribboned bodice of her dress, “both?”

  And then, before she had even a moment to react, he’d pushed her dress down so that the entire garment encircled her waist. Her legs were bare, and were it not for her thin silk chemise, she would have been completely naked.

  “Now this is a surprise,” Simon murmured, palming one of her breasts through the silk. “Not an entirely unwelcome one, of course. Silk is never as soft as skin, but it does have its advantages.”

  Daphne’s breath fled as she watched him slide the silk slowly from side to side, the sweet friction causing her nipples to pucker and harden.

  “I had no idea,” Daphne whispered, her every breath sliding hot and moist across her lips.

  Simon went to work on her other breast. “No idea of what?”

  “That you were so wicked.”

  He smiled, slow and full of the devil. His lips moved to her ear, whispering, “You were my best friend’s sister. Utterly forbidden. What was I to do?”

  Daphne shivered with desire. His breath touched only her ear, but her skin prickled across her entire body.

  “I could do nothing,” he continued, edging one strap of her chemise off her shoulder, “except imagine.”

  “You thought about me?” Daphne whispered, her body thrilling at the notion. “You thought about this?”

  His hand at her hip grew tight. “Every night. Every moment before I fell asleep, until my skin burned and my body begged for release.”

  Daphne felt her legs wobble, but he held her up.

  “And then when I was asleep . . .” He moved to her neck, his hot breath as much of a kiss as the touch of his lips. “That’s when I was truly naughty.”

  A moan escaped her lips, strangled and incoherent and full of desire.

  The second chemise strap fell off her shoulder just as Simon’s lips found the tantalizing hollow between her breasts. “But tonight—” he whispered, pushing the silk down until one breast was bared, and then the other. “Tonight all of my dreams come true.”

  Daphne had time only to gasp before his mouth found her breast and fastened on her hardened nipple.

  “This is what I wanted to do in Lady Trowbridge’s garden,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  She shook her head wildly, grabbing on to his shoulders for support. She was swaying from side to side, barely able to hold her head straight. Spasms of pure feeling were shooting through her body, robbing her of breath, of balance, even of thought.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he murmured. “You’re such an innocent.”

  With deft and knowing fingers, Simon slid the rest of her clothes from her body, until she was nude in his arms. Gentl
y, because he knew she had to be almost as nervous as she was excited, he lowered her onto the bed.

  His motions were uncontrolled and jerky as he yanked at his own clothing. His skin was on fire, his entire body burning with need. Never once, however, did he take his eyes off of her. She lay sprawled on the bed, a temptation like none he’d ever seen. Her skin glowed peachy smooth in the flickering candlelight, and her hair, long since released from its coiffure, fell around her face in wild abandon.

  His fingers, which had removed her clothing with such finesse and speed, now felt awkward and clumsy as he tried to make sense of his own buttons and knots.

  As his hands moved to his trousers, he saw that she was pulling the bedsheets over her. “Don’t,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice.

  Her eyes met his, and he said, “I’ll be your blanket.”

  He peeled the rest of his clothing off, and before she could utter a word, he moved to the bed, covering her body with his. He felt her gasp with surprise at the feel of him, and then her body stiffened slightly.

  “Shhh,” he crooned, nuzzling her neck while one of his hands made soothing circles on the side of her thigh. “Trust me.”

  “I do trust you,” she said in a shaky voice. “It’s just that—”

  His hand moved up to her hip. “Just that what?”

  He could hear the grimace in her voice as she said, “Just that I wish I weren’t so utterly ignorant.”

  A low rumble of a laugh shook his chest.

  “Stop that,” she griped, swatting him on the shoulder.

  “I’m not laughing at you,” Simon insisted.

  “You’re certainly laughing,” she muttered, “and don’t tell me you’re laughing with me, because that excuse never works.”

  “I was laughing,” he said softly, lifting himself up on his elbows so that he could look into her face, “because I was thinking how very glad I am of your ignorance.” He lowered his face down until his lips brushed hers in a feather-light caress. “I am honored to be the only man to touch you thus.”

  Her eyes shone with such purity of feeling that Simon was nearly undone. “Truly?” she whispered.

  “Truly,” he said, surprised by how gruff his voice sounded. “Although honor is most likely only the half of it.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes were enchantingly curious.

  “I might have to kill the next man who so much as looks at you sideways,” he grumbled.

  To his great surprise, she burst out laughing. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped, “it is so perfectly splendidly wonderful to be the object of such irrational jealousy. Thank you.”

  “You’ll thank me later,” he vowed.

  “And perhaps,” she murmured, her dark eyes suddenly far more seductive than they had any right to be, “you’ll thank me as well.”

  Simon felt her thighs slide apart as he settled his body against hers, his manhood hot against her belly. “I already do,” he said, his words melting into her skin as he kissed the hollow of her shoulder. “Believe me, I already do.”

  Never had he been so thankful for the hard-won control he had learned to exert over himself. His entire body ached to plunge into her and finally make her his in truth, but he knew that this night—their wedding night—was for Daphne, not for him.

  This was her first time. He was her first lover—her only lover, he thought with uncharacteristic savagery—and it was his responsibility to make certain that this night brought her nothing but exquisite pleasure.

  He knew she wanted him. Her breath was erratic, her eyes glazed with need. He could hardly bear to look at her face, for every time he saw her lips, half-open and panting with desire, the urge to slam into her nearly overwhelmed him.

  So instead he kissed her. He kissed her everywhere, and ignored the fierce pounding of his blood every time he heard her gasp or mewl with desire. And then finally, when she was writhing and moaning beneath him, and he knew she was mad for him, he slipped his hand between her legs and touched her.

  The only sound he could make was her name, and even that came out as a half-groan. She was more than ready for him, hotter and wetter than he’d ever dreamed. But still, just to be sure—or maybe it was because he couldn’t resist the perverse impulse to torture himself—he slid one long finger inside her, testing her warmth, tickling her sheath.

  “Simon!” she gasped, bucking beneath him. Already her muscles were tightening, and he knew that she was nearly to completion. Abruptly, he removed his hand, ignoring her whimper of protest.

  He used his thighs to nudge hers further apart, and with a shuddering groan, positioned himself to enter her. “This m-may hurt a little,” he whispered hoarsely, “but I p-promise you—”

  “Just do it,” she groaned, her head tossing wildly from side to side.

  And so he did. With one powerful thrust, he entered her fully. He felt her maidenhead give way, but she didn’t seem to flinch from pain. “Are you all right?” he groaned, his every muscle tensing just to keep himself from moving within her.

  She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “It feels very odd,” she admitted.

  “But not bad?” he asked, almost ashamed by the desperate note in his voice.

  She shook her head, a tiny, feminine smile touching her lips. “Not bad at all,” she whispered. “But before . . . when you . . . with your fingers . . .”

  Even in the dull candlelight he could see that her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Is this what you want?” he whispered, pulling out until he was only halfway within her.

  “No!” she cried out.

  “Then perhaps this is what you want.” He plunged back in.

  She gasped. “Yes. No. Both.”

  He began to move within her, his rhythm deliberately slow and even. With each thrust, he pushed a gasp from her lips, each little moan the perfect pitch to drive him wild.

  And then her moans grew into squeals and her gasps into pants, and he knew that she was near her peak. He moved ever faster, his teeth gritted as he fought to maintain his control as she spiralled toward completion.

  She moaned his name, and then she screamed it, and then her entire body went rigid beneath him. She clutched at his shoulders, her hips rising off the bed with a strength he could barely believe. Finally, with one last, powerful shudder, she collapsed beneath him, oblivious to everything but the power of her own release.

  Against his better judgment, Simon allowed himself one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt, savoring the sweet warmth of her body.

  Then, taking her mouth in a searingly passionate kiss, he pulled out and spent himself on the sheets next to her.

  It was to be only the first of many nights of passion. The newlyweds traveled down to Clyvedon, and then, much to Daphne’s extreme embarrassment, sequestered themselves in the master suite for more than a week.

  (Of course Daphne was not so embarrassed that she made anything more than a halfhearted attempt to actually leave the suite.)

  Once they emerged from their honeymoonish seclusion, Daphne was given a tour of Clyvedon—which was much needed, since all she’d seen upon arrival was the route from the front door to the duke’s bedroom. She then spent several hours introducing herself to the upper servants. She had, of course, been formally introduced to the staff upon her arrival, but Daphne thought it best to meet the more important members of the staff in a more individual manner.

  Since Simon had not resided at Clyvedon for so many years, many of the newer servants did not know him, but those who had been at Clyvedon during his childhood seemed—to Daphne—to be almost ferociously devoted to her husband. She laughed about it to Simon as they privately toured the garden, and had been startled to find herself on the receiving end of a decidedly shuttered stare.

  “I lived here until I went to Eton,” was all he said, as if that ought to be explanation enough.

  Daphne was made instantly uncomfortable by the flatness in his voice. “Did you never travel to London? When we were s
mall, we often—”

  “I lived here exclusively.”

  His tone signaled that he desired—no, required—an end to the conversation, but Daphne threw caution to the winds, and decided to pursue the topic, anyway. “You must have been a darling child,” she said in a deliberately blithe voice, “or perhaps an extremely mischievous one, to have inspired such long-standing devotion.”

  He said nothing.

  Daphne plodded on. “My brother—Colin, you know—is much the same way. He was the very devil when he was small, but so insufferably charming that all servants adored him. Why, one time—”

  Her mouth froze, half-open. There didn’t seem much point in continuing. Simon had turned on his heel and walked away.

  He wasn’t interested in roses. And he’d never pondered the existence of violets one way or another, but now Simon found himself leaning on a wooden fence, gazing out over Clyvedon’s famed flower garden as if he were seriously considering a career in horticulture.

  All because he couldn’t face Daphne’s questions about his childhood.

  But the truth was, he hated the memories. He despised the reminders. Even staying here at Clyvedon was uncomfortable. The only reason he’d brought Daphne down to his childhood home was because it was the only one of his residences within a two-day drive from London that was ready for immediate occupancy.

  The memories brought back the feelings. And Simon didn’t want to feel like that young boy again. He didn’t want to remember the number of times he’d sent letters to his father, only to wait in vain for a response. He didn’t want to remember the kind smiles of the servants—kind smiles that were always accompanied by pitying eyes. They’d loved him, yes, but they’d also felt sorry for him.

  And the fact that they’d hated his father on his behalf—well, somehow that had never made him feel better. He hadn’t been—and, to be honest, still wasn’t—so noble-minded that he didn’t take a certain satisfaction in his father’s lack of popularity, but that never took away the embarrassment or the discomfort.

  Or the shame.

  He’d wanted to be admired, not pitied. And it hadn’t been until he’d struck out on his own by traveling unheralded to Eton that he’d had his first taste of success.