The Duke and I (37 page)

 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 Mm, 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.

 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. "WhyduI 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. "DaphNeDaphNe."

 Daphne couldn't quite stop a smile at that. "What, Simon?"

 "The problem, y'see"—he scratched his head—"you just don'tunderstand."

 "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 hiccupped. "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."