Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I do miss them. I’ve never been away from them for so long before. Of course I’ve always known that when I married I would be starting my own family, and—”

  There was an awful silence.

  “Well, you’re my family now,” she said, her voice sounding just a bit forlorn.

  Simon sighed, the silver-backed hairbrush halting its path through her dark hair. “Daphne,” he said, “your family will always be your family. I can never take their place.”

  “No,” she agreed. She twisted around to face him, her eyes like warm chocolate as she whispered, “But you can be something more.”

  And Simon realized that all his plans to seduce his wife were moot, because clearly she was planning to seduce him.

  She stood, her silk robe slipping from her shoulders. Underneath she wore a matching negligee, one that revealed almost as much as it hid.

  One of Simon’s large hands found its way to the side of her breast, his fingers in stark contrast with the sage green fabric of her nightgown. “You like this color, don’t you?” he said in a husky voice.

  She smiled, and he forgot to breathe.

  “It’s to match my eyes,” she teased. “Remember?”

  Simon managed a returning smile, although how he didn’t know. He’d never before thought it possible to smile when one was about to expire from lack of oxygen. Sometimes the need to touch her was so great it hurt just to look at her.

  He pulled her closer. He had to pull her closer. He would have gone insane if he hadn’t. “Are you telling me,” he murmured against her neck, “that you purchased this just for me?”

  “Of course,” she replied, her voice catching as his tongue traced her earlobe. “Who else is going to see me in it?”

  “No one,” he vowed, reaching around to the small of her back and pressing her firmly against his arousal. “No one. Not ever.”

  She looked slightly bemused by his sudden burst of possessiveness. “Besides,” she added, “it’s part of my trousseau.”

  Simon groaned. “I love your trousseau. I adore it. Have I told you that?”

  “Not in so many words,” she gasped, “but it hasn’t been too difficult to figure it out.”

  “Mostly,” he said, nudging her toward the bed as he tore off his shirt, “I like you out of your trousseau.”

  Whatever Daphne had meant to say—and he was certain she’d meant to say something, because her mouth opened in a most delightful manner—was lost as she toppled onto the bed.

  Simon covered her in an instant. He put his hands on either side of her hips, then slid them up, pushing her arms over her head. He paused on the bare skin of her upper arms, giving them a gentle squeeze.

  “You’re very strong,” he said. “Stronger than most women.”

  The look Daphne gave him was just a bit arch. “I don’t want to hear about most women.”

  Despite himself, Simon chuckled. Then, with movements quick as lightning, his hands flew to her wrists and pinned them above her head. “But not,” he drawled, “as strong as I.”

  She gasped with surprise, a sound he found particularly thrilling, and he quickly circled both her wrists with one of his hands, leaving the other free to roam her body.

  And roam he did.

  “If you aren’t the perfect woman,” he groaned, sliding the hem of her nightgown up over her hips, “then the world is—”

  “Stop,” she said shakily. “You know I’m not perfect.”

  “I do?” His smile was dark and wicked as he slid his hand under one of her buttocks. “You must be misinformed, because this”—he gave her a squeeze—“is perfect.”

  “Simon!”

  “And as for these—” He reached up and covered one of her breasts with his hand, tickling the nipple through the silk. “Well, I don’t need to tell you how I feel about these.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Quite possibly,” he agreed, “but I have excellent taste. And you”—he leaned down quite suddenly and nipped at her mouth—“taste quite good.”

  Daphne giggled, quite unable to help herself.

  Simon wiggled his brows. “Dare you mock me?”

  “Normally I would,” she replied, “but not when you’ve got both my arms pinned over my head.”

  Simon’s free hand went to work on the fastenings of his trousers. “Clearly I married a woman of great sense.”

  Daphne gazed at him with pride and love as she watched his words trip effortlessly from his lips. To hear him speak now, one could never guess that he’d stammered as a child.

  What a remarkable man she’d married. To take such a hindrance and beat it with sheer force of will—he had to be the strongest, most disciplined man she knew.

  “I am so glad I married you,” she said in a rush of tenderness. “So very proud you’re mine.”

  Simon stilled, obviously surprised by her sudden gravity. His voice grew low and husky. “I’m proud you’re mine as well.” He yanked at his trousers. “And I’d show you how proud,” he grunted, “if I could get these damned things off.”

  Daphne felt another bubble of laughter welling up in her throat. “Perhaps if you used two hands . . .” she suggested.

  He gave her an I’m-not-as-stupid-as-that sort of look. “But that would require my letting you go.”

  She cocked her head coyly. “What if I promised not to move my arms?”

  “I wouldn’t even begin to believe you.”

  Her smile turned wickedly suggestive. “What if I promised I would move them?”

  “Now, that sounds interesting.” He leapt off the bed with an odd combination of grace and frantic energy and managed to get himself naked in under three seconds. Hopping back on, he stretched out on his side, all along the length of her. “Now then, where were we?”

  Daphne giggled again. “Right about here, I believe.”

  “A-ha,” he said with a comically accusing expression. “You haven’t been paying attention. We were right”—he slid atop her, his weight pressing her into the mattress—“here.”

  Her giggles exploded into full-throated laughter.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you not to laugh at a man when he’s trying to seduce you?”

  If she’d had any chance of stopping her laughter before, it was gone now. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped, “I do love you.”

  He went utterly still. “What?”

  Daphne just smiled and touched his cheek. She understood him so much better now. After facing such rejection as a child, he probably didn’t realize he was worthy of love. And he probably wasn’t certain how to give it in return. But she could wait. She could wait forever for this man.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. “Just know that I love you.”

  The look in Simon’s eyes was somehow both overjoyed and stricken. Daphne wondered if anyone had ever said the words “I love you” to him before. He’d grown up without a family, without the cocoon of love and warmth she’d taken for granted.

  His voice, when he found it, was hoarse and nearly broken, “D-Daphne, I—”

  “Shhh,” she crooned, placing a finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything now. Wait until it feels right.”

  And then she wondered if perhaps she had said the most hurtful words imaginable—for Simon, did speaking ever feel right?

  “Just kiss me,” she whispered hurriedly, eager to move past what she was afraid might be an awkward moment. “Please, kiss me.”

  And he did.

  He kissed her with ferocious intensity, burning with all the passion and desire that flowed between them. His lips and hands left no spot untouched, kissing, squeezing, and caressing until her nightgown lay tossed on the floor and the sheets and blankets were twisted into coils at the foot of the bed.

  But unlike every other night, he never did quite render her senseless. She’d been given too much to think about that day—nothing, not even the fiercest cravings of her body, could stop the frantic pace of
her thoughts. She was swimming in desire, every nerve expertly brought to a fever pitch of need, and yet still her mind whirred and analyzed.

  When his eyes, so blue they glowed even in the candlelight, burned into hers, she wondered if that intensity were due to emotions he didn’t know how to express through words. When he gasped her name, she couldn’t help but listen for another tiny stammer. And when he sank into her, his head thrown back until the cords of his neck stood out in harsh relief, she wondered why he looked like he was in so much pain.

  Pain?

  “Simon?” she asked tentatively, worry putting a very slight damper on her desire. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, his teeth gritted together. He fell against her, his hips still moving in their ancient rhythm, and whispered against her ear, “I’ll take you there.”

  It wouldn’t be that difficult, Daphne thought, her breath catching as he captured the tip of her breast in his mouth. It was never that difficult. He seemed to know exactly how to touch her, when to move, and when to tease by remaining tauntingly in place. His fingers slipped between their bodies, tickling her hot skin until her hips were moving and grinding with the same force as his.

  She felt herself sliding toward that familiar oblivion. And it felt so good . . .

  “Please,” he pleaded, sliding his other hand underneath her so that he might press her even more tightly against him. “I need you to—Now, Daphne, now!”

  And she did. The world exploded around her, her eyes squeezing so tightly shut that she saw spots, and stars, and brilliant streaming bursts of light. She heard music—or maybe that was just her own high-pitched moan as she reached completion, providing a melody over the powerful pounding of her heart.

  Simon, with a groan that sounded as if it were ripped from his very soul, yanked himself out of her with barely a second to spare before he spilled himself—as he always did—on the sheets at the edge of the bed.

  In a moment he would turn to her and pull her into his arms. It was a ritual she’d come to cherish. He would hold her tightly against him, her back to his front, and nuzzle his face in her hair. And then, after their breathing had settled down to an even sigh, they would sleep.

  Except tonight was different. Tonight Daphne felt oddly restless. Her body was blissfully weary and sated, but something felt wrong. Something niggled at the back of her mind, teasing her subconscious.

  Simon rolled over and scooted his body next to hers, pushing her toward the clean side of the bed. He always did that, using his body as a barrier so that she would never roll into the mess he made. It was a thoughtful gesture, actually, and—

  Daphne’s eyes flew open. She almost gasped.

  A womb won’t quicken without strong, healthy seed.

  Daphne hadn’t given a thought to Mrs. Colson’s words when the housekeeper had uttered the saying that afternoon. She’d been too consumed with the tale of Simon’s painful childhood, too concerned with how she could bring enough love into his life to banish the bad memories forever.

  Daphne sat up abruptly, the blankets falling to her waist. With shaking fingers she lit the candle that sat on her bedside table.

  Simon opened a sleepy eye. “What’s wrong?”

  She said nothing, just stared at the wet spot on the other side of the bed.

  His seed.

  “Daff?”

  He’d told her he couldn’t have children. He’d lied to her.

  “Daphne, what’s wrong?” He sat up. His face showed his concern.

  Was that, too, a lie?

  She pointed. “What is that?” she asked, her voice so low it was barely audible.

  “What is what?” His eyes followed the line of her finger and saw only the bed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why can’t you have children, Simon?”

  His eyes grew shuttered. He said nothing.

  “Why, Simon?” She practically shouted the words.

  “The details aren’t important, Daphne.”

  His tone was soft, placating, with just a hint of condescension. Daphne felt something inside of her snap.

  “Get out,” she ordered.

  His mouth fell open. “This is my bedroom.”

  “Then I’ll get out.” She stormed out of the bed, whipping one of the bedsheets around her.

  Simon was on her heels in a heartbeat. “Don’t you dare leave this room,” he hissed.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I never—”

  “You lied to me,” she screamed. “You lied to me, and I will never forgive you for that!”

  “Daphne—”

  “You took advantage of my stupidity.” She let out a disbelieving breath, the kind that came from the back of one’s throat, right before it closed up in shock. “You must have been so delighted when you realized how little I knew about marital relations.”

  “It’s called making love, Daphne,” he said.

  “Not between us, it’s not.”

  Simon nearly flinched at the rancor in her voice. He stood, utterly naked, in the middle of the room, desperately trying to come up with some way to salvage the situation. He still wasn’t even certain what she knew, or what she thought she knew. “Daphne,” he said, very slowly so that he would not let his emotions trip up his words, “perhaps you should tell me exactly what this is about.”

  “Oh, we’re going to play that game, are we?” She snorted derisively. “Very well, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was—”

  The scathing anger in her voice was like a dagger in his gut. “Daphne,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “don’t do it like this.”

  “Once upon a time,” she said, louder this time, “there was a young lady. We’ll call her Daphne.”

  Simon strode to his dressing room and yanked on a robe. There were some things a man didn’t want to deal with naked.

  “Daphne was very, very stupid.”

  “Daphne!”

  “Oh, very well.” She flipped her hand through the air dismissively. “Ignorant, then. She was very, very ignorant.”

  Simon crossed his arms.

  “Daphne knew nothing about what happened between a man and a woman. She didn’t know what they did, except that they did it in a bed, and that at some point, the result would be a baby.”

  “This is enough, Daphne.”

  The only sign that she heard him was the dark, flashing fury in her eyes. “But you see, she didn’t really know how that baby was made, and so when her husband told her he couldn’t have children—”

  “I told you that before we married. I gave you every option to back out. Don’t you forget that,” he said hotly. “Don’t you dare forget it.”

  “You made me feel sorry for you!”

  “Oh now, that’s what a man wants to hear,” he sneered.

  “For the love of God, Simon,” she snapped, “you know I didn’t marry you because I felt sorry for you.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I loved you,” she replied, but the acid in her voice made the declaration rather brittle. “And because I didn’t want to see you die, which you seemed stupidly bent upon doing.”

  He had no ready comment, so he just snorted and glared at her.

  “But don’t try to make this about me,” she continued hotly. “I’m not the one who lied. You said you can’t have children, but the truth is you just won’t have them.”

  He said nothing, but he knew the answer was in his eyes.

  She took a step toward him, advancing with barely controlled fury. “If you truly couldn’t have children, it wouldn’t matter where your seed landed, would it? You wouldn’t be so frantic every night to make certain it ended up anywhere but inside me.”

  “You don’t know anything ab-bout this, Daphne.” His words were low and furious, and only slightly damaged.

  She crossed her arms. “Then tell me.”

  “I will never have children,” he hissed. “Never. Do you understand?”

 
; “No.”

  He felt rage rising within him, roiling in his stomach, pressing against his skin until he thought he would burst. It wasn’t rage against her, it wasn’t even against himself. It was, as always, directed at the man whose presence—or lack thereof—had always managed to rule his life.

  “My father,” Simon said, desperately fighting for control, “was not a loving man.”

  Daphne’s eyes held his. “I know about your father,” she said.

  That caught him by surprise. “What do you know?”

  “I know that he hurt you. That he rejected you.” Something flickered in her dark eyes—not quite pity, but close to it. “I know that he thought you were stupid.”

  Simon’s heart slammed in his chest. He wasn’t certain how he was able to speak—he wasn’t certain how he was able to breathe—but he somehow managed to say, “Then you know about—”

  “Your stammer?” she finished for him.

  He thanked her silently for that. Ironically, “stutter” and “stammer” were two words he’d never been able to master.

  She shrugged. “He was an idiot.”

  Simon gaped at her, unable to comprehend how she could dismiss decades of rage with one blithe statement. “You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “You couldn’t possibly. Not with a family like yours. The only thing that mattered to him was blood. Blood and the title. And when I didn’t turn out to be perfect—Daphne, he told people I was dead!”

  The blood drained from her face. “I didn’t know it was like that,” she whispered.

  “It was worse,” he bit off. “I sent him letters. Hundreds of letters, begging him to come visit me. He didn’t answer one.”

  “Simon—”

  “D-did you know I didn’t speak until I was four? No? Well, I didn’t. And when he visited, he shook me, and threatened to beat my voice out of me. That was my f-father.”

  Daphne tried not to notice that he was beginning to stumble over his words. She tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach, the anger that rose within her at the hideous way Simon had been treated. “But he’s gone now,” she said in a shaky voice. “He’s gone, and you’re here.”