Bridgerton: The Duke and I (Bridgertons Book 1)
Bridgerton: The Duke and I: Chapter 18

Is This Author the only one who has noticed, or have the (gentle)men of the ton been imbibing more than usual these days?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 June 1813

Simon went out and got drunk. It wasn’t something he did often. It wasn’t even something he particularly enjoyed, but he did it anyway.

There were plenty of pubs down near the water, only a few miles from Clyvedon. And there were plenty of sailors there, too, looking for fights. Two of them found Simon.

He thrashed them both.

There was an anger in him, a fury that had simmered deep in his soul for years. It had finally found its way to the surface, and it had taken very little provocation to set him to fighting.

He was drunk enough by then so that when he punched, he saw not the sailors with their sun-reddened skin but his father. Every fist was slammed into that constant sneer of rejection. And it felt good. He’d never considered himself a particularly violent man, but damn, it felt good.

By the time Simon was through with the two sailors, no one else dared approach him. The local folk recognized strength, but more importantly they recognized rage. And they all knew that of the two, the latter was the more deadly.

Simon remained in the pub until the first lights of dawn streaked the sky. He drank steadily from the bottle he’d paid for, and then, when it was time to go, rose on unsteady legs, tucked the bottle into his pocket, and made his way back home.

He drank as he rode, the bad whiskey burning straight to his gut. And as he got drunker and drunker, only one thought managed to burst through his haze.

He wanted Daphne back.

She was his wife, damn her. He’d gotten used to having her around. She couldn’t just up and move out of their bedroom.

He’d get her back. He’d woo her and he’d win her, and—

Simon let out a loud, unattractive belch. Well, it was going to have to be enough to woo her and win her. He was far too intoxicated to think of anything else.

By the time he reached Castle Clyvedon, he had worked himself into a fine state of drunken self-righteousness. And by the time he stumbled up to Daphne’s door, he was making enough noise to raise the dead.

“Daphneeeeeeeeeeee!” he yelled, trying to hide the slight note of desperation in his voice. He didn’t need to sound pathetic.

He frowned thoughtfully. On the other hand, maybe if he sounded desperate, she’d be more likely to open the door. He sniffled loudly a few times, then yelled again, “Daphneeeeeeeee!”

When she didn’t respond in under two seconds, he leaned against the heavy door (mostly because his sense of balance was swimming in whiskey). “Oh, Daphne,” he sighed, his forehead coming to rest against the wood, “If you—”

The door opened and Simon went tumbling to the ground.

“Didja . . . didja hafta open it so . . . so fast?” he mumbled.

Daphne, who was still yanking on her dressing gown, looked at the human heap on the floor and just barely recognized it as her husband. “Good God, Simon,” she said, “What did you—” She leaned down to help him, then lurched back when he opened his mouth and breathed on her. “You’re drunk!” she accused.

He nodded solemnly. “’Fraid so.”

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

He blinked and looked at her as if he’d never heard such a stupid question. “Out getting foxed,” he replied, then burped.

“Simon, you should be in bed.”

He nodded again, this time with considerably more vigor and enthusiasm. “Yesh, yesh I should.” He tried to rise to his feet, but only made it as far as his knees before he tripped and fell back down onto the carpet. “Hmmm,” he said, peering down at the lower half of his body. “Hmmm, that’s strange.” He lifted his face back to Daphne’s and looked at her in utter confusion. “I could have sworn those were my legs.”

Daphne rolled her eyes.

Simon tried out his legs again, with the same results. “My limbs don’t sheem to be working properly,” he commented.

“Your brain isn’t working properly!” Daphne returned. “What am I to do with you?”

He looked her way and grinned. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” He frowned. “I don’t think you can take that back.”

Daphne let out a long sigh. She should be furious with him—blast it all, she was furious with him!—but it was difficult to maintain appropriate levels of anger when he looked so pathetic.

Besides, with three brothers, she’d had some experience with drunken nitwits. He was going to have to sleep it off, that’s all there was to it. He’d wake up with a blistering headache, which would probably serve him right, and then he would insist upon drinking some noxious concoction that he was absolutely positive would eliminate his hangover completely.

“Simon?” she asked patiently. “How drunk are you?”

He gave her a loopy grin. “Very.”

“I thought as much,” she muttered under her breath. She bent down and shoved her hands under his arms. “Up with you now, we’ve got to get you to bed.”

But he didn’t move, just sat there on his fanny and looked up at her with an extremely foolish expression. “Whydul need t’get up?” he slurred. “Can’t you sit wi’ me?” He threw his arms around her in a sloppy hug. “Come’n sit wi’ me, Daphne.”

“Simon!”

He patted the carpet next to him. “It’s nice down here.”

“Simon, no, I cannot sit with you,” she ground out, struggling out of his heavy embrace. “You have to go to bed.” She tried to move him again, with the same, dismal outcome. “Heavens above,” she said under her breath, “why did you have to go out and get so drunk?”

He wasn’t supposed to hear her words, but he must have done, because he cocked his head, and said, “I wanted you back.”

Her lips parted in shock. They both knew what he had to do to win her back, but Daphne thought he was far too intoxicated for her to conduct any kind of conversation on the topic. So she just tugged at his arm and said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Simon.”

He blinked several times in rapid succession. “Think it already is tomorrow.” He craned his neck this way and that, peering toward the windows. The curtains were drawn, but the light of the new day was already filtering through. “Iz day all right,” he mumbled. “See?” He waved his arm toward the window. “Tomorrow already.”

“Then we’ll talk about it in the evening,” she said, a touch desperately. She already felt as if her heart had been pushed through a windmill; she didn’t think she could bear any more just then. “Please, Simon, let’s just leave it be for now.”

“The thing is, Daphrey—” He shook his head in much the same manner a dog shakes off water. “DaphNe,” he said carefully. “DaphNe DaphNe.”

Daphne couldn’t quite stop a smile at that. “What, Simon?”

“The problem, y’see”—he scratched his head—“you just don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” she said softly.

“Why I can’t do it,” he said. He raised his face until it was level with hers, and she nearly flinched at the haunted misery in his eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Daff,” he said hoarsely. “You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I know that, Simon.”

“Good, because the thing is—” He drew a long breath that seemed to shake his entire body. “I can’t do what you want.”

She said nothing.

“All my life,” Simon said sadly, “all my life he won. Didjou know that? He always won. This time I get to win.” In a long, awkward movement he swung his arm in a horizontal arc and jabbed his thumb against his chest. “Me. I want to win for once.”

“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “You won long ago. The moment you exceeded his expectations you won. Every time you beat the odds, made a friend, or traveled to a new land you won. You did all the things he never wanted for you.” Her breath caught, and she gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You beat him. You won. Why can’t you see that?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to become what he wanted,” he said. “Even though—” He hiccuped. “Even though he never expected it of m-me, what he w-wanted was a perfect son, someone who’d be the perfect d-duke, who’d then m-marry the perfect duchess, and have p-perfect children.”

Daphne’s lower lip caught between her teeth. He was stuttering again. He must be truly upset. She felt her heart breaking for him, for the little boy who’d wanted nothing other than his father’s approval.

Simon cocked his head to the side and regarded her with a surprisingly steady gaze. “He would have approved of you.”

“Oh,” Daphne said, not sure how to interpret that.

“But”—he shrugged and gave her a secret, mischievous smile—“I married you anyway.”

He looked so earnest, so boyishly serious, that it was a hard battle not to throw her arms around him and attempt to comfort him. But no matter how deep his pain, or how wounded his soul, he was going about this all wrong. The best revenge against his father would simply be to live a full and happy life, to achieve all those heights and glories his father had been so determined to deny him.

Daphne swallowed a heavy sob of frustration. She didn’t see how he could possibly lead a happy life if all of his choices were based on thwarting the wishes of a dead man.

But she didn’t want to get into all of that just then. She was tired and he was drunk and this just wasn’t the right time. “Let’s get you to bed,” she finally said.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filling with an ages-old need for comfort. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

“Simon,” she choked out.

“Please don’t. He left. Everyone left. Then I left.” He squeezed her hand. “You stay.”

She nodded shakily and rose to her feet. “You can sleep it off in my bed,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“But you’ll stay with me?”

It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake, but still she said, “I’ll stay with you.”

“Good.” He wobbled himself upright. “Because I couldn’t—I really—” He sighed and turned anguished eyes to her. “I need you.”

She led him to her bed, nearly falling over with him when he tumbled onto the mattress. “Hold still,” she ordered, kneeling to pull off his boots. She’d done this for her brothers before, so she knew to grab the heel, not the toe, but they were a snug fit, and she went sprawling on the ground when his foot finally slipped out.

“Good gracious,” she muttered, getting up to repeat the aggravating procedure. “And they say women are slaves to fashion.”

Simon made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore.

“Are you asleep?” Daphne asked incredulously. She yanked at the other boot, which came off with a bit more ease, then lifted his legs—which felt like deadweights—up onto the bed.

He looked young and peaceful with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Daphne reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sleep well, my sweet,” she whispered.

But when she started to move, one of his arms shot out and wrapped around her. “You said you would stay,” he said accusingly.

“I thought you were asleep!”

“Doesn’t give you the right to break your promise.” He tugged her at her arm, and Daphne finally gave up resisting and settled down next to him. He was warm, and he was hers, and even if she had grave fears for their future, at that moment she couldn’t resist his gentle embrace.

Daphne awoke an hour or so later, surprised that she’d fallen asleep at all. Simon still lay next to her, snoring softly. They were both dressed, he in his whiskey-scented clothes, and she in her nightrobe.

Gently, she touched his cheek. “What am I to do with you?” she whispered. “I love you, you know. I love you, but I hate what you’re doing to yourself.” She drew a shaky breath. “And to me. I hate what you’re doing to me.”

He shifted sleepily, and for one horrified moment, she was afraid that he’d woken up. “Simon?” she whispered, then let out a relieved exhale when he didn’t answer. She knew she shouldn’t have spoken words aloud that she wasn’t quite ready for him to hear, but he’d looked so innocent against the snowy white pillows. It was far too easy to spill her innermost thoughts when he looked like that.

“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, closing her eyes against the tears that were pooling in her eyes. She should get up. She should absolutely positively get up now and leave him to his rest. She understood why he was so dead set against bringing a child into this world, but she hadn’t forgiven him, and she certainly didn’t agree with him. If he woke up with her still in his arms, he might think she was willing to settle for his version of a family.

Slowly, reluctantly, she tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around her, and his sleepy voice mumbled, “No.”

“Simon, I—”

He pulled her closer, and Daphne realized that he was thoroughly aroused.

“Simon?” she whispered, her eyes flying open. “Are you even awake?”

His response was another sleepy mumble, and he made no attempts at seduction, just snuggled her closer.

Daphne blinked in surprise. She hadn’t realized that a man could want a woman in his sleep.

She pulled her head back so she could see his face, then reached out and touched the line of his jaw. He let out a little groan. The sound was hoarse and deep, and it made her reckless. With slow, tantalizing fingers, she undid the buttons of his shirt, pausing just once to trace the outline of his navel.

He shifted restlessly, and Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him.

She could have whatever she wanted.

A quick glance at his face told her that he was still sleeping, and she quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.

“Daphne,” he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he let out a ragged groan. “Oh, God. That feels so damned good.”

“Shhhh,” she crooned, slipping out of her silken robe. “Let me do everything.”

He lay on his back, his hands fisted at his sides as she stroked him. He’d taught her much during their two short weeks of marriage, and soon he was squirming with desire, his breath coming in short pants.

And God help her, but she wanted him, too. She felt so powerful looming over him. She was in control, and that was the most stunning aphrodisiac she could imagine. She felt a fluttering in her stomach, then a strange sort of quickening, and she knew that she needed him.

She wanted him inside her, filling her, giving her everything a man was meant to give to a woman.

“Oh, Daphne,” he moaned, his head tossing from side to side. “I need you. I need you now.”

She moved atop him, pressing her hands against his shoulders as she straddled him. Using her hand, she guided him to her entrance, already wet with need.

Simon arched beneath her, and she slowly slid down his shaft, until he was almost fully within her.

“More,” he gasped. “Now.”

Daphne’s head fell back as she moved down that last inch. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as she gasped for breath. Then he was completely within her, and she thought she would die from the pleasure. Never had she felt so full, nor so completely a woman.

She keened as she moved above him, her body arching and writhing with delight. Her hands splayed flat against her stomach as she twisted and turned, then slid upward toward her breasts.

Simon let out a guttural moan as he watched her, his eyes glazing over as his breath came hot and heavy over his parted lips. “Oh, my God,” he said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “What are you doing to me? What have you—” Then she touched one of her nipples, and his entire body bucked upwards. “Where did you learn that?”

She looked down and gave him a bewildered smile. “I don’t know.”

“More,” he groaned. “I want to watch you.”

Daphne wasn’t entirely certain what to do, so she just let instinct take over. She ground her hips against his in a circular motion as she arched her back, causing her breasts to jut out proudly. She cupped both in her hands, squeezing them softly, rolling the nipples between her fingers, never once taking her eyes off Simon’s face.

His hips started to buck in a frantic, jerky motion, and he grasped desperately at the sheets with his large hands. And Daphne realized that he was almost there. He was always so careful to please her, to make certain that she reached her climax before he allowed himself the same privilege, but this time, he was going to explode first.

She was close, but not as close as he was.

“Oh, Christ!” he suddenly burst out, his voice harsh and primitive with need. “I’m going to—I can’t—” His eyes pinned upon her with a strange, pleading sort of look, and he made a feeble attempt to pull away.

Daphne bore down on him with all her might.

He exploded within her, the force of his climax lifting his hips off the bed, pushing her up along with him. She planted her hands underneath him, using all of her strength to hold him against her. She would not lose him this time. She would not lose this chance.

Simon’s eyes flew open as he came, as he realized too late what he had done. But his body was too far gone; there was no stopping the power of his climax. If he’d been on top, he might have found the strength to pull away, but lying there under her, watching her tease her own body into a mass of desire, he was helpless against the raging force of his own need.

As his teeth clenched and his body bucked, he felt her small hands slip underneath him, pressing him more tightly against the cradle of her womb. He saw the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, and then he suddenly realized—she had done this on purpose. She had planned this.

Daphne had aroused him in his sleep, taken advantage of him while he was still slightly intoxicated, and held him to her while he poured his seed into her.

His eyes widened and fixed on hers. “How could you?” he whispered.

She said nothing, but he saw her face change, and he knew she’d heard him.

Simon pushed her from his body just as he felt her begin to tighten around him, savagely denying her the ecstasy he’d just had for himself. “How could you?” he repeated. “You knew. You knew th-that that I-I-I—”

But she had just curled up in a little ball, her knees tucked against her chest, obviously determined not to lose a single drop of him.

Simon swore viciously as he yanked himself to his feet. He opened his mouth to pour invective over her, to castigate her for betraying him, for taking advantage of him, but his throat tightened, and his tongue swelled, and he couldn’t even begin a word, much less finish one.

“Y-y-you—” he finally managed.

Daphne stared at him in horror. “Simon?” she whispered.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her looking at him like he was some sort of freak. Oh God, oh God, he felt seven years old again. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make his mouth work. He was lost.

Daphne’s face filled with concern. Unwanted, pitying concern. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “Can you breathe?”

“D-d-d-d-d—” It was a far cry from don’t pity me, but it was all he could do. He could feel his father’s mocking presence, squeezing at his throat, choking his tongue.

“Simon?” Daphne said, hurrying to his side. Her voice grew panicked. “Simon, say something!”

She reached out to touch his arm, but he threw her off. “Don’t touch me!” he exploded.

She shrank back. “I guess there are still some things you can say,” she said in a small, sad voice.

Simon hated himself, hated the voice that had forsaken him, and hated his wife because she had the power to reduce his control to rubble. This complete loss of speech, this choking, strangling feeling—he had worked his entire life to escape it, and now she had brought it all back with a vengeance.

He couldn’t let her do this. He couldn’t let her make him like he’d once been.

He tried to say her name, couldn’t get anything out.

He had to leave. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t be with her. He didn’t even want to be with himself, but that, unfortunately, was beyond his meager control.

“D-don’t c-come n-near me,” he gasped, jabbing his finger at her as he yanked on his trousers. “Y-y-y-you did this!”

“Did what?” Daphne cried, pulling a sheet around her. “Simon, stop this. What did I do that was so wrong? You wanted me. You know you wanted me.”

“Th-th-this!” he burst out, pointing at his throat. Then he pointed toward her abdomen. “Th-th-that.”

Then, unable to bear the sight of her any longer, he stormed from the room.

If only he could escape himself with the same ease.

Ten hours later Daphne found the following note:

Pressing business at another of my estates requires my attention. I trust you will notify me if your attempts at conception were successful.

My steward will give you my direction, should you need it.

Simon

The single sheet of paper slipped from Daphne’s fingers and floated slowly to the floor. A harsh sob escaped her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if that might possibly stem the tide of emotion that was churning within her.

He’d left her. He’d actually left her. She’d known he was angry, known he might not even forgive her, but she hadn’t thought he would actually leave.

She’d thought—oh, even when he’d stormed out the door she’d thought that they might be able to resolve their differences, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Maybe she’d been too idealistic. She’d egotistically thought that she could heal him, make his heart whole. Now she realized that she’d imbued herself with far more power than she actually possessed. She’d thought her love was so good, so shining, so pure that Simon would immediately abandon the years of resentment and pain that had fueled his very existence.

How self-important she’d been. How stupid she felt now.

Some things were beyond her reach. In her sheltered life, she’d never realized that until now. She hadn’t expected the world to be handed to her upon a golden platter, but she’d always assumed that if she worked hard enough for something, treated everyone the way she would like to be treated, then she would be rewarded.

But not this time. Simon was beyond her reach.

The house seemed preternaturally quiet as Daphne made her way down to the yellow room. She wondered if all the servants had learned of her husband’s departure and were now studiously avoiding her. They had to have heard bits and pieces of the argument the night before.

Daphne sighed. Grief was even more difficult when one had a small army of onlookers.

Or invisible onlookers, as the case may be, she thought as she gave the bellpull a tug. She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there, whispering behind her back and pitying her.

Funny how she’d never given much thought to servants’ gossip before. But now—she plopped down on the sofa with a pained little moan—now she felt so wretchedly alone. What else was she supposed to think about?

“Your grace?”

Daphne looked up to see a young maid standing hesitantly in the doorway. She bobbed a little curtsy and gave Daphne an expectant look.

“Tea, please,” Daphne said quietly. “No biscuits, just tea.”

The young girl nodded and ran off.

As she waited for the maid to return, Daphne touched her abdomen, gazing down at herself with gentle reverence. Closing her eyes, she sent up a prayer. Please God please, she begged, let there be a child.

She might not get another chance.

She wasn’t ashamed of her actions. She supposed she should be, but she wasn’t.

She hadn’t planned it. She hadn’t looked at him while he was sleeping and thought—he’s probably still drunk. I can make love to him and capture his seed and he’ll never know.

It hadn’t happened that way.

Daphne wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but one moment she was above him, and the next she’d realized that he wasn’t going to withdraw in time, and she’d made certain he couldn’t . . .

Or maybe— She closed her eyes. Tight. Maybe it had happened the other way. Maybe she had taken advantage of more than the moment, maybe she had taken advantage of him.

She just didn’t know. It had all melted together. Simon’s stutter, her desperate wish for a baby, his hatred of his father—it had all swirled and mixed in her mind, and she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

And she felt so alone.

She heard a sound at the door and turned, expecting the timid young maid back with tea, but in her stead was Mrs. Colson. Her face was drawn and her eyes were concerned.

Daphne smiled wanly at the housekeeper. “I was expecting the maid,” she murmured.

“I had things to attend to in the next room, so I thought I’d bring the tea myself,” Mrs. Colson replied.

Daphne knew she was lying, but she nodded anyway.

“The maid said no biscuits,” Mrs. Colson added, “but I knew you’d skipped breakfast, so I put some on the tray, anyway.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Daphne didn’t recognize the timbre of her own voice. It sounded rather flat to her, almost as if it belonged to someone else.

“It was no trouble, I assure you.” The housekeeper looked as if she wanted to say more, but eventually she just straightened and asked, “Will that be all?”

Daphne nodded.

Mrs. Colson made her way to the door, and for one brief moment Daphne almost called out to her. She almost said her name, and asked her to sit with her, and share her tea. And she would have spilled her secrets and her shame, and then she would have spilled her tears.

And not because she was particularly close to the housekeeper, just because she had no one else.

But she didn’t call out, and Mrs. Colson left the room.

Daphne picked up a biscuit and bit into it. Maybe, she thought, it was time to go home.