Chapter 8 16 страница

And whatever life was about when he was with Daphne, it wasn't stress and anger.

He leaned more heavily against the fence, guilt forcing his posture into a slouch. He'd treated her abominably. It seemed he was fated to do that time and again.

"Simon?"

He'd felt her presence before she'd spoken. She'd approached from behind, her booted feet soft and silent on the grass.
But he knew she was there. He could smell her gentle fragrance and hear the wind whispering through her hair.

'These are beautiful roses," she said. It was, he knew, her way of soothing his peevish mood. He knew she was dying to
ask more. But she was wise beyond her years, and much as he liked to tease her about it, she did know a lot about men
and their idiot tempers. She wouldn't say anything more. At least not today.

"I'm told my mother planted them," he replied. His words came out more gruffly than he would have liked, but he hoped she saw them as the olive branch he'd meant them to be. When she didn't say anything, he added by way of an explanation, "She died at my birth."

Daphne nodded. "I'd heard. I'm sorry."

Simon shrugged. "I didn't know her."

'That doesn't mean it wasn't a loss."

Simon considered his childhood. He had no way of knowing if his mother would have been more sympathetic to his
difficulties than his father had been, but he figured there was no way she could have made it worse. "Yes," he murmured, "I suppose it was."

* * *

Later that day, while Simon was going over some estate accounts, Daphne decided it was as good a time as any to get to know Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper. Although she and Simon had not yet discussed where they would reside, Daphne couldn't imagine that they wouldn't spend some time there at Clyvedon, Simon's ancestral home, and if there was one thing she'd learned from her mother, it was that a lady simply had to have a good working relationship with her housekeeper.

Not that Daphne was terribly worried about getting along with Mrs. Colson. She had met the housekeeper briefly when
Simon had introduced her to the staff, and it had been quickly apparent that she was a friendly, talkative sort.

She stopped by Mrs. Colson's office—a tiny little room just off the kitchen—a bit before teatime. The housekeeper, a handsome woman in her fifties, was bent over her small desk, working on the week's menus.

Daphne gave the open door a knock. "Mrs. Colson?"

The housekeeper looked up and immediately stood. "Your grace," she said, bobbing into a small curtsy. "You should
have called for me."

Daphne smiled awkwardly, still unused to her elevation from the ranks of mere misses. "I was already up and about," she said, explaining her unorthodox appearance in the servants' domain. "But if you have a moment, Mrs. Colson, I was hoping we might get to know one another better, since you have lived here for many years, and I hope to do so for many to come."

Mrs. Colson smiled at Daphne's warm tone. "Of course, your grace. Was there anything in particular about which you
cared to inquire?"

"Not at all. But I still have much to learn about Clyvedon if I am to manage it properly. Perhaps we could take tea in the yellow room? I do so enjoy the decor. It's so warm and sunny. I had been hoping to make that my personal parlor."

Mrs. Colson gave her an odd look. "The last duchess felt the same way."

"Oh," Daphne replied, not certain whether that ought to make her feel uncomfortable.

"I've given special care to that room over the years," Mrs. Colson continued. "It does get quite a bit of sun, being on the
south side. I had all of the furniture reupholstered three years ago." Her chin rose in a slightly proud manner. "Went all
the way to London to get the same fabric."

"I see," Daphne replied, leading the way out of the office. "The late duke must have loved his wife very much, to order
such a painstaking conservation of her favorite room."

Mrs. Colson didn't quite meet her eyes. "It was my decision," she said quietly. "The duke always gave me a certain
budget for the upkeep of the house. I thought it the most fitting use of the money."

Daphne waited while the housekeeper summoned a maid and gave her instructions for the tea. "It's a lovely room," she announced once they had exited the kitchen, "and although the current duke never had the opportunity to know his
mother, I'm sure he'll be quite touched that you have seen fit to preserve her favorite room."

"It was the least I could do," Mrs. Colson said as they strolled across the hall. "I have not always served the Basset family, after all."

"Oh?" Daphne asked curiously. Upper servants were notoriously loyal, often serving a single family for generations.

"Yes, I was the duchess's personal maid." Mrs. Colson waited outside the doorway of the yellow room to allow Daphne to precede her. "And before that her companion. My mother was her nurse. Her grace's family was kind enough to allow me to share her lessons."

"You must have been quite close," Daphne murmured.

Mrs. Colson nodded. "After she died I occupied a number of different positions here at Clyvedon until I finally became housekeeper."

"I see." Daphne smiled at her and then took a seat on the sofa. "Please sit," she said, motioning to the chair across from her.

Mrs. Colson seemed hesitant with such familiarity, but eventually sat. "It broke my heart when she died," she said. She gave Daphne a slightly apprehensive look. "I hope you don't mind my telling you so."

"Of course not," Daphne said quickly. She was ravenously curious about Simon's childhood. He said so little, and yet she sensed that it all meant so much. "Please, tell me more. I would love to hear about her."

Mrs. Colson's eyes grew misty. "She was the kindest, gentlest soul this earth has ever known. She and the duke—well, it wasn't a love match, but they got on well enough. They were friends in their own way." She looked up. "They were both very much aware of their duties as duke and duchess. Took their responsibilities quite seriously."

Daphne nodded understandingly.

"She was so determined to give him a son. She kept trying even after the doctors all told her she mustn't. She used to cry in my arms every month when her courses came."

Daphne nodded again, hoping the motion would hide her suddenly strained expression. It was difficult to listen to stories about not being able to have children. But she supposed she was going to have to get used to it. It was going to be even more strenuous to answer questions about it.

And there would be questions. Painfully tactful and hideously pitying questions.

But Mrs. Colson thankfully didn't notice Daphne's distress. She sniffled as she continued her story. "She was always
saying things like how was she to be a proper duchess if she couldn't give him a son. It broke my heart. Every month it
broke my heart."

Daphne wondered if her own heart would shatter every month. Probably not. She, at least, knew for a fact that she
wouldn't have children. Simon's mother had her hopes crushed every four weeks.

"And of course," the housekeeper continued, "everyone talked as if it were her fault there was no baby. How could they
know that, I ask you? It's not always the woman who is barren. Sometimes it's the man's fault, you know."

Daphne said nothing.

"I told her this time and again, but still she felt guilty. I said to her—" The housekeeper's face turned pink. "Do you mind if I speak frankly?"

"Please do."

She nodded. "Well, I said to her what my mother said to me. A womb won't quicken without strong, healthy seed."

Daphne held her face in an expressionless mask. It was all she could manage.

"But then she finally had Master Simon." Mrs. Colson let out a maternal sigh, then looked to Daphne with an apprehensive expression. "I beg your pardon," she said hastily. "I shouldn't be calling him that. He's the duke now."

"Don't stop on my account," Daphne said, happy to have something to smile about.

"It's hard to change one's ways at my age," Mrs. Colson said with a sigh. "And I'm afraid a part of me will always remember him as that poor little boy." She looked up at Daphne and shook her head. "He would have had a much easier time of it if the duchess had lived."

"An easier time of it?" Daphne murmured, hoping that would be all the encouragement Mrs. Colson would need to
explain further.

"The duke just never understood that poor boy," the housekeeper said forcefully. "He stormed about and called him
stupid, and..."

Daphne's head snapped up. "The duke thought Simon was stupid?" she interrupted. That was preposterous. Simon was
one of the smartest people she knew. She'd once asked him a bit about his studies at Oxford and had been stunned to
learned that his brand of mathematics didn't even use numbers.

"The duke never could see the world beyond his own nose," Mrs. Colson said with a snort. "He never gave that boy a chance."

Daphne felt her body leaning forward, her ears straining for the housekeeper's words. What had the duke done to Simon? And was this the reason he turned to ice every time his father's name was mentioned?

Mrs. Colson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "You should have seen the way that boy worked to improve himself. It broke my heart. It simply broke my heart."

Daphne's hands clawed at the sofa. Mrs. Colson was never going to get to the point.

"But nothing he ever did was good enough for the duke. This is just my opinion of course, but—"

Just then a maid entered with tea. Daphne nearly screamed with frustration. It took a good two minutes for the tea to be
set up and poured, and all the while Mrs. Colson chitchatted about the biscuits, and did Daphne prefer them plain or with coarse sugar on top.

Daphne had to pry her hands off the sofa, lest she puncture holes in the upholstery Mrs. Colson had worked so hard to preserve. Finally, the maid left, and Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea, and said, "Now then, where were we?"

"You were talking about the duke," Daphne said quickly. 'The late duke. That nothing my husband did was ever good
enough for him and in your opinion—"

"My goodness, you were listening." Mrs. Colson beamed. "I'm so flattered."

"But you were saying..." Daphne prompted.

"Oh yes, of course. I was simply going to say that I have long held the opinion that the late duke never forgave his son for not being perfect."

"But Mrs. Colson," Daphne said quietly, "none of us is perfect."

"Of course not, but—" The housekeeper's eyes floated up for a brief second in an expression of disdain toward the late
duke. "If you'd known his grace, you would understand. He'd waited so long for a son. And in his mind, the Basset name was synonymous with perfection."

"And my husband wasn't the son he wanted?" Daphne asked.

"He didn't want a son. He wanted a perfect little replica of himself."

Daphne could no longer contain her curiosity. "But what did Simon do that was so repugnant to the duke?"

Mrs. Colson's eyes widened in surprise, and one of her hands floated to her chest. "Why, you don't know," she said softly. "Of course you wouldn't know."

"What?"

"He couldn't speak."

Daphne's lips parted in shock. "I beg your pardon?"

"He couldn't speak. Not a word until he was four, and then it was all stutters and stammers. It broke my heart every time he opened his mouth. I could see that there was a bright little boy inside. He just couldn't get the words out right."

"But he speaks so well now," Daphne said, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. "I've never heard him stammer.
Or if I have, I-I-I didn't notice it. See! Look, I just did it myself. Everyone stammers a bit when they're flustered."

"He worked very hard to improve himself. It was seven years, I recall. For seven years he did nothing but practice his
speech with his nurse." Mrs. Colson's face wrinkled with thought. "Let's see, what was her name? Oh yes, Nurse Hopkins. She was a saint, she was. As devoted to that boy as if he'd been her own. I was the housekeeper's assistant at the time, but she often let me come up and help him practice his speech."

"Was it difficult for him?" Daphne whispered.

"Some days I thought he'd surely shatter from the frustration of it. But he was so stubborn. Heavens, but he was a stubborn boy. I've never seen a person so single-minded." Mrs. Colson shook her head sadly. "And his father still rejected him. It—"

"Broke your heart," Daphne finished for her. "It would have broken mine, as well."

Mrs. Colson took a sip of her tea during the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. 'Thank you very much for allowing me to take tea with you, your grace," she said, misinterpreting Daphne's quietude for displeasure. "It was highly irregular of you to do so, but very..."

Daphne looked up as Mrs. Colson searched for the correct word.

"Kind," the housekeeper finally finished. "It was very kind of you."

"Thank you," Daphne murmured distractedly.

"Oh, but I haven't answered any of your questions about Clyvedon," Mrs. Colson said suddenly.

Daphne gave her head a little shake. "Another time, perhaps," she said softly. She had too much to think on just then.

Mrs. Colson, sensing her employer desired privacy, stood, bobbed a curtsy, and silently left the room.

Chapter 16

The stifling heat in London this week has certainly put a crimp in society junctions. This author saw Miss
Prudence Featherington swoon at the Huxley ball, but it is impossible to discern whether this temporary lack
of verticality was due to the heat or the presence of Mr. Colin Bridgerton, who has been cutting quite a swash through society since his return from the Continent.

The unseasonable heat has also made a casualty of Lady Danbury, who quit London several days ago, claiming that her cat (a long-haired, bushy beast) could not tolerate the weather. It is believed that she has retired to her country home in Surrey.

One would guess that the Duke and Duchess of Hastings are unaffected by these rising temperatures; they are down on the coast, where the sea wind is always a pleasure. But This Author cannot be certain of their comfort; contrary to popular belief, This Author does not have spies in all the important households, and certainly not outside of London!

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 2 June 1813

It was odd, Simon reflected, how they'd not been married even a fortnight and yet had already fallen into comfortable
patterns and routines. Just now, he stood barefoot in the doorway of his dressing room, loosening his cravat as he
watched his wife brush her hair.

And he'd done the exact same thing yesterday. There was something oddly comforting in that.

And both times, he thought with a hint of a leer, he'd been planning how to seduce her into bed. Yesterday, of course,
he'd been successful.

His once expertly tied cravat lying limp and forgotten on the floor, he took a step forward.

Today he'd be successful, too.

He stopped when he reached Daphne's side, perching on the edge of her vanity table. She looked up and blinked owlishly. He touched his hand to hers, both of their fingers wrapped around the handle of the hairbrush. "I like to watch you brush your hair," he said, "but I like to do it myself better."

She stared at him in an oddly intent fashion. Slowly, she relinquished the brush. "Did you get everything done with your accounts? You were tucked away with your estate manager for quite a long time."

"Yes, it was rather tedious but necessary, and—" His face froze. "What are you looking at?"

Her eyes slid from his face. "Nothing," she said, her voice unnaturally staccato.

He gave his head a tiny shake, the motion directed more at himself than at her, then he began to brush her hair. For a
moment it had seemed as if she were staring at his mouth.

He fought the urge to shudder. All through his childhood, people had stared at his mouth. They'd gazed in horrified
fascination, occasionally forcing their eyes up to his, but always returning to his mouth, as if unable to believe that such a normal-looking feature could produce such gibberish.

But he had to be imagining things. Why would Daphne be looking at his mouth?

He pulled the brush gently through her hair, allowing his fingers to trail through the silky strands as well. "Did you have a nice chat with Mrs. Colson?" he asked.

She flinched. It was a tiny movement, and she hid it quite well, but he noticed it nonetheless. "Yes," she said, "she's very knowledgeable."

"She should be. She's been here forev—what are you looking at?"

Daphne practically jumped in her chair. "I'm looking at the mirror," she insisted.

Which was true, but Simon was still suspicious. Her eyes had been fixed and intent, focused on a single spot.

"As I was saying," Daphne said hastily, "I'm certain Mrs. Colson will prove invaluable as I adjust to the management of Clyvedon. It's a large estate, and I have much to learn."

"Don't make too much of an effort," he said. "We won't spend much time here."

"We won't?"

"I thought we would make London our primary residence." At her look of surprise, he added, "You'll be closer to your
family, even when they retire to the country. I thought you'd like that."

"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.

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