To say that men can be bullheaded would be insulting to the bull.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 June 1813
In the end, Daphne did the only thing she knew how to do. The Bridgertons had always been a loud and boisterous family, not a one of them prone to keeping secrets or holding grudges.
So she tried to talk to Simon. To reason with him.
The following morning (she had no idea where he had spent the night; wherever it was, it hadn’t been their bed) she found him in his study. It was a dark, overbearingly masculine room, probably decorated by Simon’s father. Daphne was frankly surprised that Simon would feel comfortable in such surroundings; he hated reminders of the old duke.
But Simon, clearly, was not uncomfortable. He was sitting behind his desk, his feet insolently propped up on the leather blotter that protected the rich cherry wood of the desktop. In his hand he was holding a smoothly polished stone, turning it over and over in his hands. There was a bottle of whiskey on the desk next to him; she had a feeling it had been there all night.
He hadn’t, however, drunk much of it. Daphne was thankful for small favors.
The door was ajar, so she didn’t knock. But she wasn’t quite so brave as to stride boldly in. “Simon?” she asked, standing back near the door.
He looked up at her and quirked a brow.
“Are you busy?”
He set down the stone. “Obviously not.”
She motioned to it. “Is that from your travels?”
“The Caribbean. A memento of my time on the beach.”
Daphne noticed that he was speaking with perfect elocution. There was no hint of the stammer that had become apparent the night before. He was calm now. Almost annoyingly so. “Is the beach very different there than it is here?” she asked.
He raised an arrogant brow. “It’s warmer.”
“Oh. Well, I’d assumed as much.”
He looked at her with piercing, unwavering eyes. “Daphne, I know you didn’t seek me out to discuss the tropics.”
He was right, of course, but this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, and Daphne didn’t think she was so much of a coward for wanting to put it off by a few moments.
She took a deep breath. “We need to discuss what happened last night.”
“I’m sure you think we do.”
She fought the urge to lean forward and smack the bland expression from his face. “I don’t think we do. I know we do.”
He was silent for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry if you feel that I have betrayed—”
“It’s not that, exactly.”
“—but you must remember that I tried to avoid marrying you.”
“That’s certainly a nice way of putting it,” she muttered.
He spoke as if delivering a lecture. “You know that I had intended never to marry.”
“That’s not the point, Simon.”
“It’s exactly the point.” He dropped his feet to the floor, and his chair, which had been balancing on its two back legs, hit the ground with a loud thunk. “Why do you think I avoided marriage with such determination? It was because I didn’t want to take a wife and then hurt her by denying her children.”
“You were never thinking of your potential wife,” she shot back. “You were thinking of yourself.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but when that potential wife became you, Daphne, everything changed.”
“Obviously not,” she said bitterly.
He shrugged. “You know I hold you in the highest esteem. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You’re hurting me right now,” she whispered.
A flicker of remorse crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with steely determination. “If you recall, I refused to offer for you even when your brother demanded it. Even,” he added pointedly, “when it meant my own death.”
Daphne didn’t contradict him. They both knew he would have died on that dueling field. No matter what she thought of him now, how much she despised the hatred that was eating him up, Simon had too much honor ever to have shot at Anthony.
And Anthony placed too much value on his sister’s honor to have aimed anywhere but at Simon’s heart.
“I did that,” Simon said, “because I knew I could never be a good husband to you. I knew you wanted children. You’d told me so on a number of occasions, and I certainly don’t blame you. You come from a large and loving family.”
“You could have a family like that, too.”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Then, when you interrupted the duel, and begged me to marry you, I warned you. I told you I wouldn’t have children—”
“You told me you couldn’t have children,” she interrupted, her eyes flashing with anger. “There’s a very big difference.”
“Not,” Simon said coldly, “to me. I can’t have children. My soul won’t allow it.”
“I see.” Something shriveled inside Daphne at that moment, and she was very much afraid it was her heart. She didn’t know how she was meant to argue with such a statement. Simon’s hatred of his father was clearly far stronger than any love he might learn to feel for her.
“Very well,” she said in a clipped voice. “This is obviously not a subject upon which you are open to discussion.”
He gave her one curt nod.
She gave him one in return. “Good day, then.”
And she left.
Simon kept to himself for most of the day. He didn’t particularly want to see Daphne; that did nothing but make him feel guilty. Not, he assured himself, that he had anything to feel guilty about. He had told her before their marriage that he could not have children. He had given her every opportunity to back out, and she had chosen to marry him, anyway. He had not forced her into anything. It was not his fault if she had misinterpreted his words and thought that he was physically unable to sire brats.
Still, even though he was plagued by this nagging sense of guilt every time he thought of her (which pretty much meant all day), and even though his gut twisted every time he saw her stricken face in his mind (which pretty much meant he spent the day with an upset stomach), he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that everything was out in the open.
Secrets could be deadly, and now there were no more between them. Surely that had to be a good thing.
By the time night fell, he had almost convinced himself that he had done nothing wrong. Almost, but not quite. He had entered this marriage convinced that he would break Daphne’s heart, and that had never sat well with him. He liked Daphne. Hell, he probably liked her better than any human being he’d ever known, and that was why he’d been so reluctant to marry her. He hadn’t wanted to shatter her dreams. He hadn’t wanted to deprive her of the family she so desperately wanted. He’d been quite prepared to step aside and watch her marry someone else, someone who would give her a whole houseful of children.
Simon suddenly shuddered. The image of Daphne with another man was not nearly as tolerable as it had been just a month earlier.
Of course not, he thought, trying to use the rational side of his brain. She was his wife now. She was his.
Everything was different now.
He had known how desperately she had wanted children, and he had married her, knowing full well that he would not give her any.
But, he told himself, you warned her. She’d known exactly what she was getting into.
Simon, who had been sitting in his study, tossing that stupid rock back and forth between his hands since supper, suddenly straightened. He had not deceived her. Not truly. He had told her that they wouldn’t have children, and she had agreed to marry him, anyway. He could see where she would feel a bit upset upon learning his reasons, but she could not say that she had entered this marriage with any foolish hopes or expectations.
He stood. It was time they had another talk, this one at his behest. Daphne hadn’t attended dinner, leaving him to dine alone, the silence of the night broken only by the metallic clink of his fork against his plate. He hadn’t seen his wife since that morning; it was high time he did.
She was his wife, he reminded himself. He ought to be able to see her whenever he damn well pleased.
He marched down the hall and swung open the door to the duke’s bedroom, fully prepared to lecture her about something (the topic, he was sure, would come to him when necessary), but she wasn’t there.
Simon blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Where the hell was she? It was nearly midnight. She should be in bed.
The dressing room. She had to be in the dressing room. The silly chit insisted upon donning her nightrobe every night, even though Simon wiggled her out of it mere minutes later.
“Daphne?” he barked, crossing to the dressing-room door. “Daphne?”
No answer. And no light shining in the crack between the door and the floor. Surely she wouldn’t dress in the dark.
He pulled the door open. She most definitely wasn’t present.
Simon yanked on the bellpull. Hard. Then he strode out into the hall to await whichever servant was unfortunate enough to have answered his summons.
It was one of the upstairs maids, a little blond thing whose name he could not recall. She took one look at his face and blanched.
“Where is my wife?” he barked.
“Your wife, your grace?”
“Yes,” he said impatiently, “my wife.”
She stared at him blankly.
“I assume you know about whom I am speaking. She’s about your height, long dark hair . . .” Simon would have said more, but the maid’s terrified expression made him rather ashamed of his sarcasm. He let out a long, tense breath. “Do you know where she is?” he asked, his tone softer, although not what anyone would describe as gentle.
“Isn’t she in bed, your grace?”
Simon jerked his head toward his empty room. “Obviously not.”
“But that’s not where she sleeps, your grace.”
His eyebrows snapped together. “I beg your pardon.”
“Doesn’t she—” The maid’s eyes widened in horror, then shot frantically around the hall. Simon had no doubt that she was looking for an escape route. Either that or someone who might possibly save her from his thunderous temper.
“Spit it out,” he barked.
The maid’s voice was very small. “Doesn’t she inhabit the duchess’s bedchamber?”
“The duchess’s . . .” He pushed down an unfamiliar bolt of rage. “Since when?”
“Since today, I suppose, your grace. We had all assumed that you would occupy separate rooms at the end of your honeymoon.”
“You did, did you?” he growled.
The maid started to tremble. “Your parents did, your grace, and—”
“We are not my parents!” he roared.
The maid jumped back a step.
“And,” Simon added in a deadly voice, “I am not my father.”
“Of- of course, your grace.”
“Would you mind telling me which room my wife has chosen to designate as the duchess’s bedchamber?”
The maid pointed one shaking finger at a door down the hall.
“Thank you.” He took four steps away, then whirled around. “You are dismissed.” The servants would have plenty to gossip about on the morrow, what with Daphne moving out of their bedroom; he didn’t need to give them any more by allowing this maid to witness what was sure to be a colossal argument.
Simon waited until she had scurried down the stairs, then he moved on angry feet down the hall to Daphne’s new bedroom. He stopped outside her door, thought about what he’d say, realized he had no idea, and then went ahead and knocked.
No response.
He pounded.
No response.
He raised his fist to pound again, when it occurred to him that maybe she hadn’t even locked the door. Wouldn’t he feel like a fool if—
He twisted the knob.
She had locked it. Simon swore swiftly and fluently under his breath. Funny how he’d never once in his life stuttered on a curse.
“Daphne! Daphne!” His voice was somewhere between a call and a yell. “Daphne!”
Finally, he heard footsteps moving in her room. “Yes?” came her voice.
“Let me in.”
A beat of silence, and then, “No.”
Simon stared at the sturdy wooden door in shock. It had never occurred to him that she would disobey a direct order. She was his wife, damn it. Hadn’t she promised to obey him?
“Daphne,” he said angrily, “open this door this instant.”
She must have been very close to the door, because he actually heard her sigh before saying, “Simon, the only reason to let you into this room would be if I were planning to let you into my bed, which I’m not, so I would appreciate it—indeed I believe the entire household would appreciate it—if you would take yourself off and go to sleep.”
Simon’s mouth actually fell open. He began to mentally weigh the door and compute how many foot-pounds per second would be required to bash the bloody thing in.
“Daphne,” he said, his voice so calm it frightened even him, “if you do not open the door this instant I shall break it down.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He said nothing, just crossed his arms and glared, confident that she would know exactly what sort of expression he wore on his face.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Again, he decided that silence was the most effective answer.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she added in a vaguely pleading voice.
He stared at the door in disbelief.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” she added.
“Then open the damned door,” he ground out.
Silence, followed by a key slowly turning in the lock. Simon had just enough presence of mind not to throw the door violently open; Daphne was almost certainly directly on the other side. He shoved his way in and found her about five paces away from him, her arms crossed, her legs in a wide, militant stance.
“Don’t you ever lock a door against me again,” he spat out.
She shrugged. She actually shrugged! “I desired privacy.”
Simon advanced several steps. “I want your things moved back into our bedroom by morning. And you will be moving back tonight.”
“No.”
“What the hell do you mean, no?”
“What the hell do you think I mean?” she countered.
Simon wasn’t sure what shocked and angered him more—that she was defying him or that she was cursing aloud.
“No,” she continued in a louder voice, “means no.”
“You are my wife!” he roared. “You will sleep with me. In my bed.”
“No.”
“Daphne, I’m warning you . . .”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You have chosen to withhold something from me. Well, I have chosen to withhold something from you. Me.”
He was speechless. Utterly speechless.
She, however, was not. She marched to the door and motioned rather rudely for him to go through it. “Get out of my room.”
Simon started to shake with rage. “I own this room,” he growled. “I own you.”
“You own nothing but your father’s title,” she shot back. “You don’t even own yourself.”
A low roar filled his ears—the roar of red-hot fury. Simon staggered back a step, fearing that if he did not he might actually do something to hurt her. “What the hell do you m-mean?” he demanded.
She shrugged again, damn her. “You figure it out,” she said.
All of Simon’s good intentions fled the room, and he charged forward, grabbing her by her upper arms. He knew his grip was too tight, but he was helpless against the searing rage that flooded his veins. “Explain yourself,” he said—between his teeth because he couldn’t unclench his jaw. “Now.”
Her eyes met his with such a level, knowing gaze that he was nearly undone. “You are not your own man,” she said simply. “Your father is still ruling you from the grave.”
Simon shook with untold fury, with unspoken words.
“Your actions, your choices—” she continued, her eyes growing very sad, “They have nothing to do with you, with what you want, or what you need. Everything you do, Simon, every move you make, every word you speak—it’s all just to thwart him.” Her voice broke as she finished with, “And he’s not even alive.”
Simon moved forward with a strange, predatory grace. “Not every move,” he said in a low voice. “Not every word.”
Daphne backed up, unnerved by the feral expression in his eyes. “Simon?” she asked hesitantly, suddenly devoid of the courage and bravado that had enabled her to stand up to him, a man twice her size and possibly thrice her strength.
The tip of his index finger trailed down her upper arm. She was wearing a silk robe, but the heat and power of him burned through the fabric. He came closer, and one of his hands stole around her until it cupped her buttock and squeezed. “When I touch you like this,” he whispered, his voice perilously close to her ear, “it has nothing to do with him.”
Daphne shuddered, hating herself for wanting him. Hating him for making her want him.
“When my lips touch your ear,” he murmured, catching her lobe between his teeth, “it has nothing to do with him.”
She tried to push him away, but when her hands found his shoulders, all they could do was clutch.
He started to push her, slowly, inexorably, toward the bed. “And when I take you to bed,” he added, his words hot against the skin of her neck, “and we are skin to skin, it is just the two of—”
“No!” she cried out, shoving against him with all her might. He stumbled back, caught by surprise.
“When you take me to bed,” she choked out, “it is never just the two of us. Your father is always there.”
His fingers, which had crept up under the wide sleeve of her dressing gown, dug into her flesh. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. The icy anger in his pale blue eyes said everything.
“Can you look me in the eye,” she whispered, “and tell me that when you pull from my body and give yourself instead to the bed you’re thinking about me?”
His face was drawn and tight, and his eyes were focused on her mouth.
She shook her head and shook herself from his grasp, which had gone slack. “I didn’t think so,” she said in a small voice.
She moved away from him, but also away from the bed. She had no doubt that he could seduce her if he so chose. He could kiss her and caress her and bring her to dizzying heights of ecstasy, and she would hate him in the morning.
She would hate herself even more.
The room was deadly silent as they stood across from each other. Simon was standing with his arms at his sides, his face a heartbreaking mixture of shock and hurt and fury. But mostly, Daphne thought, her heart cracking a little as she met his eyes, he looked confused.
“I think,” she said softly, “that you had better leave.”
He looked up, his eyes haunted. “You’re my wife.”
She said nothing.
“Legally, I own you.”
Daphne just stared at him as she said, “That’s true.”
He closed the space between them in a heartbeat, his hands finding her shoulders. “I can make you want me,” he whispered.
“I know.”
His voice dropped even lower, hoarse and urgent. “And even if I couldn’t, you’re mine. You belong to me. I could force you to let me stay.”
Daphne felt about a hundred years old as she said, “You would never do that.”
And he knew she was right, so all he did was wrench himself away from her and storm out of the room.
