Chapter 8 20 страница

Atop her favorite mare, tearing across the fields, she felt free. There was no better medicine for a broken heart.

She'd long since ditched her groom, pretending she hadn't heard him when he'd yelled, "Wait! Your grace! Wait!"

She'd apologize to him later. The grooms at Bridgerton House were used to her antics and well aware of her skill atop
a horse. This new man—one of her husband's servants—would probably worry.

Daphne felt a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. She needed to be alone. She needed to move fast.

She slowed down as she reached a slightly wooded area and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and smells of the park fill her senses. She thought of a blind man she'd once met, who'd told her that the rest of his senses had grown sharper since he'd lost his sight. As she sat there and inhaled the scents of the forest, she thought he might be right.

She listened hard, first identifying the high-pitched chirp of the birds, then the soft, scurrying feet of the squirrels as they hoarded nuts for the winter. Then—

She frowned and opened her eyes. Damn. That was definitely the sound of another rider approaching.

Daphne didn't want company. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her pain, and she certainly didn't want to have to explain to some well-meaning society member why she was alone in the park. She listened again, identified the location of the oncoming rider, and took off in the other direction.

She kept her horse to a steady trot, thinking that if she just got out of the other rider's way, he'd pass her by. But whichever way she went, he seemed to follow.

She picked up speed, more speed than she should have in this lightly wooded area. There were too many low branches
and protruding tree roots. But now Daphne was starting to get scared. Her pulse pounded in her ears as a thousand
horrifying questions rocked through her head.

What if this rider wasn't, as she'd originally supposed, a member of the ton? What if he was a criminal? Or a drunk? It was early; there was no one about. If Daphne screamed, who would hear her? Was she close enough to her groom? Had he stayed put where she'd left him or had he tried to follow? And if he had, had he even gone in the right direction?

Her groom! She nearly cried out in relief. It had to be her groom. She swung her mare around to see if she could catch a glimpse of the rider. The Hastings livery was quite distinctly red; surely she'd be able to see if—

Smack!

Every bit of air was violently forced from her body as a branch caught her squarely in the chest. A strangled grunt
escaped her lips, and she felt her mare moving forward without her. And then she was falling ... falling ...

She landed with a bone-jarring thud, the autumn brown leaves on the ground providing scant cushioning. Her body
immediately curled into a fetal position, as if by making herself as small as possible, she could make the hurt as small
as possible.

And, oh God, she hurt. Damn it, she hurt everywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. Her
mind flooded with curses she'd never dared speak aloud. But it hurt. Bloody hell, it hurt to breathe.

But she had to. Breathe. Breathe, Daphne, she ordered. Breathe. Breathe. You can do it.

"Daphne!"

Daphne made no response. The only sounds she seemed able to make were whimpers. Even groans were beyond
her capability.

"Daphne! Christ above, Daphne!"

She heard someone jump off a horse, then felt movement in the leaves around her.

"Daphne?"

"Simon?" she whispered in disbelief. It made no sense that he was here, but it was his voice. And even though she still
hadn't pried her eyes open, it felt like him. The air changed when he was near.

His hands touched her lightly, checking for broken bones. "Tell me where it hurts," he said.

"Everywhere," she gasped.

He swore under his breath, but his touch remained achingly gentle and soothing. "Open your eyes," he ordered softly.
"Look at me. Focus on my face."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"You can."

She heard him strip off his gloves, and then his warm fingers were on her temples, smoothing away the tension. He moved to her eyebrows, then the bridge of her nose. "Shhhh," he crooned. "Let it go. Just let the pain go. Open your eyes, Daphne."

Slowly, and with great difficulty, she did so. Simon's face filled her vision, and for the moment she forgot everything that had happened between them, everything but the fact that she loved him, and he was here, and he was making the hurt go away.

"Look at me," he said again, his voice low and insistent. "Look at me and don't take your eyes off of mine."

She managed the tiniest of nods. She focused her eyes on his, letting the intensity of his gaze hold her still.

"Now, I want you to relax," he said. His voice was soft but commanding, and it was exactly what she needed. As he spoke, his hands moved across her body, checking for breaks or sprains.

His eyes never once left hers.

Simon kept speaking to her in low, soothing tones as he examined her body for injuries. She didn't appear to have suffered anything worse than a few bad bruises and having the wind knocked out of her, but one could never be too careful, and with the baby...

The blood drained from his face. In his panic for Daphne, he'd forgotten all about the child she was carrying. His child.

Their child.

"Daphne," he said slowly. Carefully. "Do you think you're all right?"

She nodded.

"Are you still in pain?"

"Some," she admitted, swallowing awkwardly as she blinked. "But it's getting better."

"Are you certain?"

She nodded again.

"Good," he said calmly. He was silent for several seconds and then he fairly yelled, "What in God's name did you think
you were doing!"

Daphne's jaw dropped, and her eyelids started opening and closing with great rapidity. She made a strangled sort of sound that might have metamorphosed into an actual word, but Simon cut her off with more bellows.

"What the hell were you doing out here with no groom? And why were you galloping here, where the terrain clearly does not allow it?" His eyebrows slammed together. "And for the love of God, woman, what were you doing on a horse?"

"Riding?" Daphne answered weakly.

"Don't you even care about our child? Didn't you give even a moment's thought to its safety?"

"Simon," Daphne said, her voice very small.

"A pregnant woman shouldn't even get within ten feet of a horse! You should know better."

When she looked at him her eyes looked old. "Why do you care?" she asked flatly. "You didn't want this baby."

"No, I didn't, but now that it's here I don't want you to kill it."

"Well, don't worry." She bit her lip. "It's not here."

Simon's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes flitted to the side of his face. "I'm not pregnant."

"You're—" He couldn't finish the sentence. The strangest feeling sank into his body. He didn't think it was disappointment, but he wasn't quite sure. "You lied to me?" he whispered.

She shook her head fiercely as she sat up to face him. "No!" she cried. "No, I never lied. I swear. I thought I'd conceived. I truly thought I had. But—" She choked on a sob, and squeezed her eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. She hugged
her legs to her body and pressed her face against her knees.

Simon had never seen her like this, so utterly stricken with grief. He stared at her, feeling agonizingly helpless. All he wanted was to make her feel better, and it didn't much help to know that he was the cause of her pain. "But what, Daff?" he asked.

When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were huge, and full of grief. "I don't know. Maybe I wanted a child so badly that I somehow willed my courses away. I was so happy last month." She let out a shaky breath, one that teetered precariously on the edge of a sob. "I waited and waited, even got my woman's padding ready, and nothing happened."

"Nothing?" Simon had never heard of such a thing.

"Nothing." Her lips trembled into a faintly self-mocking smile. "I've never been so happy in my life to have nothing happen."

"Did you feel queasy?"

She shook her head. "I felt no different. Except that I didn't bleed. But then two days ago ..."

Simon laid his hand on hers. "I'm sorry, Daphne."

"No you're not," she said bitterly, yanking her hand away. "Don't pretend something you don't feel. And for God's sake,
don't lie to me again. You never wanted this baby." She let out a hollow, brittle laugh. "This baby? Good God, I talk as
if it ever actually existed. As if it were ever more than a product of my imagination." She looked down, and when she
spoke again, her voice was achingly sad. "And my dreams."

Simon's lips moved several times before he managed to say, "I don't like to see you so upset."

She looked at him with a combination of disbelief and regret. "I don't see how you could expect anything else."

"I—I—I—" He swallowed, trying to relax his throat, and finally he just said the only thing in his heart. "I want you back."

She didn't say anything. Simon silently begged her to say something, but she didn't. And he cursed at the gods for her
silence, because it meant that he would have to say more.

"When we argued," he said slowly, "I lost control. I— I couldn't speak." He closed his eyes in agony as he felt his jaw
tighten. Finally, after a long and shaky exhale, he said, "I hate myself like that."

Daphne's head tilted slightly as furrows formed in her brow. "Is that why you left?"

He nodded once.

"It wasn't about—what I did?"

His eyes met hers evenly. "I didn't like what you did."

"But that wasn't why you left?" she persisted.

There was a beat of silence, and then he said, "It wasn't why I left."

Daphne hugged her knees to her chest, pondering his words. All this time she'd thought he'd abandoned her because
he hated her, hated what she'd done, but in truth, the only thing he hated was himself.

She said softly, "You know I don't think less of you when you stammer."

"I think less of myself."

She nodded slowly. Of course he would. He was proud and stubborn, and all the ton looked up to him. Men curried his
favor, women flirted like mad. And all the while he'd been terrified every time he'd opened his mouth.

Well, maybe not every time, Daphne thought as she gazed into his face. When they were together, he usually spoke so
freely, answered her so quickly that she knew he couldn't possibly be concentrating on every word.

She put her hand on his. "You're not the boy your father thought you were."

"I know that," he said, but his eyes didn't meet hers.

"Simon, look at me," she gently ordered. When he did, she repeated her words. "You're not the boy your father thought
you were."

"I know that," he said again, looking puzzled and maybe just a bit annoyed.

"Are you sure?" she asked softly.

"Damn it, Daphne, I know—" His words tumbled into silence as his body began to shake. For one startling moment,
Daphne thought he was going to cry. But the tears that pooled in his eyes never fell, and when he looked up at her, his
body shuddering, all he said was, "I hate him, Daphne. I h-h-h—"

She moved her hands to his cheeks and turned his face to hers, forcing him to meet her steady gaze. "That's all right," she said. "It sounds as if he was a horrid man. But you have to let it go."

"I can't."

"You can. It's all right to have anger, but you can't let that be the ruling factor in your life. Even now, you're letting him
dictate your choices."

Simon looked away.

Daphne's hands dropped from his face, but she made sure they rested on his knees. She needed this connection. In a strange way she feared that if she let go of him right now she'd lose him forever. "Did you ever stop to wonder if you wanted a family? If you wanted a child of your own? You'd be such a wonderful father, Simon, and yet you won't even let yourself consider the notion. You think you're getting your revenge, but you're really just letting him control you from the grave."

"If I give him a child, he wins," Simon whispered.

"No, if you give yourself a child, you win." She swallowed convulsively. "We all win."

Simon said nothing, but she could see his body shaking.

"If you don't want a child because you don't want one, that's one thing. But if you deny yourself the joy of fatherhood
because of a dead man, then you're a coward."

Daphne winced as the insult crossed her lips, but it had to be said. "At some point you've got to leave him behind and live your own life. You've got to let go of the anger and—"

Simon shook his head, and his eyes looked lost and hopeless. "Don't ask me to do that. It's all I had. Don't you see, it's
all I had?"

"I don't understand."

His voice rose in volume. "Why do you think I learned to speak properly? What do you think drove me? It was anger.
It was always anger, always to show him."

"Simon—"

A bubble of mocking laughter erupted from his throat. "Isn't that just too amusing? I hate him. I hate him so much, and yet he's the one reason I've managed to succeed."

Daphne shook her head. "That's not true," she said fervently, "you would have succeeded no matter what. You're stubborn and brilliant, and I know you. You learned to speak because of you, not because of him." When he said nothing, she added in a soft voice, "If he'd shown you love, it would have made it all the easier."

Simon started to shake his head, but she cut him off by taking his hand and squeezing it. "I was shown love," she whispered. "I knew nothing but love and devotion when I was growing up. Trust me, it makes everything easier."

Simon sat very still for several minutes, the only sound the low whoosh of his breath as he fought to control his emotions. Finally, just when Daphne was beginning to fear she'd lost him, he looked up at her with shattered eyes.

"I want to be happy," he whispered.

"You will be," she vowed, wrapping her arms around him. "You will be."

Chapter 21

The Duke of Hastings is back!

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 6 August 1813

Simon didn't speak as they slowly rode home. Daphne's mare had been found munching contentedly on a patch of grass
about twenty yards away, and even though Daphne had insisted that she was fit to ride, Simon had insisted that he didn't care. After tying the mare's reins to his own gelding, he had boosted Daphne into his saddle, hopped up behind her, and headed back to Grosvenor Square.

Besides, he needed to hold her.

He was coming to realize that he needed to hold on to something in life, and maybe she was right—maybe anger wasn't
the solution. Maybe—just maybe he could learn to hold on to love instead.

When they reached Hastings House, a groom ran out to take care of the horses, and so Simon and Daphne trudged up
the front steps and entered the hall.

And found themselves being stared down by the three older Bridgerton brothers.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" Simon demanded. All he wanted to do was scoot up the stairs and make love to his wife, and instead he was greeted by this belligerent trio. They were standing with identical postures—legs spread, hands on hips, chins jutted out. If Simon hadn't been so damned irritated with the lot of them, he probably would have had the presence of mind to have been slightly alarmed.

Simon had no doubt that he could hold his own against one of them—maybe two—but against all three he was a dead man.

"We heard you were back," Anthony said.

"So I am," Simon replied. "Now leave."

"Not so fast," Benedict said, crossing his arms.

Simon turned to Daphne. "Which one of them may I shoot first?"

She threw a scowl at her brothers. "I have no preference."

"We have a few demands before we'll let you keep Daphne," Colin said.

"What?" Daphne howled.

"She is my wife!" Simon roared, effectively obliterating Daphne's angry query.

"She was our sister first," Anthony growled, "and you've made her miserable."

"This isn't any of your business," Daphne insisted.

"You're our business," Benedict said.

"She's my business," Simon snapped, "so now get the hell out of my house."

"When the three of you have marriages of your own, then you can presume to offer me advice," Daphne said angrily,
"but in the meantime, keep your meddling impulses to yourselves."

"I'm sorry, Daff," Anthony said, "but we're not budging on this."

"On what?" she snapped. "You have no place to budge one way or the other. This isn't your affair!"

Colin stepped forward. "We're not leaving until we're convinced he loves you."

The blood drained from Daphne's face. Simon had never once told her that he loved her. He'd shown it, in a thousand
different little ways, but he'd never said the words. When they came, she didn't want them at the hands of her overbearing brothers; she wanted them free and felt, from Simon's heart.

"Don't do this, Colin," she whispered, hating the pathetic, pleading note of her voice. "You have to let me fight my own battles."

"Daff—"

"Please," she pleaded.

Simon marched between them. "If you will excuse us," he said to Colin, and by extension, to Anthony and Benedict. He ushered Daphne to the other end of the hall, where they might talk privately. He would have liked to have moved to another room altogether, but he had no confidence that her idiot brothers wouldn't follow.

"I'm so sorry about my brothers," Daphne whispered, her words coming out in a heated rush. "They're boorish idiots, and they had no business invading your house. If I could disown them I would. After this display I wouldn't be surprised if you never want children—"

Simon silenced her with a finger to her lips. "First of all, it's our house, not my house. And as for your brothers—they
annoy the hell out of me, but they're acting out of love." He leaned down, just an inch, but it brought him close enough
so that she could feel his breath oh her skin. "And who can blame them?" he murmured.

Daphne's heart stopped.

Simon moved ever closer, until his nose rested on hers. "I love you, Daff," he whispered.

Her heart started again, with a vengeance. "You do?"

He nodded, his nose rubbing against hers. "I couldn't help it."

Her lips wobbled into a hesitant smile. "That's not terribly romantic."

"It's the truth," he said, with a helpless shrug. "You know better than anyone that I didn't want any of this. I didn't want a wife, I didn't want a family, and I definitely didn't want to fall in love." He brushed his mouth softly against hers, sending shivers down both of their bodies. "But what I found"—his lips touched hers again—"much to my dismay"—and again—"was that it's quite impossible not to love you."

Daphne melted into his arms. "Oh, Simon," she sighed.

His mouth captured hers, trying to show her with his kiss what he was still learning to express in words. He loved her.
He worshipped her. He'd walk across fire for her. He—still had the audience of her three brothers.

Slowly breaking the kiss, he turned his face to the side. Anthony, Benedict, and Colin were still standing in the foyer.
Anthony was studying the ceiling, Benedict was pretending to inspect his fingernails, and Colin was staring quite shamelessly.

Simon tightened his hold on Daphne, even as he shot a glare down the hall. "What the hell are the three of you still
doing in my house?"

Not surprisingly, none of them had a ready answer.

"Get out," Simon growled.

"Please." Daphne's tone didn't exactly suggest politeness.

"Right," Anthony replied, smacking Colin on the back of the head. "I believe our work here is done, boys."

Simon started steering Daphne toward the stairs. "I'm sure you can show yourselves out," he said over his shoulder.

Anthony nodded and nudged his brothers toward the door.

"Good," Simon said tersely. "We'll be going upstairs."

"Simon!" Daphne squealed.

"It's not as if they don't know what we're going to do," he whispered in her ear.

"But still—They're my brothers?"

"God help us," he muttered.

But before Simon and Daphne could even reach the landing, the front door burst open, followed by a stream of decidedly feminine invective.

"Mother?" Daphne said, the word croaking in her throat.

But Violet only had eyes for her sons. "I knew I'd find you here," she accused. "Of all the stupid, bull-headed—"

Daphne didn't hear the rest of her mother's speech. Simon was laughing too hard in her ear.

"He made her miserable!" Benedict protested. "As her brothers, it's our duty to—"

"Respect her intelligence enough to let her solve her own problems," Violet snapped. "And she doesn't look particularly unhappy right now."

"That's because—"

"And if you say that's because you lot barged into her home like a herd of mentally deficient sheep, I'm disowning all three of you."

All three men shut their mouths.

"Now then," Violet continued briskly, "I believe it's time we left, don't you?" When her sons didn't move quickly enough to suit her, she reached out and—

"Please, Mother!" Colin yelped. "Not the—"

She grabbed him by his ear.

"Ear," he finished glumly.

Daphne grabbed Simon's arm. He was laughing so hard now, she was afraid he'd tumble down the steps.

Violet herded her sons out the door with a loud, "March!" and then turned back to Simon and Daphne on the stairs.

"Glad to see you in London, Hastings," she called, gifting him with a wide, brilliant smile. "Another week and I would have dragged you here myself."

Then she stepped outside and shut the door behind her.

Simon turned to Daphne, his body still shaking with laughter. "Was that your mother?" he asked, smiling.

"She has hidden depths."

"Clearly."

Daphne's face grew serious. "I'm sorry if my brothers forced—"

"Nonsense," he said cutting her off. "Your brothers could never force me to say something I don't feel." He cocked his
head and pondered that for a moment. "Well, not without a pistol."

Daphne smacked him in the shoulder.

Simon ignored her and pulled her body against his. "I meant what I said," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I love you. I've known it for some time now, but—"

"It's all right," Daphne said, laying her cheek against his chest. "You don't need to explain."

"Yes, I do," he insisted. "I—" But the words wouldn't come. There was too much emotion inside, too many feelings rocking within him. "Let me show you," he said hoarsely. "Let me show you how much I love you."

Daphne answered by tilting her face up to receive his kiss. And as their lips touched, she sighed, "I love you, too."

Simon's mouth took hers with hungry devotion, his hands clutching at her back as if he were afraid she might disappear at any moment. "Come upstairs," he whispered. "Come with me now."

She nodded, but before she could take a step, he swept her into the cradle of his arms and carried her up the stairs.

By the time Simon reached the second floor, his body was rock hard and straining for release. "Which room have you
been using?" he gasped.

"Yours," she replied, sounding surprised that he'd even asked.

He grunted his approval and moved swiftly into his— no, their—room, kicking the door shut behind him. "I love you," he said as they tumbled onto the bed. Now that he'd said the words once, they were bursting within him, demanding a voice. He needed to tell her, make sure she knew, make sure she understood what she meant to him.

And if it took a thousand sayings, he didn't care.

"I love you," he said again, his fingers frantically working on the fastenings of her dress.

"I know," she said tremulously. She cupped his face in her hands and caught his eyes with hers. "I love you, too."

Then she pulled his mouth down to hers, kissing him with a sweet innocence that set him afire.

"If I ever, ever hurt you again," he said fervently, his mouth moving to the corner of hers, "I want you to kill me."

"Never," she answered, smiling.

His lips moved to the sensitive spot where her jaw met her earlobe. 'Then maim me," he murmured. 'Twist my arm,
sprain my ankle."

"Don't be silly," she said, touching his chin and turning his face back to hers. "You won't hurt me."

Love for this woman filled him. It flooded his chest, made his fingers tingle, and stole his very breath. "Sometimes," he whispered, "I love you so much it scares me. If I could give you the world, you know I would do it, don't you?"

"All I want is you," she whispered. "I don't need the world, just your love. And maybe," she added with a wry smile,
"for you to take off your boots."

Simon felt his face erupt into a grin. Somehow his wife always seemed to know exactly what he needed. Just when his
emotions were choking him, bringing him dangerously close to tears, she lightened the mood, made him smile. "Your wish is my command," he said, and rolled to her side to yank the offending footwear off.

One boot tumbled to the floor, the other skittered across the room.

"Anything else, your grace?" he asked.

She cocked her head coyly. "Your shirt could go, too, I suppose."

He complied, and the linen garment landed on the nightstand.

"Will that be all?"

"These," she said, hooking her finger around the waistband of his breeches, "are definitely in the way."

"I agree," he murmured, shrugging them off. He crawled over her, on his hands and knees, his body a hot prison around her. "Now what?"

Her breath caught. "Well, you're quite naked."

'That is true," he concurred, his eyes burning down on hers.

"And I'm not."

"That is also true." He smiled like a cat. "And a pity it is."

Daphne nodded, completely without words.

"Sit up," he said softly.

She did, and seconds later her dress was whipped over her head.

"Now that," he said hoarsely, staring hungrily at her breasts, "is an improvement."

They were now kneeling across from each other on the massive four-poster bed. Daphne stared at her husband, her pulse quickening at the sight of his broad chest, rising and falling with each heavy breath. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched him, her fingers lightly skimming over his warm skin.

Simon stopped breathing until her forefinger touched his nipple, and then his hand shot up to cover hers. "I want you," he said.

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