The Duke and I (32 page)

 "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 hersin 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 toactually
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 whenhe 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 ithadn'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.

 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."