The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(75)

"Well, not much," Daphne admitted. "It was rather annoying, actually, but she did explain to me that the marital act—"

"She called it an act?"

"Isn't that what everyone calls it?"

He waved off her question. "What else did she say?"

"She told me that the, ah, whatever it is you wish to call it—"

Simon found her sarcasm oddly admirable under the circumstances.

"—is related in some manner to the procreation of children, and—"

Simon thought he might choke on his tongue. "In some manner?"

"Well, yes." Daphne frowned. "She really didn't provide me with any specifics."

"Clearly."

"She did try her best," Daphne pointed out, thinking she ought at least to try to come to her mother's defense. "It was very embarrassing for her."

"After eight children," he muttered, "you'd think she'd be over that by now."

"I don't think so," Daphne said, shaking her head. "And then when I asked her if she'd participated in this"—she looked up at him with an exasperated expression. "I really don't know what else to call it but an act."

"Go right ahead," he said with a wave, his voice sounding awfully strained.





Daphne blinked with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Just fine," he choked.

"You don't sound fine."

He waved his hand some more, giving Daphne the odd impression that he couldn't speak.

"Well," she said slowly, going back to her earlier story, "I asked her if that meant she'd participated in this act eight times, and she became very embarrassed, and—"

"You asked her that?" Simon burst out, the words escaping his mouth like an explosion.

"Well, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "Are you laughing?"

"No," he gasped.

Her lips twisted into a small scowl. "You certainly look as if you're laughing."

Simon just shook his head in a decidedly frantic manner.

"Well," Daphne said, clearly disgruntled. "I thought my question made perfect sense, seeing as she has eight children. But then she told me that—"

He shook his head and held up a hand, and now he looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Don't tell me. I beg of you."

"Oh." Daphne didn't know what to say to that, so she just clamped her hands together in her lap and shut her mouth.

Finally, she heard Simon take a long, ragged breath, and say, "I know I'm going to regret asking you this. In fact, I regret it already, but why exactly did you assume I was"—he shuddered—

"unable to perform?"

"Well, you said you couldn't have children."

"Daphne, there are many, many other reasons why a couple might be unable to have children."

Daphne had to force herself to stop grinding her teem. "I really hate how stupid I feel right now," she muttered.

He leaned forward and pried her hands apart. "Daphne," he said softly, massaging her fingers with his, "do you have any idea what happens between a man and a woman?"

"I haven't a clue," she said frankly. "You'd think I would, with three older brothers, and I thought I'd finally learn the truth last night when my mother—"



"Don't say anything more," he said in the oddest voice. "Not another word. I couldn't bear it"

"But—"

His head fell into his hands, and for a moment Daphne thought he might be crying. But then, as she sat there castigating herself for making her husband weep on his wedding day, she realized that his shoulders were shaking with laughter.

The fiend.

"Are you laughing at me?" she growled.

He shook his head, not looking up.

"Then what are you laughing about?"

"Oh, Daphne," he gasped, "you have a lot to learn."

"Well, I never disputed that," she grumbled. Really, if people weren't so intent on keeping young women completely ignorant of the realities of marriage, scenes like this could be avoided.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes grew positively electric. "I can teach you," he whispered.

Daphne's stomach did a little flip.

Never once taking his eyes off of hers, Simon took her hand and raised it to her lips. "I assure you," he murmured, flicking his tongue down the line of her middle finger, "I am perfectly able to satisfy you in bed."

Daphne suddenly found it difficult to breathe. And when had the room grown so hot? "I-I'm not sure I know what you mean."

He yanked her into his arms. "You will."





Chapter 15


London seems terribly quiet this week, now that society's favorite duke and that duke's favorite duchess have departed for the country. This Author could report that Mr. Nigel Berbrooke was seen asking Miss Penelope Featherington to dance, or that Miss Penelope, despite her mother's gleeful urging and her eventual acceptance of his offer, did not seem terribly enamored with the notion .

But really, who wants to read about Mr. Berbrooke or Miss Penelope? Let us not fool ourselves. We are all still ravenously curious about the duke and duchess.