“Truly," he said, surprised by how gruff his voice sounded. "Although honor is most likely only
the half of it."
She said nothing, but her eyes were enchantingly curious.
"I might have to kill the next man who so much as looks at you sideways," he grumbled.
To his great surprise, she burst out laughing. "Oh, Simon," she gasped, "it is so perfectly
splendidly
wonderful
to be the object of such irrational jealousy. Thank you."
"You'll thank me later," he vowed.
"And perhaps," she murmured, her dark eyes suddenly far more seductive than they had any
right to be, "you'll thank me as well."
Simon felt her thighs slide apart as he
settled his body against hers, his manhood hot against her
belly. "I already do," he said, his words melting into her skin as he kissed the hollow of her
shoulder. "Believe me, I already do."
Never had he been so thankful for the hard-won control he had learned to exert over himself.
His entire body ached to plunge into her and finally make her his in truth, but he knew that this
night—their wedding night— was for Daphne, not for him.
This was her first time. He was her first lover—her
only
lover, he thought with uncharacteristic
savagery— and it was his responsibility to make certain that this night brought her nothing but
exquisite pleasure.
He knew she wanted him. Her breath was erratic, her eyes glazed with need. He could hardly
bear
to look at her face, for every time he saw her lips, half-open and panting with desire, the
urge to slam into her nearly overwhelmed him.
So instead he kissed her. He kissed her everywhere, and ignored the fierce pounding of his
blood every time he heard her gasp or mewl with desire. And then finally, when she was
writhing and moaning beneath him, and he knew she was mad for him, he slipped his hand
between her legs and touched her.
The only sound
he could make was her name, and even that came out as a half-groan. She was
more than ready for him, hotter and wetter than he'd ever dreamed. But still, just to be sure—or
maybe it was because he couldn't resist the perverse impulse to torture himself— he slid one
long finger inside her, testing her warmth, tickling her sheath.
"Simon!" she gasped, bucking beneath him. Already her muscles were tightening, and he knew
that she was nearly to completion. Abruptly, he removed his hand, ignoring her whimper of
protest.
He used his thighs to nudge hers further apart, and with a shuddering groan,
positioned himself
to enter her. "This m-may hurt a little," he whispered hoarsely, "but I p-promise you—"
"Just
do
it," she groaned, her head tossing wildly from side to side.
And so he did. With one powerful thrust, he entered her fully. He felt her maidenhead give way,
but she didn't seem to flinch from pain. "Are you all right?" he groaned, his every muscle tensing
just to keep himself from moving within her.
She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "It feels very odd," she admitted.
"But not bad?" he asked, almost ashamed by the desperate note in his voice.
She shook her head, a tiny, feminine smile touching her lips. "Not bad at all," she whispered.
"But before...when you...with your fingers..."
Even in the dull candlelight he could see that her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Is this
what you want?" he whispered, pulling out until he was only halfway within her.
"No!" she cried out.
"Then perhaps
this
is what you want." He plunged back in.
She gasped. "Yes. No. Both."
He began to move within her, his rhythm deliberately slow and even.
With each thrust, he
pushed a gasp from her lips, each little moan the perfect pitch to drive him wild.
And then her moans grew into squeals and her gasps into pants, and he knew that she was near
her peak. He moved ever faster, his teeth gritted as he fought to maintain his control as she
spiralled toward completion.
She moaned his name, and then she screamed it, and then her entire body went rigid beneath
him. She clutched at his shoulders, her hips rising off the bed with a strength he could barely
believe. Finally, with one last,
powerful shudder, she collapsed beneath him, oblivious to
everything but the power of her own release.
Against his better judgment, Simon allowed himself one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt,
savoring the sweet warmth of her body.
Then, taking her mouth in a searingly passionate kiss, he pulled out and spent himself on the
sheets next to her.
* * *
It was to be only the first of many nights of passion. The newlyweds traveled down to Clyvedon,
and then, much to Daphne's extreme embarrassment, sequestered themselves
in the master suite
for more than a week.
(Of course Daphne was not so embarrassed that she made anything more than a halfhearted
attempt to actually
leave
the suite.)
Once they emerged from their honeymoonish seclusion, Daphne was given a tour of
Clyvedon—which was much needed, since all she'd seen upon arrival was the route from the
front door to the duke's bedroom. She then spent several hours introducing herself to the upper
servants. She had, of course, been formally introduced to the staff upon her arrival, but Daphne
thought it best to meet the more important members of the staff in a more individual manner.
Since Simon had not resided
at Clyvedon for so many years, many of the newer servants did not
know him, but those who had been at Clyvedon during his childhood seemed—to Daphne—to be
almost ferociously devoted to her husband. She laughed about it to Simon as they privately
toured the garden, and had been started to find herself on the receiving end of a decidedly
shuttered stare.
"I lived here until I went to Eton," was all he said, as if that ought to be explanation enough.
Daphne was made instantly uncomfortable by the flatness in his voice. "Did you never travel to
London? When we were small, we often—"
"I lived here exclusively."
His tone signaled that he desired—no,
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