The Duke and I (34 page)

 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 ifunable 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 hismouth?

 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 itspath 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—"tastequite 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'remine."

 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 werewe?"

 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.

 In a moment he would turn to her and pull her into his arms. It was a ritual she'd come to cherish. He would hold her tightly against him, her back to his front, and nuzzle his face in her hair. And then, after their breathing had settled down to an even sigh, they would sleep.