Chapter 8 21 страница

Her eyes flicked downward, and her lips curved ever so slightly. "I know."

"No," he groaned, pulling her closer. "I want to be in your heart. I want—" His entire body shuddered when their skin
touched. "I want to be in your soul."

"Oh, Simon," she sighed, sinking her fingers in his thick, dark hair. "You're already there."

And then there were no more words, only lips and hands and flesh against flesh.

Simon worshipped her in every way he knew how. He ran his hands along her legs and kissed the back of her knees. He squeezed her hips and tickled her navel. And when he was poised to enter her, his entire body straining against the most all-consuming desire he'd ever felt, he gazed down upon her with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes.

"I love you," he whispered. "In all my life, it's been only you."

Daphne nodded and although she made no sound, her mouth formed the words, "I love you, too."

He pushed forward, slowly, inexorably. And when he was settled fully within her body, he knew he was home.

He looked down at her face. Her head was thrown back, her lips parted as she struggled for breath. He grazed her flushed cheeks with his lips. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he whispered. "I've never—I don't know how—"

She arched her back in response. "Just love me," she gasped. "Please, love me."

Simon began to move, his hips rising and falling in time's most ancient rhythm. Daphne's fingers pressed into his back, her nails digging into his skin every time he thrust further into her body.

She moaned and mewled, and his body burned at the sounds of her passion. He was spiralling out of control, his movements growing jerky, more frenetic. "I can't hold on much longer," he gasped. He wanted to wait for her, needed to know that he'd brought her bliss before he allowed himself his own release.

But then, just when he thought his body would shatter from the effort of his restraint, Daphne shook beneath him, her most intimate muscles squeezing around him as she cried out his name.

Simon's breath stopped in his throat as he watched her face. He'd always been so busy making sure he didn't spill his seed inside of her that he'd never seen her face as she climaxed. Her head was thrown back, the elegant lines of her throat straining as her mouth opened in a silent scream.

He was awestruck.

"I love you," he said. "Oh, God, how I love you." Then he plunged deeper.

Daphne's eyes fluttered open as he resumed his rhythm. "Simon?" she asked, her voice tinged with touch of urgency.
"Are you sure?"

They both knew what she meant.

Simon nodded.

"I don't want you to do this just for me," she said. "It has to be for you, too."

The strangest lump formed in his throat—it was nothing like his stutters, nothing like his stammers. It was, he realized,
nothing but love. Tears stabbed at his eyes, and he nodded, utterly unable to speak.

He plunged forward, exploding within her. It felt good. Oh God, it felt good. Nothing in life had ever felt that good before.

His arms finally gave out, and he collapsed atop her, the only sound in the room the rasp of his ragged breathing.

And then Daphne smoothed his hair from his forehead and kissed his brow. "I love you," she whispered. "I will always
love you."

Simon buried his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her. She surrounded him, enveloped him, and he was complete.

* * *

Many hours later, Daphne's eyelids fluttered open. She stretched her arms above her as she noticed that the curtains had all been pulled shut. Simon must have done that, she thought with a yawn. Light filtered around the edges, bathing the room with a soft glow.

She twisted her neck, working the kinks out, then slid out of bed and padded to the dressing room to fetch her robe. How unlike her to sleep in the middle of the day. But, she supposed, this hadn't been an ordinary day.

She pulled on her robe, tying the silken sash around her waist. Where had Simon gone off to? She didn't think he'd left the bed too long before she had; she had a sleepy memory of lying in his arms that somehow seemed too fresh.

The master suite consisted of five rooms altogether: two bedrooms, each with its own dressing room off to the side,
connected by a large sitting room. The door to the sitting-room was ajar, and bright sunlight streamed through the aperture, suggesting that the curtains inside had been pulled open. Moving on deliberately quiet feet, Daphne walked to the open doorway and peered inside.

Simon was standing by the window, staring out over the city. He'd donned a lush burgundy dressing gown, but his feet were still bare. His pale blue eyes held a reflective look, unfocused and just the slightest bit bleak.

Daphne's brow wrinkled with concern. She crossed the room toward him, quietly saying, "Good afternoon," when she was but a foot away.

Simon turned at the sound of her voice, and his haggard face softened at the sight of her. "Good afternoon to you, too," he murmured, pulling her into his arms. Somehow she ended up with her back pressed up against his broad chest, gazing out over Grosvenor Square as Simon rested his chin on the top of her head.

It took Daphne several moments before she worked up the courage to ask, "Any regrets?"

She couldn't see him, but she felt his chin rub against her scalp as he shook his head.

"No regrets," he said softly. "Just... thoughts."

Something about his voice didn't sound quite right, and so Daphne twisted in his arms until she could see his face.
"Simon, what's wrong?" she whispered.

"Nothing." But his eyes didn't meet hers.

Daphne led him to a loveseat, and sat, tugging on his arm until he settled in beside her. "If you're not ready to be a father yet," she whispered, "that's all right."

"It's not that."

But she didn't believe him. He'd answered too quickly, and there'd been a choked sound to his voice that made her uneasy. "I don't mind waiting," she said. 'Truth be told," she added shyly, "I wouldn't mind having a little time just for the two of us."

Simon didn't say anything, but his eyes grew pained, and then he closed them as he brought his hand to his brow and rubbed.

A ripple of panic washed over Daphne, and she started talking faster. "It wasn't so much that I wanted a baby right away," she said. "I just... would like one eventually, that's all, and I think you might, too, if you let yourself consider it. I was upset because I hated that you were denying us a family just to spite your father. It's not—"

Simon laid a heavy hand on her thigh. "Daphne, stop," he said. "Please."

His voice held just enough agonized emotion to silence her immediately. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and chewed nervously. It was his turn to speak. There was obviously something big and difficult squeezing at his heart, and if it took all day for him to find the words to explain it, she could wait.

She could wait forever for this man.

"I can't say I'm excited about having a child," Simon said slowly.

Daphne noticed his breathing was slightly labored, and she placed her hand on his forearm to offer comfort.

He turned to her with eyes that pleaded for understanding. "I've spent so long intending never to have one, you see."
He swallowed. "I d-don't know even how to begin to think about it."

Daphne offered him a reassuring smile that in retrospect, she realized was meant for both of them. "You'll learn," she
whispered. "And I'll learn with you."

"I-it's not that," he said, shaking his head. He let out an impatient breath. "I don't... want... to live my life j-just to spite my father."

He turned to her, and Daphne was nearly undone by the sheer emotion burning on his face. His jaw was trembling, and a muscle worked frantically in his cheek. There was incredible tension in his neck, as if every ounce of his energy was
devoted to the task of delivering this speech.

Daphne wanted to hold him, to comfort the little boy inside. She wanted to smooth his brow, and squeeze his hand. She wanted to do a thousand things, but instead she just held silent, encouraging him with her eyes to continue.

"You were right," he said, the words tumbling from his mouth. "All along, you've been right. About my father. Th-that I was letting him win."

"Oh, Simon," she murmured.

"B-but what—" His face—his strong, handsome face, which was always so firm, always so in control—crumpled.
"What if... if we have a child, a-a-and it comes out like me?"

For a moment Daphne couldn't speak. Her eyes tingled with unshed tears, and her hand moved unbidden to her mouth, covering lips that had parted in shock.

Simon turned away from her, but not before she saw the utter torment in his eyes. Not before she heard his breath catch, or the shaky exhale he finally expelled in an attempt to hold himself together.

"If we have a child who stutters," Daphne said carefully, "then I shall love him. And help him. And—" She swallowed convulsively, praying that she was doing the right thing. "And I shall turn to you for advice, because obviously you have learned how to overcome it."

He turned to face her with surprising swiftness. "I don't want my child to suffer as I have suffered."

A strange little smile moved across Daphne's face without her even realizing it, as if her body had realized before her mind that she knew exactly what to say. "But he wouldn't suffer," she said, "because you'll be his father."

Simon's face did not change expression, but his eyes shone with an odd, new, almost hopeful light.

"Would you reject a child who stuttered?" Daphne asked quietly.

Simon's negative reply was strong, swift, and accompanied by just a touch of blasphemy.

She smiled softly. "Then I have no fears for our children."

Simon held still for one moment more, and then in a rush of movement pulled her into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I love you," he choked out. "I love you so much."

And Daphne was finally certain that everything was going to be all right.

* * *

Several hours later, Daphne and Simon were still sitting on the love seat in the sitting room. It had been an afternoon for holding hands, for resting one's head on the other's shoulder. Words hadn't been necessary; for both it had been enough simply to be next to the other. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and they were together.

It was all they needed.

But something was niggling at the back of Daphne's brain, and it wasn't until her eyes fell on a writing set on the desk that she remembered.

The letters from Simon's father.

She closed her eyes and exhaled, summoning the courage she knew she'd need to hand them over to Simon. The Duke of Middlethorpe had told her, when he'd asked her to take the packet of letters, that she'd know when the time was right to give them to him.

She disentangled herself from Simon's heavy arms and padded over to the duchess's chamber.

"Where are you going?" Simon asked sleepily. He'd been dozing in the warm afternoon sun.

"I—I have to get something."

He must have heard the hesitation in her voice, because he opened his eyes and craned his body around to look at her.
"What are you getting?" he asked curiously.

Daphne avoided answering his question by scurrying into the next room. "I'll just be a moment," she called out.

She'd kept the letters, tied together by a red-and-gold ribbon—the ancestral colors of Hastings—in the bottom drawer
of her desk. She'd actually forgotten about them for her first few weeks back in London, and they'd lain untouched in her old bedroom at Bridgerton House. But she'd stumbled across them on a visit to see her mother. Violet had suggested she go upstairs to gather a few of her things, and while Daphne was collecting old perfume bottles and the pillowcase she'd stitched at age ten, she found them again.

Many a time she'd been tempted to open one up, if only to better understand her husband. And truth be told, if the envelopes hadn't been closed with sealing wax, she probably would have tossed her scruples over her shoulder and read them.

She picked up the bundle and walked slowly back to the sitting room. Simon was still on the couch, but he was up and
alert, and watching her curiously.

"These are for you," she said, holding up the bundle as she walked to his side.

"What are they?" he asked.

But from the tone of his voice, she was fairly certain he already knew.

"Letters from your father," she said. "Middlethorpe gave them to me. Do you remember?"

He nodded. "I also remember giving him orders to burn them."

Daphne smiled weakly. "He apparently disagreed."

Simon stared at the bundle. Anywhere but at her face. "And so, apparently, did you," he said in a very quiet voice.

She nodded and sat next to him. "Do you want to read them?"

Simon thought about his answer for several seconds and finally settled on complete honesty. "I don't know."

"It might help you to finally put him behind you."

"Or it might make it worse."

"It might," she agreed.

He stared at the letters, bundled up by a ribbon, resting innocently in her hands. He expected to feel animosity. He
expected to feel rage. But instead, all he felt was...

Nothing.

It was the strangest sensation. There before him was a collection of letters, all written in his father's hand. And yet he
felt no urge to toss them in the fire, or tear them to bits.

And at the same time no urge to read them.

"I think I'll wait," Simon said with a smile.

Daphne blinked several times, as if her eyes could not believe her ears. "You don't want to read them?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"And you don't want to burn them?"

He shrugged. "Not particularly."

She looked down at the letters, then back at his face. "What do you want to do with them?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He grinned. "That's what I said."

"Oh." She looked quite adorably befuddled. "Do you want me to put them back in my desk?"

"If you like."

"And they'll just sit there?"

He caught hold of the sash on her dressing robe and starting pulling her toward him. "Mmm-hmm."

"But—" she spluttered. "But—but—"

"One more 'but,' " he teased, "and you're going to start to sound like me."

Daphne's mouth fell open. Simon wasn't surprised by her reaction. It was the first time in his life he'd ever been able to
make a joke out of his difficulties.

"The letters can wait," he said, just as they fell off her lap onto the floor. "I've just finally managed— thanks to you—to
boot my father from my life." He shook his head, smiling as he did so. "Reading those now would just invite him back in."

"But don't you want to see what he had to say?" she persisted. "Maybe he apologized. Maybe he even groveled at your
feet!" She bent down for the bundle, but Simon pulled her tightly against him so she couldn't reach.

"Simon!" she yelped.

He arched one brow. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to seduce you. Am I succeeding?"

Her face colored. "Probably," she mumbled.

"Only probably? Damn. I must be losing my touch."

His hand slid under her bottom, which prompted a little squeal. "I think your touch is just fine," she said hastily.

"Only fine?" He pretended to wince. " 'Fine' is so pale a word, don't you think? Almost wan."

"Well," she allowed, "I might have misspoken."

Simon felt a smile forming in his heart. By the time it spread to his lips, he was on his feet, and tugging his wife in the
general direction of his four-poster bed.

"Daphne," he said, trying to sound businesslike, "I have a proposition."

"A proposition?" she queried, raising her brows.

"A request," he amended. "I have a request."

She cocked her head and smiled. "What kind of request?"

He nudged her through the doorway and into the bedroom. "It's actually a request in two parts."

"How intriguing."

"The first part involves you, me, and"—he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed amidst a fit of giggles—
"this sturdy antique of a bed."

"Sturdy?"

He growled as he crawled up beside her. "It had better be sturdy."

She laughed and squealed as she scooted out of his grasp. "I think it's sturdy. What's the second part of your request?"

'That, I'm afraid involves a certain commitment of time on your part."

Her eyes narrowed, but she was still smiling. "What sort of commitment of time?"

In one stunningly swift move, he pinned her to the mattress. "About nine months."

Her lips softened with surprise. "Are you sure?"

"That it takes nine months?" He grinned. "That's what I've always been told."

But the levity had left her eyes. "You know that's not what I mean," she said softly.

"I know," he replied, meeting her serious gaze with one of his own. "But yes, I'm sure. And I'm scared to death.
And thrilled to the marrow. And a hundred other emotions I never let myself feel before you came along."

Tears pricked her eyes. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"It's the truth," he vowed. "Before I met you I was only half-alive."

"And now?" she whispered.

"And now?" he echoed. " 'Now' suddenly means happiness, and joy, and a wife I adore. But do you know what?"

She shook her head, too overcome to speak.

He leaned down and kissed her. "'Now' doesn't even compare to tomorrow. And tomorrow couldn't possibly compete
with the next day. As perfect as I feel this very moment, tomorrow is going to be even better. Ah, Daff," he murmured,
moving his. lips to hers, "every day I'm going to love you more. I promise you that. Every day ..."

Epilogue

It's a boy for the Duke and Duchess of Hastings!

After three girls, society's most besotted couple has finally produced an heir. This Author can only imagine the level of relief in the Hastings household; after all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an heir.

The name of the new babe has yet to be made public, although This Author feels herself uniquely qualified
to speculate. After all, with sisters named Amelia, Belinda, and Caroline, could the new Earl Clyvedon be
called anything but David?

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 15 December 1817

Simon threw up his arms in amazement, the single-sheet newspaper flying across the room. "How does she know this?"
he demanded. "We've told no one of our decision to name him David."

Daphne tried not to smile as she watched her husband sputter and storm about the room. "It's just a lucky guess, I'm sure," she said, turning her attention back to the newborn in her arms. It was far too early to know if his eyes would remain blue or turn brown like his older sisters', but already he looked so like his father; Daphne couldn't imagine that his eyes would spoil the effect by darkening.

"She must have a spy in our household," he said, planting his hands on his hips. "She must."

"I'm sure she doesn't have a spy in our household," Daphne said without looking up at him. She was too interested in
the way David's tiny hand was gripping her finger.

"But—"

Daphne finally lifted her head. "Simon, you're being ridiculous. It's just a gossip column."

"Whistledown—ha!" he grumbled. "I've never heard of any Whistledowns. I'd like to know who this blasted woman is."

"You and the rest of London," Daphne said under her breath.

"Someone should put her out of business once and for all."

"If you wish to put her out of business," Daphne could not resist pointing out, "you shouldn't support her by buying her newspaper."

"And don't even try to say that you buy Whistledown for me."

"You read it," Simon muttered.

"And so do you." Daphne dropped a kiss on the top of David's head. "Usually well before I can get my hands on it. Besides, I'm rather fond of Lady Whistledown these days."

Simon looked suspicious. "Why?"

"Did you read what she wrote about us? She called us London's most besotted couple." Daphne smiled wickedly.
"I rather like that."

Simon groaned. "That's only because Philipa Featherington—"

"She's Philipa Berbrooke now," Daphne reminded him.

"Well, whatever her name, she has the bloodiest big mouth in London, and ever since she heard me calling you
'Dear Heart' at the theater last month, I have not been able to show my face at my clubs."

"Is it so very unfashionable to love one's wife, then?" Daphne teased.

Simon pulled a face, looking rather like a disgruntled young boy.

"Never mind," Daphne said. "I don't want to hear your answer."

Simon's smile was an endearing cross between sheepish and sly.

"Here," she said, holding David up. "Do you want to hold him?"

"Of course." Simon crossed the room and took the baby into his arms. He cuddled him for several moments, then
glanced over at Daphne and grinned. "I think he looks like me."

"I know he does."

Simon kissed him on the nose, and whispered, "Don't you worry, my little man. I shall love you always. I'll teach you
your letters and your numbers, and how to sit on a horse. And I shall protect you from all the awful people in this world, especially that Whistledown woman..."

* * *

And in a small, elegantly furnished chamber, not so very far from Hastings House, a young woman sat at her desk with
quill and a pot of ink and pulled out a piece of paper.

With a smile on her face, she set her quill to paper and wrote:

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

19 December 1817

Ah Gentle Reader, This Author is pleased to report...

JULIA QUINN learned to read before she learned to talk, and her family is still trying to figure out if that explains A) why she reads so fast B) why she talks so much or C) both. In addition to writing romances, she practices yoga, grows terrifyingly huge zucchinis, and tries to think up really good reasons why housework is dangerous to her health.

The author of eight novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives in Colorado with her husband Paul and two pet rabbits.

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