The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(89)

"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 footpounds 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.