The duke and I julia Quinn

you warned her.
She'd known exactly what she was getting into. 
Simon, who had been sitting in his study, tossing that stupid rock back and forth between his 
hands since supper, suddenly straightened. He had not deceived her. Not truly. He had told her 
that they wouldn't have children, and she had agreed to marry him, anyway. He could see where 
she would feel a bit upset upon learning his reasons, but she could not say that she had entered 
this marriage with any foolish hopes or expectations. 
He stood. It was time they had another talk, this one at his behest. Daphne hadn't attended 
dinner, leaving him to dine alone, the silence of the night broken only by the metallic clink of his 
fork against his plate. He hadn't seen his wife since that morning; it was high time he did. 
She was his 
wife,
he reminded himself. He ought to be able to see her whenever he damn well 
pleased. 
He marched down the hall and swung open the door to the duke's bedroom, fully prepared to 
lecture her about something (the topic, he was sure, would come to him when necessary), but she 
wasn't there. 
Simon blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Where the hell was she? It was nearly midnight. She 
should be in bed. 

---

The dressing room. She had to be in the dressing-room. The silly chit insisted upon donning her 
nightrobe every night, even though Simon wiggled her out of it mere minutes later. 
"Daphne?" he barked, crossing to the dressing room door. "Daphne?" 
No answer. And no light shining in the crack between the door and the floor. Surely she 
wouldn't dress in the dark. 
He pulled the door open. She most definitely wasn't present. 
Simon yanked on the bellpull. Hard. Then he strode out into the hall to await whichever servant 
was unfortunate enough to have answered his summons. 
It was one of the upstairs maids, a little blond thing whose name he could not recall. She took 
one look at his face and blanched. 
"Where is my wife?" he barked. 
"Your wife, your grace?" 
"Yes," he said impatiently, "my wife." 
She stared at him blankly. 
"I assume you know about whom I am speaking. She's about your height, long dark hair..." 
Simon would have said more, but the maid's terrified expression made him rather ashamed of his 
sarcasm. He let out a long, tense breath. "Do you know where she is?" he asked, his tone softer, 
although not what anyone would describe as gentle. 
"Isn't she in bed, your grace?" 
Simon jerked his head toward his empty room. "Obviously not." 
"But that's not where she sleeps, your grace." 
His eyebrows snapped together. "I beg your pardon." 
"Doesn't she—" The maid's eyes widened in horror, then shot frantically around the hall. Simon 
had no doubt that she was looking for an escape route. Either that or someone who might 
possibly save her from his thunderous temper. 
"Spit it out," he barked. 
The maid's voice was very small. "Doesn't she inhabit the duchess's bedchamber?" 
"The duchess's..." He pushed down an unfamiliar bolt of rage. "Since when?" 

---

"Since today, I suppose, your grace. We had all assumed that you would occupy separate rooms 
at the end of your honeymoon." 
"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. 
"Now." 
Her eyes met his with such a level, knowing gaze that he was nearly undone. "You are not your 

---

own man," she said simply. "Your father is still ruling you from the grave." 
Simon shook with untold fury, with unspoken words. 
"Your actions, your choices—" she continued, her eyes growing very sad, "They have nothing to 
do with you, with what you want, or what you need. Everything you do, Simon, every move you 
make, every word you speak—it's all just to thwart him." Her voice broke as she finished with, 
"And he's not even 
alive.
" 
Simon moved forward with a strange, predatory grace. "Not every move," he said in a low 
voice. "Not every word." 
Daphne backed up, unnerved by the feral expression in his eyes. "Simon?" she asked hesitantly, 
suddenly devoid of the courage and bravado that had enabled her to stand up to him, a man twice 
her size and possibly thrice her strength. 
The tip of his index finger trailed down her upper arm. She was wearing a silk robe, but the heat 
and power of him burned through the fabric. He came closer, and one of his hands stole around 
her until it cupped her buttock and squeezed. "When I touch you like this," he whispered, his 
voice perilously close to her ear, "it has nothing to do with him." 
Daphne shuddered, hating herself for wanting him. Hating him for making her want him. 
"When my lips touch your ear," he murmured, catching her lobe between his teeth, "it has 
nothing to do with him." 
She tried to push him away, but when her hands found his shoulders, all they could do was 
clutch. 
He started to push her, slowly, inexorably, toward the bed. "And when I take you to bed," he 
added, his words hot against the skin of her neck, "and we are skin to skin, it is just the two of—" 
"No!" she cried out, shoving against him with all her might. He stumbled back, caught by 
surprise. 
"When you take me to bed," she choked out, "it is never just the two of us. Your father is 
always
there." 
His fingers, which had crept up under the wide sleeve of her dressing gown, dug into her flesh. 
He said nothing, but he didn't have to. The icy anger in his pale blue eyes said everything. 
"Can you look me in the eye," she whispered, "and tell me that when you pull from my body and 
give yourself instead to the bed you're thinking about 
me?
" 
His face was drawn and tight, and his eyes were focused on her mouth. 

---

She shook her head and shook herself from his grasp, which had gone slack. "I didn't think so," 
she said in a small voice. 
She moved away from Mm, but also away from the bed. She had no doubt that he could seduce 
her if he so chose. He could kiss her and caress her and bring her to dizzying heights of ecstasy, 
and she would hate him in the morning. 
She would hate herself even more. 
The room was deadly silent as they stood across from each other. Simon was standing with his 
arms at his sides, his face a heartbreaking mixture of shock and hurt and fury. But mostly, 
Daphne thought, her heart cracking a little as she met his eyes, he looked confused. 
"I think," she said softly, "that you had better leave." 
He looked up, his eyes haunted. "You're my wife." 
She said nothing. 
"Legally, I own you." 
Daphne just stared at him as she said, "That's true." 
He closed the space between them in a heartbeat, his hands finding her shoulders. "I can make 
you want me," he whispered. 
"I know." 
His voice dropped even lower, hoarse and urgent. "And even if I couldn't, you're mine. You 
belong to me. I could force you to let me stay." 
Daphne felt about a hundred years old as she said, "You would never do that." 
And he knew she was right, so all he did was wrench himself away from her and storm out of 
the room. 

---

Chapter 18 
Is This Author the only one who has noticed, or have the (gentle)men of the ton 
been imbibing more than usual these days? 
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 4 June 1813 
Simon went out and got drunk. It wasn't something he did often. It wasn't even something he