by Julia Quinn
She shrugged again, damn her. “You figure it out,” she said.
All of Simon’s good intentions fled the room, and he charged forward, grabbing her by her upper arms. He knew his grip was too tight, but he was helpless against the searing rage that flooded his veins. “Explain yourself,” he said—between his teeth because he couldn’t unclench his jaw. “Now.”
Her eyes met his with such a level, knowing gaze that he was nearly undone. “You are not your own man,” she said simply. “Your father is still ruling you from the grave.”
Simon shook with untold fury, with unspoken words.
“Your actions, your choices—” she continued, her eyes growing very sad, “They have nothing to do with you, with what you want, or what you need. Everything you do, Simon, every move you make, every word you speak—it’s all just to thwart him.” Her voice broke as she finished with, “And he’s not even alive.”
Simon moved forward with a strange, predatory grace. “Not every move,” he said in a low voice. “Not every word.”
Daphne backed up, unnerved by the feral expression in his eyes. “Simon?” she asked hesitantly, suddenly devoid of the courage and bravado that had enabled her to stand up to him, a man twice her size and possibly thrice her strength.
The tip of his index finger trailed down her upper arm. She was wearing a silk robe, but the heat and power of him burned through the fabric. He came closer, and one of his hands stole around her until it cupped her buttock and squeezed. “When I touch you like this,” he whispered, his voice perilously close to her ear, “it has nothing to do with him.”
Daphne shuddered, hating herself for wanting him. Hating him for making her want him.
“When my lips touch your ear,” he murmured, catching her lobe between his teeth, “it has nothing to do with him.”
She tried to push him away, but when her hands found his shoulders, all they could do was clutch.
He started to push her, slowly, inexorably, toward the bed. “And when I take you to bed,” he added, his words hot against the skin of her neck, “and we are skin to skin, it is just the two of—”
“No!” she cried out, shoving against him with all her might. He stumbled back, caught by surprise.
“When you take me to bed,” she choked out, “it is never just the two of us. Your father is always there.”
His fingers, which had crept up under the wide sleeve of her dressing gown, dug into her flesh. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. The icy anger in his pale blue eyes said everything.
“Can you look me in the eye,” she whispered, “and tell me that when you pull from my body and give yourself instead to the bed you’re thinking about me?”
His face was drawn and tight, and his eyes were focused on her mouth.
She shook her head and shook herself from his grasp, which had gone slack. “I didn’t think so,” she said in a small voice.
She moved away from him, but also away from the bed. She had no doubt that he could seduce her if he so chose. He could kiss her and caress her and bring her to dizzying heights of ecstasy, and she would hate him in the morning.
She would hate herself even more.
The room was deadly silent as they stood across from each other. Simon was standing with his arms at his sides, his face a heartbreaking mixture of shock and hurt and fury. But mostly, Daphne thought, her heart cracking a little as she met his eyes, he looked confused.
“I think,” she said softly, “that you had better leave.”
He looked up, his eyes haunted. “You’re my wife.”
She said nothing.
“Legally, I own you.”
Daphne just stared at him as she said, “That’s true.”
He closed the space between them in a heartbeat, his hands finding her shoulders. “I can make you want me,” he whispered.
“I know.”
His voice dropped even lower, hoarse and urgent. “And even if I couldn’t, you’re mine. You belong to me. I could force you to let me stay.”
Daphne felt about a hundred years old as she said, “You would never do that.”
And he knew she was right, so all he did was wrench himself away from her and storm out of the room.
Chapter 18
Is This Author the only one who has noticed, or have the (gentle)men of the ton been imbibing more than usual these days?
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 June 1813
Simon went out and got drunk. It wasn’t something he did often. It wasn’t even something he particularly enjoyed, but he did it anyway.
There were plenty of pubs down near the water, only a few miles from Clyvedon. And there were plenty of sailors there, too, looking for fights. Two of them found Simon.
He thrashed them both.
There was an anger in him, a fury that had simmered deep in his soul for years. It had finally found its way to the surface, and it had taken very little provocation to set him to fighting.
He was drunk enough by then so that when he punched, he saw not the sailors with their sun-reddened skin but his father. Every fist was slammed into that constant sneer of rejection. And it felt good. He’d never considered himself a particularly violent man, but damn, it felt good.
By the time Simon was through with the two sailors, no one else dared approach him. The local folk recognized strength, but more importantly they recognized rage. And they all knew that of the two, the latter was the more deadly.
Simon remained in the pub until the first lights of dawn streaked the sky. He drank steadily from the bottle he’d paid for, and then, when it was time to go, rose on unsteady legs, tucked the bottle into his pocket, and made his way back home.
He drank as he rode, the bad whiskey burning straight to his gut. And as he got drunker and drunker, only one thought managed to burst through his haze.
He wanted Daphne back.
She was his wife, damn her. He’d gotten used to having her around. She couldn’t just up and move out of their bedroom.
He’d get her back. He’d woo her and he’d win her, and—
Simon let out a loud, unattractive belch. Well, it was going to have to be enough to woo her and win her. He was far too intoxicated to think of anything else.
By the time he reached Castle Clyvedon, he had worked himself into a fine state of drunken self-righteousness. And by the time he stumbled up to Daphne’s door, he was making enough noise to raise the dead.
“Daphneeeeeeeeeeee!” he yelled, trying to hide the slight note of desperation in his voice. He didn’t need to sound pathetic.
He frowned thoughtfully. On the other hand, maybe if he sounded desperate, she’d be more likely to open the door. He sniffled loudly a few times, then yelled again, “Daphneeeeeeeee!”
When she didn’t respond in under two seconds, he leaned against the heavy door (mostly because his sense of balance was swimming in whiskey). “Oh, Daphne,” he sighed, his forehead coming to rest against the wood, “If you—”
The door opened and Simon went tumbling to the ground.
“Didja . . . didja hafta open it so . . . so fast?” he mumbled.
Daphne, who was still yanking on her dressing gown, looked at the human heap on the floor and just barely recognized it as her husband. “Good God, Simon,” she said, “What did you—” She leaned down to help him, then lurched back when he opened his mouth and breathed on her. “You’re drunk!” she accused.
He nodded solemnly. “’Fraid so.”
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
He blinked and looked at her as if he’d never heard such a stupid question. “Out getting foxed,” he replied, then burped.
“Simon, you should be in bed.”
He nodded again, this time with considerably more vigor and enthusiasm. “Yesh, yesh I should.” He tried to rise to his feet, but only made it as far as his knees before he tripped and fell back down onto the carpet. “Hmmm,” he said, peering down at the lower half of his body. “Hmmm, that�
��s strange.” He lifted his face back to Daphne’s and looked at her in utter confusion. “I could have sworn those were my legs.”
Daphne rolled her eyes.
Simon tried out his legs again, with the same results. “My limbs don’t sheem to be working properly,” he commented.
“Your brain isn’t working properly!” Daphne returned. “What am I to do with you?”
He looked her way and grinned. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” He frowned. “I don’t think you can take that back.”
Daphne let out a long sigh. She should be furious with him—blast it all, she was furious with him!—but it was difficult to maintain appropriate levels of anger when he looked so pathetic.
Besides, with three brothers, she’d had some experience with drunken nitwits. He was going to have to sleep it off, that’s all there was to it. He’d wake up with a blistering headache, which would probably serve him right, and then he would insist upon drinking some noxious concoction that he was absolutely positive would eliminate his hangover completely.
“Simon?” she asked patiently. “How drunk are you?”
He gave her a loopy grin. “Very.”
“I thought as much,” she muttered under her breath. She bent down and shoved her hands under his arms. “Up with you now, we’ve got to get you to bed.”
But he didn’t move, just sat there on his fanny and looked up at her with an extremely foolish expression. “Whydul need t’get up?” he slurred. “Can’t you sit wi’ me?” He threw his arms around her in a sloppy hug. “Come’n sit wi’ me, Daphne.”
“Simon!”
He patted the carpet next to him. “It’s nice down here.”
“Simon, no, I cannot sit with you,” she ground out, struggling out of his heavy embrace. “You have to go to bed.” She tried to move him again, with the same, dismal outcome. “Heavens above,” she said under her breath, “why did you have to go out and get so drunk?”
He wasn’t supposed to hear her words, but he must have done, because he cocked his head, and said, “I wanted you back.”
Her lips parted in shock. They both knew what he had to do to win her back, but Daphne thought he was far too intoxicated for her to conduct any kind of conversation on the topic. So she just tugged at his arm and said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Simon.”
He blinked several times in rapid succession. “Think it already is tomorrow.” He craned his neck this way and that, peering toward the windows. The curtains were drawn, but the light of the new day was already filtering through. “Iz day all right,” he mumbled. “See?” He waved his arm toward the window. “Tomorrow already.”
“Then we’ll talk about it in the evening,” she said, a touch desperately. She already felt as if her heart had been pushed through a windmill; she didn’t think she could bear any more just then. “Please, Simon, let’s just leave it be for now.”
“The thing is, Daphrey—” He shook his head in much the same manner a dog shakes off water. “DaphNe,” he said carefully. “DaphNe DaphNe.”
Daphne couldn’t quite stop a smile at that. “What, Simon?”
“The problem, y’see”—he scratched his head—“you just don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?” she said softly.
“Why I can’t do it,” he said. He raised his face until it was level with hers, and she nearly flinched at the haunted misery in his eyes.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Daff,” he said hoarsely. “You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I know that, Simon.”
“Good, because the thing is—” He drew a long breath that seemed to shake his entire body. “I can’t do what you want.”
She said nothing.
“All my life,” Simon said sadly, “all my life he won. Didjou know that? He always won. This time I get to win.” In a long, awkward movement he swung his arm in a horizontal arc and jabbed his thumb against his chest. “Me. I want to win for once.”
“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “You won long ago. The moment you exceeded his expectations you won. Every time you beat the odds, made a friend, or traveled to a new land you won. You did all the things he never wanted for you.” Her breath caught, and she gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You beat him. You won. Why can’t you see that?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to become what he wanted,” he said. “Even though—” He hiccuped. “Even though he never expected it of m-me, what he w-wanted was a perfect son, someone who’d be the perfect d-duke, who’d then m-marry the perfect duchess, and have p-perfect children.”
Daphne’s lower lip caught between her teeth. He was stuttering again. He must be truly upset. She felt her heart breaking for him, for the little boy who’d wanted nothing other than his father’s approval.
Simon cocked his head to the side and regarded her with a surprisingly steady gaze. “He would have approved of you.”
“Oh,” Daphne said, not sure how to interpret that.
“But”—he shrugged and gave her a secret, mischievous smile—“I married you anyway.”
He looked so earnest, so boyishly serious, that it was a hard battle not to throw her arms around him and attempt to comfort him. But no matter how deep his pain, or how wounded his soul, he was going about this all wrong. The best revenge against his father would simply be to live a full and happy life, to achieve all those heights and glories his father had been so determined to deny him.
Daphne swallowed a heavy sob of frustration. She didn’t see how he could possibly lead a happy life if all of his choices were based on thwarting the wishes of a dead man.
But she didn’t want to get into all of that just then. She was tired and he was drunk and this just wasn’t the right time. “Let’s get you to bed,” she finally said.
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filling with an ages-old need for comfort. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“Simon,” she choked out.
“Please don’t. He left. Everyone left. Then I left.” He squeezed her hand. “You stay.”
She nodded shakily and rose to her feet. “You can sleep it off in my bed,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“But you’ll stay with me?”
It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake, but still she said, “I’ll stay with you.”
“Good.” He wobbled himself upright. “Because I couldn’t—I really—” He sighed and turned anguished eyes to her. “I need you.”
She led him to her bed, nearly falling over with him when he tumbled onto the mattress. “Hold still,” she ordered, kneeling to pull off his boots. She’d done this for her brothers before, so she knew to grab the heel, not the toe, but they were a snug fit, and she went sprawling on the ground when his foot finally slipped out.
“Good gracious,” she muttered, getting up to repeat the aggravating procedure. “And they say women are slaves to fashion.”
Simon made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore.
“Are you asleep?” Daphne asked incredulously. She yanked at the other boot, which came off with a bit more ease, then lifted his legs—which felt like deadweights—up onto the bed.
He looked young and peaceful with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Daphne reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sleep well, my sweet,” she whispered.
But when she started to move, one of his arms shot out and wrapped around her. “You said you would stay,” he said accusingly.
“I thought you were asleep!”
“Doesn’t give you the right to break your promise.” He tugged her at her arm, and Daphne finally gave up resisting and settled down next to him. He was warm, and he was hers, and even if she had grave fears for their future, at that moment she couldn’t resist his gentle embrace.
Daphne awoke an hour or so later, surprised that she’d fallen asleep at all. Simon still lay next to her, snoring softly. They were both dressed, he in his
whiskey-scented clothes, and she in her nightrobe.
Gently, she touched his cheek. “What am I to do with you?” she whispered. “I love you, you know. I love you, but I hate what you’re doing to yourself.” She drew a shaky breath. “And to me. I hate what you’re doing to me.”
He shifted sleepily, and for one horrified moment, she was afraid that he’d woken up. “Simon?” she whispered, then let out a relieved exhale when he didn’t answer. She knew she shouldn’t have spoken words aloud that she wasn’t quite ready for him to hear, but he’d looked so innocent against the snowy white pillows. It was far too easy to spill her innermost thoughts when he looked like that.
“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, closing her eyes against the tears that were pooling in her eyes. She should get up. She should absolutely positively get up now and leave him to his rest. She understood why he was so dead set against bringing a child into this world, but she hadn’t forgiven him, and she certainly didn’t agree with him. If he woke up with her still in his arms, he might think she was willing to settle for his version of a family.
Slowly, reluctantly, she tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around her, and his sleepy voice mumbled, “No.”
“Simon, I—”
He pulled her closer, and Daphne realized that he was thoroughly aroused.
“Simon?” she whispered, her eyes flying open. “Are you even awake?”
His response was another sleepy mumble, and he made no attempts at seduction, just snuggled her closer.
Daphne blinked in surprise. She hadn’t realized that a man could want a woman in his sleep.
She pulled her head back so she could see his face, then reached out and touched the line of his jaw. He let out a little groan. The sound was hoarse and deep, and it made her reckless. With slow, tantalizing fingers, she undid the buttons of his shirt, pausing just once to trace the outline of his navel.
He shifted restlessly, and Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him.
She could have whatever she wanted.
