The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(91)

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. "Whydu I 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."