Page 101

Nothing.

It was the strangest sensation. There before him was a collection of letters, all written in his father's hand. And yet he felt no urge to toss them in the fire, or tear them to bits.

And at the same time no urge to read them.

“I think I'll wait,” Simon said with a smile.

Daphne blinked several times, as if her eyes could not believe her ears. “You don't want to read them?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“And you don't want to burn them?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly.”

She looked down at the letters, then back at his face. “What do you want to do with them?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He grinned. “That's what I said.”

“Oh.” She looked quite adorably befuddled. “Do you want me to put them back in my desk?”

“If you like.”

“And they'll just sit there?”

He caught hold of the sash on her dressing robe and starting pulling her toward him. “Mmm-hmm.”

“But—” she spluttered. “But—but—”

“One more ‘but,’” he teased, “and you're going to start to sound like me.”

Daphne's mouth fell open. Simon wasn't surprised by her reaction. It was the first time in his life he'd ever been able to make a joke out of his difficulties.

“The letters can wait,” he said, just as they fell off her lap onto the floor. “I've just finally managed—thanks to you—to boot my father from my life.” He shook his head, smiling as he did so. “Reading those now would just invite him back in.”

“But don't you want to see what he had to say?” she persisted. “Maybe he apologized. Maybe he even groveled at your feet!” She bent down for the bundle, but Simon pulled her tightly against him so she couldn't reach.

“Simon!” she yelped.

He arched one brow. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to seduce you. Am I succeeding?”

Her face colored. “Probably,” she mumbled.

“Only probably? Damn. I must be losing my touch.”

His hand slid under her bottom, which prompted a little squeal. “I think your touch is just fine,” she said hastily.

“Only fine?” He pretended to wince. “‘Fine’ is so pale a word, don't you think? Almost wan.”

“Well,” she allowed, “I might have misspoken.”

Simon felt a smile forming in his heart. By the time it spread to his lips, he was on his feet, and tugging his wife in the general direction of his four-poster bed.

“Daphne,” he said, trying to sound businesslike, “I have a proposition.”

“A proposition?” she queried, raising her brows.

“A request,” he amended. “I have a request.”

She cocked her head and smiled. “What kind of request?”

He nudged her through the doorway and into the bedroom. “It's actually a request in two parts.”

“How intriguing.”

“The first part involves you, me, and”—he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed amidst a fit of giggles—“this sturdy antique of a bed.”

“Sturdy?”

He growled as he crawled up beside her. “It had better be sturdy.”

She laughed and squealed as she scooted out of his grasp. “I think it's sturdy. What's the second part of your request?”

“That, I'm afraid involves a certain commitment of time on your part.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she was still smiling. “What sort of commitment of time?”

In one stunningly swift move, he pinned her to the mattress. “About nine months.”

Her lips softened with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“That it takes nine months?” He grinned. “That's what I've always been told.”

But the levity had left her eyes. “You know that's not what I mean,” she said softly.

“I know,” he replied, meeting her serious gaze with one of his own. “But yes, I'm sure. And I'm scared to death. And thrilled to the marrow. And a hundred other emotions I never let myself feel before you came along.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me.”

“It's the truth,” he vowed. “Before I met you I was only half-alive.”

“And now?” she whispered.

“And now?” he echoed. “‘Now’ suddenly means happiness, and joy, and a wife I adore. But do you know what?”

She shook her head, too overcome to speak.

He leaned down and kissed her. “‘Now’ doesn't even compare to tomorrow. And tomorrow couldn't possibly compete with the next day. As perfect as I feel this very moment, tomorrow is going to be even better. Ah, Daff,” he murmured, moving his lips to hers, “every day I'm going to love you more. I promise you that. Every day…”

Epilogue

It's a boy for the Duke and Duchess of Hastings!

After three girls, society's most besotted couple has finally produced an heir. This Author can only imagine the level of relief in the Hastings household; after all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an heir.

The name of the new babe has yet to be made public, although This Author feels herself uniquely qualified to speculate. After all, with sisters named Amelia, Belinda, and Caroline, could the new Earl Clyvedon be called anything but David?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 15 DECEMBER 1817