by Julia Quinn
A quick glance at his face told her that he was still sleeping, and she quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.
“Daphne,” he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he let out a ragged groan. “Oh, God. That feels so damned good.”
“Shhhh,” she crooned, slipping out of her silken robe. “Let me do everything.”
He lay on his back, his hands fisted at his sides as she stroked him. He’d taught her much during their two short weeks of marriage, and soon he was squirming with desire, his breath coming in short pants.
And God help her, but she wanted him, too. She felt so powerful looming over him. She was in control, and that was the most stunning aphrodisiac she could imagine. She felt a fluttering in her stomach, then a strange sort of quickening, and she knew that she needed him.
She wanted him inside her, filling her, giving her everything a man was meant to give to a woman.
“Oh, Daphne,” he moaned, his head tossing from side to side. “I need you. I need you now.”
She moved atop him, pressing her hands against his shoulders as she straddled him. Using her hand, she guided him to her entrance, already wet with need.
Simon arched beneath her, and she slowly slid down his shaft, until he was almost fully within her.
“More,” he gasped. “Now.”
Daphne’s head fell back as she moved down that last inch. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as she gasped for breath. Then he was completely within her, and she thought she would die from the pleasure. Never had she felt so full, nor so completely a woman.
She keened as she moved above him, her body arching and writhing with delight. Her hands splayed flat against her stomach as she twisted and turned, then slid upward toward her breasts.
Simon let out a guttural moan as he watched her, his eyes glazing over as his breath came hot and heavy over his parted lips. “Oh, my God,” he said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “What are you doing to me? What have you—” Then she touched one of her nipples, and his entire body bucked upwards. “Where did you learn that?”
She looked down and gave him a bewildered smile. “I don’t know.”
“More,” he groaned. “I want to watch you.”
Daphne wasn’t entirely certain what to do, so she just let instinct take over. She ground her hips against his in a circular motion as she arched her back, causing her breasts to jut out proudly. She cupped both in her hands, squeezing them softly, rolling the nipples between her fingers, never once taking her eyes off Simon’s face.
His hips started to buck in a frantic, jerky motion, and he grasped desperately at the sheets with his large hands. And Daphne realized that he was almost there. He was always so careful to please her, to make certain that she reached her climax before he allowed himself the same privilege, but this time, he was going to explode first.
She was close, but not as close as he was.
“Oh, Christ!” he suddenly burst out, his voice harsh and primitive with need. “I’m going to—I can’t—” His eyes pinned upon her with a strange, pleading sort of look, and he made a feeble attempt to pull away.
Daphne bore down on him with all her might.
He exploded within her, the force of his climax lifting his hips off the bed, pushing her up along with him. She planted her hands underneath him, using all of her strength to hold him against her. She would not lose him this time. She would not lose this chance.
Simon’s eyes flew open as he came, as he realized too late what he had done. But his body was too far gone; there was no stopping the power of his climax. If he’d been on top, he might have found the strength to pull away, but lying there under her, watching her tease her own body into a mass of desire, he was helpless against the raging force of his own need.
As his teeth clenched and his body bucked, he felt her small hands slip underneath him, pressing him more tightly against the cradle of her womb. He saw the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, and then he suddenly realized—she had done this on purpose. She had planned this.
Daphne had aroused him in his sleep, taken advantage of him while he was still slightly intoxicated, and held him to her while he poured his seed into her.
His eyes widened and fixed on hers. “How could you?” he whispered.
She said nothing, but he saw her face change, and he knew she’d heard him.
Simon pushed her from his body just as he felt her begin to tighten around him, savagely denying her the ecstasy he’d just had for himself. “How could you?” he repeated. “You knew. You knew th-that that I-I-I—”
But she had just curled up in a little ball, her knees tucked against her chest, obviously determined not to lose a single drop of him.
Simon swore viciously as he yanked himself to his feet. He opened his mouth to pour invective over her, to castigate her for betraying him, for taking advantage of him, but his throat tightened, and his tongue swelled, and he couldn’t even begin a word, much less finish one.
“Y-y-you—” he finally managed.
Daphne stared at him in horror. “Simon?” she whispered.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her looking at him like he was some sort of freak. Oh God, oh God, he felt seven years old again. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make his mouth work. He was lost.
Daphne’s face filled with concern. Unwanted, pitying concern. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “Can you breathe?”
“D-d-d-d-d—” It was a far cry from don’t pity me, but it was all he could do. He could feel his father’s mocking presence, squeezing at his throat, choking his tongue.
“Simon?” Daphne said, hurrying to his side. Her voice grew panicked. “Simon, say something!”
She reached out to touch his arm, but he threw her off. “Don’t touch me!” he exploded.
She shrank back. “I guess there are still some things you can say,” she said in a small, sad voice.
Simon hated himself, hated the voice that had forsaken him, and hated his wife because she had the power to reduce his control to rubble. This complete loss of speech, this choking, strangling feeling—he had worked his entire life to escape it, and now she had brought it all back with a vengeance.
He couldn’t let her do this. He couldn’t let her make him like he’d once been.
He tried to say her name, couldn’t get anything out.
He had to leave. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t be with her. He didn’t even want to be with himself, but that, unfortunately, was beyond his meager control.
“D-don’t c-come n-near me,” he gasped, jabbing his finger at her as he yanked on his trousers. “Y-y-y-you did this!”
“Did what?” Daphne cried, pulling a sheet around her. “Simon, stop this. What did I do that was so wrong? You wanted me. You know you wanted me.”
“Th-th-this!” he burst out, pointing at his throat. Then he pointed toward her abdomen. “Th-th-that.”
Then, unable to bear the sight of her any longer, he stormed from the room.
If only he could escape himself with the same ease.
Ten hours later Daphne found the following note:
Pressing business at another of my estates requires my attention. I trust you will notify me if your attempts at conception were successful.
My steward will give you my direction, should you need it.
Simon
The single sheet of paper slipped from Daphne’s fingers and floated slowly to the floor. A harsh sob escaped her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if that might possibly stem the tide of emotion that was churning within her.
He’d left her. He’d actually left her. She’d known he was angry, known he might not even forgive her, but she hadn’t thought he would actually leave.
She’d thought—oh, even when he’d stormed out the door she’d thought that they might be able to resolve their differences, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Maybe
she’d been too idealistic. She’d egotistically thought that she could heal him, make his heart whole. Now she realized that she’d imbued herself with far more power than she actually possessed. She’d thought her love was so good, so shining, so pure that Simon would immediately abandon the years of resentment and pain that had fueled his very existence.
How self-important she’d been. How stupid she felt now.
Some things were beyond her reach. In her sheltered life, she’d never realized that until now. She hadn’t expected the world to be handed to her upon a golden platter, but she’d always assumed that if she worked hard enough for something, treated everyone the way she would like to be treated, then she would be rewarded.
But not this time. Simon was beyond her reach.
The house seemed preternaturally quiet as Daphne made her way down to the yellow room. She wondered if all the servants had learned of her husband’s departure and were now studiously avoiding her. They had to have heard bits and pieces of the argument the night before.
Daphne sighed. Grief was even more difficult when one had a small army of onlookers.
Or invisible onlookers, as the case may be, she thought as she gave the bellpull a tug. She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there, whispering behind her back and pitying her.
Funny how she’d never given much thought to servants’ gossip before. But now—she plopped down on the sofa with a pained little moan—now she felt so wretchedly alone. What else was she supposed to think about?
“Your grace?”
Daphne looked up to see a young maid standing hesitantly in the doorway. She bobbed a little curtsy and gave Daphne an expectant look.
“Tea, please,” Daphne said quietly. “No biscuits, just tea.”
The young girl nodded and ran off.
As she waited for the maid to return, Daphne touched her abdomen, gazing down at herself with gentle reverence. Closing her eyes, she sent up a prayer. Please God please, she begged, let there be a child.
She might not get another chance.
She wasn’t ashamed of her actions. She supposed she should be, but she wasn’t.
She hadn’t planned it. She hadn’t looked at him while he was sleeping and thought—he’s probably still drunk. I can make love to him and capture his seed and he’ll never know.
It hadn’t happened that way.
Daphne wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but one moment she was above him, and the next she’d realized that he wasn’t going to withdraw in time, and she’d made certain he couldn’t . . .
Or maybe— She closed her eyes. Tight. Maybe it had happened the other way. Maybe she had taken advantage of more than the moment, maybe she had taken advantage of him.
She just didn’t know. It had all melted together. Simon’s stutter, her desperate wish for a baby, his hatred of his father—it had all swirled and mixed in her mind, and she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
And she felt so alone.
She heard a sound at the door and turned, expecting the timid young maid back with tea, but in her stead was Mrs. Colson. Her face was drawn and her eyes were concerned.
Daphne smiled wanly at the housekeeper. “I was expecting the maid,” she murmured.
“I had things to attend to in the next room, so I thought I’d bring the tea myself,” Mrs. Colson replied.
Daphne knew she was lying, but she nodded anyway.
“The maid said no biscuits,” Mrs. Colson added, “but I knew you’d skipped breakfast, so I put some on the tray, anyway.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Daphne didn’t recognize the timbre of her own voice. It sounded rather flat to her, almost as if it belonged to someone else.
“It was no trouble, I assure you.” The housekeeper looked as if she wanted to say more, but eventually she just straightened and asked, “Will that be all?”
Daphne nodded.
Mrs. Colson made her way to the door, and for one brief moment Daphne almost called out to her. She almost said her name, and asked her to sit with her, and share her tea. And she would have spilled her secrets and her shame, and then she would have spilled her tears.
And not because she was particularly close to the housekeeper, just because she had no one else.
But she didn’t call out, and Mrs. Colson left the room.
Daphne picked up a biscuit and bit into it. Maybe, she thought, it was time to go home.
Chapter 19
The new Duchess of Hastings was spotted in Mayfair today. Philipa Featherington saw the former Miss Daphne Bridgerton taking a bit of air as she walked briskly around the block. Miss Featherington called out to her, but the duchess pretended not to hear.
And we know the duchess must have been pretending, for after all, one would have to be deaf to let one of Miss Featherington’s shouts go unnoticed.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 June 1813
Heartache, Daphne eventually learned, never really went away; it just dulled. The sharp, stabbing pain that one felt with each breath eventually gave way to a blunter, lower ache—the kind that one could almost—but never quite—ignore.
She left Castle Clyvedon the day after Simon’s departure, heading to London with every intention of returning to Bridgerton House. But going back to her family’s house somehow seemed like an admission of failure, and so at the last minute, she instructed the driver to take her to Hastings House instead. She would be near her family if she felt the need for their support and companionship, but she was a married woman now; she should reside in her own home.
And so she introduced herself to her new staff, who accepted her without question (but not without a considerable amount of curiosity), and set about her new life as an abandoned wife.
Her mother was the first to come calling. Daphne hadn’t bothered to notify anyone else of her return to London, so this was not terribly surprising.
“Where is he?” Violet demanded without preamble.
“My husband, I presume?”
“No, your great-uncle Edmund,” Violet practically snapped. “Of course I mean your husband.”
Daphne didn’t quite meet her mother’s eyes as she said, “I believe that he is tending to affairs at one of his country estates.”
“You believe?”
“Well, I know,” Daphne amended.
“And do you know why you are not with him?”
Daphne considered lying. She considered brazening it out and telling her mother some nonsense about an emergency involving tenants and maybe some livestock or disease or anything. But in the end, her lip quivered, and her eyes started to prick with tears, and her voice was terribly small, as she said, “Because he did not choose to take me with him.”
Violet took her hands. “Oh, Daff,” she sighed, “what happened?”
Daphne sank onto a sofa, pulling her mother along with her. “More than I could ever explain.”
“Do you want to try?”
Daphne shook her head. She’d never, not even once in her life, kept a secret from her mother. There had never been anything she didn’t feel she could discuss with her.
But there had never been this.
She patted her mother’s hand. “I’ll be all right.”
Violet looked unconvinced. “Are you certain?”
“No.” Daphne stared at the floor for a moment. “But I have to believe it, anyway.”
Violet left, and Daphne placed her hand on her abdomen and prayed.
Colin was the next to visit. About a week later, Daphne returned from a quick walk in the park to find him standing in her drawing room, arms crossed, expression furious.
“Ah,” Daphne said, pulling off her gloves, “I see you’ve learned of my return.”
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
Colin, Daphne reflected wryly, had clearly not inherited their mother’s talent for subtlety in speech.
“Speak!” he barked.
She closed her eyes for a momen
t. Just a moment to try to relieve the headache that had been plaguing her for days. She didn’t want to tell her woes to Colin. She didn’t even want to tell him as much as she told her mother, although she supposed he already knew. News always traveled fast at Bridgerton House.
She wasn’t really sure where she got the energy, but there was a certain fortifying benefit to putting up a good front, so she squared her shoulders, raised a brow, and said, “And by that you mean . . . ? ”
“I mean,” Colin growled, “where is your husband?”
“He is otherwise occupied,” Daphne replied. It sounded so much better than, “He left me.”
“Daphne . . .” Colin’s voice held no end of warning.
“Are you here alone?” she asked, ignoring his tone.
“Anthony and Benedict are in the country for the month, if that’s what you mean,” Colin said.
Daphne very nearly sighed with relief. The last thing she needed just then was to face her eldest brother. She’d already prevented him from killing Simon once; she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to manage the feat a second time. Before she could say anything, however, Colin added, “Daphne, I am ordering you right now to tell me where the bastard is hiding.”
Daphne felt her spine stiffening. She might have the right to call her errant husband nasty names, but her brother certainly didn’t. “I assume,” she said icily, “that by ‘that bastard’ you refer to my husband.”
“You’re damned right I—”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Colin looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t care to discuss my marriage with you, so if you cannot refrain from offering your unsolicited opinions, you’re going to have to leave.”
“You can’t ask me to leave,” he said in disbelief.
She crossed her arms. “This is my house.”
Colin stared at her, then looked around the room—the drawing room of the Duchess of Hastings—then looked back at Daphne, as if just realizing that his little sister, whom he’d always viewed as a rather jolly extension of himself, had become her own woman.
He reached out and took her hand. “Daff,” he said quietly, “I’ll let you handle this as you see fit.”
