The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(107)

She pulled on her robe, tying the silken sash around her waist. Where had Simon gone off to?

She didn't think he'd left the bed too long before she had; she had a sleepy memory of lying in his arms that somehow seemed too fresh.

The master suite consisted of five rooms altogether: two bedrooms, each with its own dressing room off to the side, connected by a large sitting room. The door to the sitting-room was ajar, and bright sunlight streamed through the aperture, suggesting that the curtains inside had been pulled open. Moving on deliberately quiet feet, Daphne walked to the open doorway and peered inside.

Simon was standing by the window, staring out over the city. He'd donned a lush burgundy dressing gown, but his feet were still bare. His pale blue eyes held a reflective look, unfocused and just the slightest bit bleak.

Daphne's brow wrinkled with concern. She crossed the room toward him, quietly saying, "Good afternoon," when she was but a foot away.

Simon turned at the sound of her voice, and his haggard face softened at the sight of her. "Good afternoon to you, too," he murmured, pulling her into his arms. Somehow she ended up with her back pressed up against his broad chest, gazing out over Grosvenor Square as Simon rested his chin on the top of her head.

It took Daphne several moments before she worked up the courage to ask, "Anyregrets?"

She couldn't see him, but she felt his chin rub against her scalp as he shook his head.





"No regrets," he said softly. "Just... thoughts."

Something about his voice didn't sound quite right, and so Daphne twisted in his arms until she could see his face. "Simon, what's wrong?" she whispered.

"Nothing." But his eyes didn't meet hers.

Daphne led him to a loveseat, and sat, tugging on his arm until he settled in beside her. "If you're not ready to be a father yet," she whispered, "that's all right."

"It's not that."

But she didn't believe him. He'd answered too quickly, and there'd been a choked sound to his voice that made her uneasy. "I don't mind waiting," she said. 'Truth be told," she added shyly, "I wouldn't mind having a little time just for the two of us."

Simon didn't say anything, but his eyes grew pained, and then he closed them as he brought his hand to his brow and rubbed.

A ripple of panic washed over Daphne, and she started talking faster. "It wasn't so much that I wanted a baby right away," she said. "I just... would like one eventually, that's all, and I think you might, too, if you let yourself consider it. I was upset because I hated that you were denying us a family just to spite your father. It's not—"

Simon laid a heavy hand on her thigh. "Daphne, stop," he said. "Please."

His voice held just enough agonized emotion to silence her immediately. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and chewed nervously. It was his turn to speak. There was obviously something big and difficult squeezing at his heart, and if it took all day for him to find the words to explain it, she could wait.

She could wait forever for this man.

"I can't say I'm excited about having a child," Simon said slowly.

Daphne noticed his breathing was slightly labored, and she placed her hand on his forearm to offer comfort.

He turned to her with eyes that pleaded for understanding. "I've spent so long intending never to have one, you see." He swallowed. "I d-don't know even how to begin to think about it."

Daphne offered him a reassuring smile that in retrospect, she realized was meant for both of them. "You'll learn," she whispered. "And I'll learn with you."

"I-it's not that," he said, shaking his head. He let out an impatient breath. "I don't... want... to live my life j-just to spite my father."



He turned to her, and Daphne was nearly undone by the sheer emotion burning on his face. His jaw was trembling, and a muscle worked frantically in his cheek. There was incredible tension in his neck, as if every ounce of his energy was devoted to the task of delivering this speech.

Daphne wanted to hold him, to comfort the little boy inside. She wanted to smooth his brow, and squeeze his hand. She wanted to do a thousand things, but instead she just held silent, encouraging him with her eyes to continue.

"You were right," he said, the words tumbling from his mouth. "All along, you've been right.

About my father. Th-that I was letting him win."

"Oh, Simon," she murmured.

"B-but what—" His face—his strong, handsome face, which was always so firm, always so in control—crumpled. "What if... if we have a child, a-a-and it comes out like me?"

For a moment Daphne couldn't speak. Her eyes tingled with unshed tears, and her hand moved unbidden to her mouth, covering lips that had parted in shock.

Simon turned away from her, but not before she saw the utter torment in his eyes. Not before she heard his breath catch, or the shaky exhale he finally expelled in an attempt to hold himself together.

"If we have a child who stutters," Daphne said carefully, "then I shall love him. And help him.

And—" She swallowed convulsively, praying that she was doing the right thing. "And I shall turn to you for advice, because obviously you have learned how to overcome it."