Chapter 8 15 страница

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 teem. "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 her 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.

"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, open-mouthed 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 derriere, 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. Gently,
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 ramble 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 started 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 small, 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.

He'd come so far; he'd travel to hell before he went back to the way he'd been.

None of this, of course, was Daphne's fault. He knew she had no ulterior motives when she asked about his childhood.
How could she? She knew nothing of his occasional difficulties with speech. He'd worked damned hard to hide it from her.

No, he thought with a weary sigh, he'd rarely had to work hard at all to hide it from Daphne. She'd always set him at ease, made him feel free. His stammer rarely surfaced these days, but when it did it was always during times of stress and anger.

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