Chapter Text
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 did his best to get drunk. It wasn't something he did often. It wasn't even something he particularly enjoyed, but he did it anyway.
There were plenty of pubs down near the water, only a few miles from Clyvedon. And there were plenty of sailors there, too, looking for fights. Two of them found Simon.
He thrashed them both.
There was an anger in him, a fury that had simmered deep in his soul for years. It had finally found its way to the surface, and it had taken very little provocation to set him to fighting.
He was drunk enough by then so that when he punched, he saw not the sailors with their sun-reddened skin but his father. Every fist was slammed into that constant sneer of rejection. And it felt good. He'd never considered himself a particularly violent man, but damn, it felt good.
By the time Simon was through with the two sailors, no one else dared approach him. The local folk recognized strength, but more importantly they recognized rage. And they all knew that of the two, the latter was the more deadly.
Simon remained in the pub until the first lights of dawn streaked the sky. After a while he could stand to drink no more from the bottle he'd paid for, and it sat on the table as if to taunt him. The bad whiskey couldn’t burn through the rage, so what was the point of getting drunker? When it was time to go, he rose, dismayed to be standing on steady legs, and headed home.
As he rode, the last of the liquor cleared from his mind. The haze of anger and frustration remained, along with the dull ache of reopened wounds. Only one thought permeated the fog: 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—
He nearly chuckled at that. He was sad and he was angry and he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Well, it was going to have to be enough to woo her and win her.
He had tried to work himself into a fine state of manly self-righteousness by the time he reached Castle Clyvedon, but mostly he had just gotten tired. And by the time he dragged himself up to Daphne's door, he felt years and miles away from that rake that could have won any woman.
He knocked. “Daphne?”
He sounded pathetic. Desperate. A little boy in front of a big, closed door. He knocked again, to no response. He leaned against the door, contemplating sleeping right there. “Oh, Daphne,” he sighed, his forehead coming to rest against the wood, “If you—”
The door opened and Simon went tumbling to the ground.
Daphne, who was still yanking on her dressing gown, looked at the pile of dirty clothes that was her husband. “Good God, Simon,” she said, “What did you—” She leaned down to help him, then seemed to think better of it, and he clambered back into a standing position.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
He blinked and looked at her. “Out getting foxed,” he replied.
“You don’t seem drunk.”
“It didn’t work.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You should be in bed. What do you expect me to do with you at the crack of dawn?”
He looked plaintively at her. “Love me? You said you loved me, you know.” His expression was blank, but his eyes were tired in a way she’d never seen before. “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. She did love him, and she couldn’t stand seeing him like this.
“I can’t talk about this now, Simon. Just go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The curtains were drawn, but the light of the new day was already filtering through. Simon nodded his head toward the window. “It’s 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.”
“No.” And then, meeting her eyes for the first time since he’d fallen through the door, “No! We can’t always talk about it tomorrow, Daphne. I need you to understand that I can’t do it.”
She nearly flinched at the haunted misery in his eyes, the exhaustion in his voice.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Daff,” he said hoarsely. “You know that, don't you?”
She sat down on the bed and nodded. “I know that, Simon.”
“Good, because the thing is—” He sat too, then drew a long breath that seemed to shake his entire body. “I can't do what you want.”
She said nothing.
“All my life,” Simon said sadly, “all my life he won. This time I have to win. I want to win, for once.”
“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “You won long ago. The moment you exceeded his expectations you won. Every time you beat the odds, made a friend, or traveled to a new land you won. You did all the things he never wanted for you.” Her breath caught, and she gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You beat him. You won. Why can't you see that?”
He shook his head. “I don't want to become what he wanted,” he said. “Even though—” He hiccuped. “Even though he never expected it of m-me, what he w-wanted was a perfect son, someone who'd be the perfect d-duke, who'd then m-marry the perfect duchess, and have p-perfect children.”
Daphne's lower lip caught between her teeth. He was stuttering again. He must be truly upset. She felt her heart breaking for him, for the little boy who'd wanted nothing other than his father's approval.
Simon looked at her, then down at the ground. “He would have approved of you.”
“Oh,” Daphne said, not sure how to interpret that.
“But”—he shrugged—“I married you anyway.”
He looked so earnest, so boyishly serious, that it was a hard battle not to throw her arms around him and attempt to comfort him. But no matter how deep his pain, or how wounded his soul, he was going about this all wrong. The best revenge against his father would simply be to live a full and happy life, to achieve all those heights and glories his father had been so determined to deny him.
Daphne swallowed a heavy sob of frustration. She didn't see how he could possibly lead a happy life if all of his choices were based on thwarting the wishes of a dead man. Tears catching in her throat, facing this overwhelming wall between them, she didn’t have the energy to climb it. She just didn’t.
“Please, please go to bed. Please let’s have some rest before we hash this all out again. I don’t”—she had to swallow and blink against the emotions she was too weary to address—“I don’t think I can do this for us right now. I need rest.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes filling with an ages-old need for comfort. “Don't leave me,” he whispered.
“Simon,” she choked out.
“Please don't. Everyone leaves. Then I left.” He squeezed her hand. “Please stay.”
She nodded shakily. “Fine. You can sleep here.”
“And you'll stay with me?”
It was a mistake. She knew it was a mistake, but still she said, “I'll stay with you.”
“Good.” He stood like a man decades older, as if the sadness had brittled his very bones. “Because I couldn't—I really—” He sighed and turned anguished eyes to her. “I need you.”
He pulled off his boots and shucked all but his shirt and breeches onto the floor, then climbed atop the covers and closed his eyes with a sigh.
He looked young and peaceful with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Daphne reached out and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Sleep well, my sweet,” she whispered.
She removed her nightrobe and hesitated a moment before laying beside him and pulling a blanket over them both. He was warm, and he was hers, and even if she had grave fears for their future, at that moment she couldn't resist his gentle embrace.
Daphne awoke an hour or so later, surprised that she'd fallen asleep at all. Simon still lay next to her. His clothes smelled of whiskey and sweat.
Gently, she touched his cheek. “What am I to do with you?” she whispered. “I love you, you know. I love you, but I hate what you're doing to yourself.” She drew a shaky breath. “And to me. I hate what you're doing to me.”
He shifted sleepily, and for one horrified moment, she was afraid that he'd woken up. “Simon?” she whispered, then let out a relieved exhale when he didn't answer. She knew she shouldn't have spoken words aloud that she wasn't quite ready for him to hear, but he'd looked so innocent against the snowy white pillows. It was far too easy to spill her innermost thoughts when he looked like that.
“Oh, Simon,” she sighed, closing her eyes against the tears that were pooling in her eyes. She should get up. She should absolutely positively get up now and leave him to his rest. She understood why he was so dead set against bringing a child into this world, but she hadn't forgiven him, and she certainly didn't agree with him. If he woke up with her still in his arms, he might think she was willing to settle for his version of a family.
Slowly, reluctantly, she tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around her, and his sleepy voice mumbled, “No.”
“Simon, I—”
He pulled her closer and exhaled. “You promised.”
“No, you promised, and that doesn’t seem to mean anything!” Her mouth dropped open in shock at the force of her words, at how suddenly and completely the anger had come. She hadn’t meant to say it, but she did mean it.
His eyes flew open and his brow furrowed.
She pushed herself up and looked away, trying to find the words without the rage, trying to breathe through the fire in her chest. “You made a promise when you said you loved me, and you made a promise when you married me, and you’re breaking it. You won’t live a full life with me, and you let me think you would. You let me marry you under false pretenses, and now you’re acting like I’m in the wrong because I can’t—“ Her voice broke, and he sat up straight as if to put his arms around her, but his hands only lifted uselessly and then fell back down. Her chest heaved, a sob without even the dignity of tears. “I can’t watch you throw away your chance to have everything and I can’t let you ruin mine. It’s not fair.”
Simon groaned. “Can’t you understand? Can’t you see how angry I am?”
“You’re angry? You?” She stood abruptly and paced across the room, taking a deep breath. “Your anger is what you hold onto so that you never have to confront your pain and you never have to move on. Men get to do that. You’re going to be angry instead of being hurt because if you were just hurt you might have to let someone heal you.” She chuckled mirthlessly, tears hot in her eyes. “You get to decide what kind of life you want to live and you’re choosing wrong, all while you hold my entire existence on a string. Don’t talk to me about angry, Simon, I can’t stand it. My husband could have everything in the world and he’s throwing it away and he won’t let me have any say in the matter because I’m just a woman he married. I know about angry.” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly chilled, and looked away.
Her husband seemed at a loss for words, sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands gripping the mattress and his head hanging down. It was quiet for a moment.
“Where does that leave us?” He said hoarsely, dark eyes meeting hers. “If I can’t give you what you want, and you can’t let it go, where does that leave us?”
She drew in a jagged breath, looking helplessly back at him, mouth half-open, knowing what the answer was and unable to say it. She couldn’t accept a half-life with a husband whose heart was buried in a dead past; and she couldn’t, she wouldn’t force him to live a life he didn’t choose.
He saw in her face what her voice would not say and pushed himself up, crossing the distance between them in two long strides. His hands wrapped around her shoulders and held her to him, and she felt as small and weak as she ever had. “Please don’t do this,” he said fiercely, and gathered her closer with one arm wrapped around her waist and a hand gripping her jaw, keeping her eyes on him. “I can’t lose you. Please.”
And when he crushed his lips to hers, she let him. His kiss was angry and urgent and desperate and she melted into it. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could show him with her body how good this could be, how brilliant it would feel to let go. Perhaps if she put her love into a language he would understand she would reach him in a way her words couldn’t seem to.
And if she couldn’t, perhaps this was the end of the happiest she had ever been or would ever be, and she should make the most of it. So with her heart breaking inside her chest and her future collapsing around her, she opened for him like she always had, let his needy tongue claim her, let his strength overtake her fear and her grief and hoped he could taste how badly she had wanted this to work. He took her with him as he backed towards the bed, pausing to tear off his shirt and yank at the drawstring of her nightgown. He lay back and she climbed atop him.
She pulled her head back so she could see his face, realizing she should be savoring this, and reached out and touched the line of his jaw. He groaned, a deep, hoarse sound, and it made her stomach flutter with need. With slow, tantalizing fingers she traced the trail of dark hair down his torso, and then quickly undid his trousers. Underneath, he was hard and needy, and she wrapped her hand around him, feeling his blood leap beneath her fingers.
“Daphne,” he gasped. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a ragged groan. “Oh, God. That feels so damned good.”
“Shhhh,” she crooned. “Just let me feel you.”
He lay on his back, his hands fisted at his sides as she stroked him. He'd taught her much during their two short weeks of marriage, and soon he was squirming with desire, his breath coming in short pants.
And God help her, she wanted him, too. At least she could feel powerful here, making his body prove how much he wanted her, finding the only understanding they could find anymore.
She needed him inside her, filling her, to feel at least for a moment like they were truly man and wife.
“Oh, Daphne,” he moaned, his head tossing from side to side. “I need you. I need you now.”
She moved atop him, pressing her hands against his shoulders as she straddled him. Using her hand, she guided him to her entrance, already wet with need.
Simon arched beneath her, and she slowly slid down his shaft, until he was almost fully within her. “More,” he gasped. “Now.”
Daphne's head fell back as she moved down that last inch. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as she gasped for breath. Then he was completely within her, and she thought she would die from the pleasure. Never had she felt so full, so bursting with her own capacity for pleasure, for love.
She keened as she moved above him, her body arching and writhing with delight. Her hands splayed flat against her stomach as she twisted and turned, then slid upward toward her breasts.
Simon let out a guttural moan as he watched her, his eyes glazing over as his breath came hot and heavy over his parted lips. “Oh, my God,” he said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “What have you—” Then she touched one of her nipples, and his entire body bucked upwards. “Where did you learn that?”
She looked down and gave him a bewildered smile. “I don't know.”
“More,” he groaned. “I want to watch you.”
Daphne wasn't entirely certain what to do, so she just let instinct take over. She ground her hips against his in a circular motion as she arched her back, her breasts jutting forwards. She cupped both in her hands, squeezing them softly, rolling the nipples between her fingers, never once taking her eyes off Simon's face.
His hips started to buck in a frantic, jerky motion, and he grasped desperately at the sheets with his large hands. And Daphne realized that he was almost there. He was always so careful to please her, to make certain that she reached her climax before he allowed himself the same privilege, but this time, he was going to explode first.
She was close, but not as close as he was.
“Oh, Christ!” he suddenly burst out, his voice harsh and primitive with need. “I'm going to—I can't—”
His eyes pinned upon her and then he was flipping them over, all but throwing her against the bed and pressing their bodies together. He thrust once, twice, again, so forcefully and so deep within her she nearly screamed as stars burst behind her eyes and then he was gone and she was empty, her innermost muscles clutching against nothing.
As she felt his release hit her stomach the tears began to fall freely. She wept silently as he shuddered and then collapsed above her, biting her quivering lip. By the time he had caught his breath, she knew it was over.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Daphne whispered.
Simon raised his head from the crook of her neck to look at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. She knew how broken he must look, and if she let herself feel any more of his pain she would never have the strength to take care of her own. Her tears were running off the sides of her cheeks, and she felt his warm hands wipe them gently away.
She couldn’t help it. She captured his hand in hers, kissing his open palm, hoping he could feel in it how much she wished it could be different. Daphne took in the face she had come to love so well, smoothing her hands over his springy, close-cropped curls, and met his gaze. “I’m so sorry, Simon.” Her voice was cracking. “I’m so sorry.” And then he held her tight as she wept, every muscle tensed around her as she trembled and his bare chest grew slick with saltwater. They didn’t move or speak again, and when she had no tears left she lapsed into sleep, cradled against him.
When she woke again, he was gone.