The Duke and I (Bridgertons, #1)(94)

Daphne bore down on him with all her might.

He exploded within her, the force of his climax lifting his hips off the bed, pushing her up along with him. She planted her hands underneath him, using all of her strength to hold him against her. She would not lose him this time. She would not lose this chance.

Simon's eyes flew open as he came, as he realized too late what he had done. But his body was too far gone; there was no stopping the power of his climax. If he'd been on top, he might have found the strength to pull away, but lying there under her, watching her tease her own body into a mass of desire, he was helpless against the raging force of his own need.

As his teeth clenched and his body bucked, he felt her small hands slip underneath him, pressing him more tightly against the cradle of her womb. He saw the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, and then he suddenly realized—she had done this on purpose. She had planned this.

Daphne had aroused him in his sleep, taken advantage of him while he was still slightly

intoxicated, and held him to her while he poured his seed into her.



His eyes widened and fixed on hers. "How could you?" he whispered.

She said nothing, but he saw her face change, and he knew she'd heard him.

Simon pushed her from his body just as he felt her begin to tighten around him, savagely denying her the ecstasy he'd just had for himself. "How could you?" he repeated. "You knew.

You knew th-that that I-I-I—"

But she had just curled up in a little ball, her knees tucked against her chest, obviously determined not to lose a single drop of him.

Simon swore viciously as he yanked himself to his feet. He opened his mouth to pour invective over her, to castigate her for betraying him, for taking advantage of him, but his throat tightened, and his tongue swelled, and he couldn't even begin a word, much less finish one.

"Y-y-you—" he finally managed.

Daphne stared at him in horror. "Simon?" she whispered.

He didn't want this. He didn't want her looking at him like he was some sort of freak. Oh God, oh God, he felt seven years old again. He couldn't speak. He couldn't make his mouth work. He was lost.

Daphne's face filled with concern. Unwanted, pitying concern. "Are you all right?" she whispered. "Can you breathe?"

"D-d-d-d-d—" It was a far cry from don't pity me, but it was all he could do. He could feel his father's mocking presence, squeezing at his throat, choking his tongue.

"Simon?" Daphne said, hurrying to his side. Her voice grew panicked. "Simon, say something!"

She reached out to touch his arm, but he threw her off. "Don't touch me!" he exploded.

She shrank back. "I guess there are still some things you can say," she said in a small, sad voice.

Simon hated himself, hated the voice that had forsaken him, and hated his wife because she had the power to reduce his control to rubble. This complete loss of speech, this choking, strangling feeling—he had worked his entire life to escape it, and now she had brought it all back with a vengeance.

He couldn't let her do this. He couldn't let her make him like he'd once been.

He tried to say her name, couldn't get anything out.

He had to leave. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't be with her. He didn't even want to be with



himself, but that, unfortunately, was beyond his meager control.

"D-don't c-come n-near me," he gasped, jabbing his finger at her as he yanked on his trousers.

"Y-y-y-you did this!"

"Did what?" Daphne cried, pulling a sheet around her. "Simon, stop this. What did I do that was so wrong? You wanted me. You know you wanted me."

"Th-th-this!" he burst out, pointing at his throat. Then he pointed toward her abdomen. "Th-th-that."

Then, unable to bear the sight of her any longer, he stormed from the room. If only he could escape himself with the same ease.

Ten hours later Daphne found the following note:

Pressing business at another of my estates requires my attention . 1 trust you will notify me if your attempts at conception were successful .

My steward will give you my direction, should you need it .



Simon



The single sheet of paper slipped from Daphne's fingers and floated slowly to the floor. A harsh sob escaped her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if that might possibly stem the tide of emotion that was churning within her.

He'd left her. He'd actually left her. She'd known he was angry, known he might not even forgive her, but she hadn't thought he would actually leave.

She'd thought—oh, even when he'd stormed out the door she'd thought that they might be able to resolve their differences, but now she wasn't so sure.

Maybe she'd been too idealistic. She'd egotistically thought that she could heal him, make his heart whole. Now she realized that she'd imbued herself with far more power than she actually possessed. She'd thought her love was so good, so shining, so pure that Simon would

immediately abandon the years of resentment and pain that had fueled his very existence.

How self-important she'd been. How stupid she felt now.

Some things were beyond her reach. In her sheltered life, she'd never realized that until now.